Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 1, page 62
part #1 of Detective Inspector Skelgill Series
‘Ah hav’nae seen him since April the seventh.’
Her accent hails from across the border, but probably this side of Glasgow; perhaps Larkhall, a hundred miles up the motorway.
DS Leyton is nonplussed. In a case that has so far produced vague intimations and doubtful connections, her reply is bizarrely specific.
‘You recognise him?’
The woman nods once, patiently.
‘April the seventh – that’s over two months ago.’
His intonation infers doubt into the accuracy of her recollection.
‘Aye – it was the Grand National on the fifth. He collected his winnings on the Monday. Twenty-fives – not many folk napped it.’
DS Leyton looks a little relieved that there is a less-than-supernatural explanation. With a rank outsider winning the year’s big steeplechase, it had generally been a good Saturday for the bookies – and also a reason to remember those few, if any, successful punters.’
‘Hope he didn’t have too much on it.’
Now DS Leyton sounds sympathetic.
‘A ton.’
‘Ouch.’
‘I laid it off – backed it at thirties wi’ Bettoney’s.’
DS Leyton chuckles. This discrepancy in the odds means a tidy profit, whatever the outcome. He might wonder at this paradoxical situation: bearing more than a passing resemblance to Mrs Goggins from Postman Pat, the woman looks substantially out of place in this rough-and-ready establishment; but her cunning replies tell him she is more than up to the job.
‘So, after the Grand National – that was his last visit?’
‘He disnae bet on the flat – prob’ly willnae be back ’til Wetherby in October.’
DS Leyton glances sideways. Skelgill remains inscrutably silent. DS Leyton gathers that he is to continue in the present tense.
‘Does he have any associates – pals he meets here?’
‘Not as ah ken.’
‘Is there anything else you can tell us about him?’
The woman’s eyes flicker, but it is apparent that her attention is becoming divided between the plain-clothes policemen and the five-thirty maiden fillies’ stakes at Haydock, which is just reaching its climax on the screen nearest to the counter. Her shrewd gaze dwells only long enough to take in the 1-2-3, whereupon she seems to relax, suggesting a successful outcome for the house book. She exhales and focuses once more upon DS Leyton.
‘He kens whit he’s dae’in’ – disnae stay to watch a race. Puts on a bet and he’s awa’ – he’s nae one fae small talk.’
DS Leyton nods. He looks again to Skelgill, who gestures with an inclination of the head that they should leave. He hands over his card printed with his contact details. But as he steps away, Skelgill closes in upon the counter.
‘You seem pretty observant, madam.’
‘It helps tae read a face in ma job.’
‘Any new faces lately – last couple of weeks?’
‘There’s always one or two – we get some passing trade – especially this time o’ year.’
‘You’ll remember if we need to come back?’
The woman grins conspiratorially. She points beyond her shoulder.
‘It’s all on film.’
She says film in the Scottish way, fill’um, and Skelgill takes a moment to interpret the extra syllable. She means there’s a CCTV system, though it is not apparent on cursory inspection of the rear wall. After a moment he nods, and begins to back away, raising an approving thumb. Then he, too, grins.
‘Any tips, before we go?’
‘Tips for in here – or tips for taking money off ma competitors?’
Skelgill laughs. ‘Aye – the latter.’
The woman purses her lips and squints. ‘There’s a lot of interest in a colt running at Newmarket tomorrow – the four o’clock. Anything above threes is worth taking. You Stupid Boy.’
‘That’s got my name written all over it.’
*
‘It was good of you to humour her, Guv – about that tip.’
‘I’m deadly serious, Leyton – horse with a name like that.’
‘My old uncle was a tic-tac man for a bookie – he reckoned only mugs bet on horses with names they liked.’
‘Leyton – You Stupid Boy – have you forgotten who said that?’
‘Er... no, Guv – it was Captain Mainwaring, wasn’t it?’
‘To?’
‘Oh... I get it – Pike.’
‘Exactly. The mountain, if not the fish.’ Skelgill slaps DS Leyton between the shoulder blades. ‘Now if you could lend me a tenner, Leyton, I’ll split the winnings with you on Monday.’
13. DS JONES CALLS
Thursday evening
Skelgill is inexpertly arranging his damp hair, squinting critically into the film of dust that coats a little-used vanity mirror. From amongst the jumble of clothes on his bed his mobile rings. Naked, and rather pale but for his head, neck and forearms, he braces himself with one arm and rummages to retrieve the intrusive device. He frowns at the display, his lips compressed. The bright screen tells him the same caller has tried three times in the past ten minutes. Then he jabs at the handset with his left index finger.
‘Jones?’
‘Sorry to bother you, Guv...’
‘No problem.’
The flat tone of Skelgill’s reply hints at something of the opposite sentiment.
‘What it is, Guv – I’ve had some thoughts on the case.’
‘Aha?’
DS Jones is silent for a moment; perhaps she has detected his reticence and is recalibrating her approach. Her response is somewhat tentative.
‘Well... I wondered – are you free – for a drink... or something?’
Skelgill hesitates. He casts about the room – though it appears for nothing in particular. He picks up an angling magazine from his nightstand and gazes blankly at the cover, which he holds upside down.
‘Where are you?’
‘Er... outside, actually, Guv.’
*
Only two minutes have passed when Skelgill ducks into the passenger seat of DS Jones’s car. His downward angle of entry causes his gaze to fall naturally upon the area of her lap. She has changed out of the daywear in which he last saw her, into a short black skirt with a floral lilac and pink print, and a simple figure-hugging black t-shirt. Her smooth bronzed legs – slightly parted by accelerator and clutch – are naked but for a pair of black open-toed sandals. There is a subtle, but heady perfume in the air, and he seems momentarily transfixed as he settles himself beside her.
‘Nice shirt, Guv.’
She says this earnestly, but Skelgill creases his features in reprimand.
‘Very funny, Jones.’
The garment, in the style of the season, is one that he acquired with her encouragement.
She beams warmly. It is apparent that he has just showered; from him there is even a competing hint of after-shave. And his smart-casual attire has more emphasis upon the smart than might normally be encountered. Not a dedicated follower of fashion, as a rule his gear is generally a good few years behind the times; and he wears unashamedly what is most suitably technical for the task in hand – fishing, motorcycling, fell-walking. Now, in an open-necked short-sleeved shirt, stressed jeans and polished brogues, he looks a shade outwith his comfort zone.
‘You were quick, Guv.’
Skelgill harrumphs.
‘Aye, well – that depends if we’re talking about quick on the scale of male-getting-ready, or quick on the scale of female-getting-ready.’
Ds Jones bats her eyelashes contritely.
‘I thought you might be out with the dog, Guv – I tried your phone a couple of times. But as I was driving this way...’
Skelgill shakes his head.
‘No need tonight – the neighbour’s babysitting her for me.’
DS Jones glances away, as if this fact raises some incongruity in her mind, and indeed Skelgill uncharacteristically supplies further superfluous details.
‘Turns out she’s a part-time dog-walker – does it for a living. I barely knew the job existed. She’s mentioned it before, but I thought she was joking – you know, like people call themselves domestic engineers. She’s got an Alsatian of her own – he’s taken a bit of a shine to Cleopatra – good company for her.’
DS Jones, her exuberance seemingly a fraction bruised, contrives a grin.
‘I hope his intentions are honourable, Guv.’
‘I’m assured he’s had the snip.’
Skelgill makes an affected shudder, in solidarity with members of his gender. He inhales as if to speak, but then holds in the breath; he stares for a moment directly through the windscreen. He might be expected to ask what has brought DS Jones out of her way (when a telephone conversation would surely have sufficed) – and to turn up at his house on spec – but perhaps he decides such information is now irrelevant. He exhales and slaps his thighs purposefully.
‘Have you eaten?’
‘Well... not to speak of, Guv – not since morning break.’
Skelgill stares at her with mild incredulity. In his geography of the day’s meals, she might as well be stranded on the far side of the Grand Canyon.
‘Can you find The Yat at Gatewath?
DS Jones closes her eyes and lays neatly manicured nails gently on the steering wheel, as if she is driving an imagined route in a dreamlike state.
‘Is that by the motorway, Guv – just off the old A6?’
‘That’s it.’
‘I always get lost around there – you can’t cross the river for miles – it feels like you’re taking a massive detour.’
Skelgill looks pleased with himself. He taps his temple with an index finger.
‘I have an inbuilt maps app. Start by making a u-turn.’
*
Their destination is a smartly whitewashed, low slate-roofed two-storey building with contrasting black window surrounds. It reveals its antiquity as a coaching inn through its worn stone mounting-block, today an inconspicuous seat for a trough of scarlet geraniums. The main door is open and boisterous chatter spills out. They enter to find a cheerful throng, presumably enticed out by the fine summer’s evening. There is a mix of tourists and locals: a distinction that is seemingly evident to Skelgill, for he nods casually to expectant faces here and there. In turn the newly arrived couple attract some interested stares as they squeeze through to the servery, with most eyes lingering upon DS Jones. It is difficult to discern if this is because she is in tow with Skelgill, or simply a product of her looks in their own right – but maybe it is a combination of both. This latter conclusion is perhaps reinforced when the comely blonde landlady greets Skelgill with a hawkish leer. Her features are aquiline and her eagle-eye is quick to take in DS Jones, scanning its quarry with a single penetrating yet sufficiently respectful sweep. As her gaze returns to meet Skelgill’s it carries a curious glint, both inquisitorial and yet triumphant, as though she is intrigued by the unexpected, and secretly approving of the incorrigible.
Skelgill introduces DS Jones as ‘Emma’ – which must seem a rarity to her – and she responds with a generous smile. The landlady reciprocates, reaching a hand across the counter, chirping, ‘Veronica, alright my love?’ Skelgill orders drinks and, while he makes no mention of food, Veronica tilts conspiratorially towards them, dividing her ample bosom with a Jenning’s handpump.
‘I could have saved you that corner table.’ She gestures with an inclination of her head towards the large inglenook fireplace. Her accent is southern – she says tie-bol – like a moderated version of DS Leyton’s, perhaps suburban Essex. ‘But I thought the bar might be too rowdy – so I’ve put you in the alcove in the back room – a bit more intimate. Go on through and Julie will bring your drinks.’
Skelgill nods once, his features inscrutable. He had, rather covertly, sent a brief text message during their journey. He did not mention its purpose and there was apparently no reply. Perhaps this exchange provides the explanation. DS Jones follows him, looking somewhat perplexed; a sight that draws a knowing grin from Veronica as she turns her charms upon some newly arrived prey.
*
‘It’s funny, Guv – how in the local dialect yat means gate.’
Nose in pint, Skelgill raises a mildly interested eyebrow. Encouraged, DS Jones continues to muse.
‘So this place is technically The Gate at Gatewath.’
Skelgill screws up his face in a comic manner.
‘Ivver sin a yow lowp a yat?’
DS Jones laughs at his sudden lapse into Cumbrian. She thinks for a few seconds while she translates the vernacular.
‘Ever seen a sheep jump a gate?’
‘You do too many crosswords, Jones.’
‘Just for mental agility, Guv – it’s good brain gym for solving complex problems.’
‘My brain doesn’t need a gym – it’s got a mind of its own.’
She chuckles again. Only Skelgill can come out with these seemingly oxymoronic truisms, stated in all seriousness.
‘Anyway, Guv, it beats listening to DI Smart when you’re trapped for hours on a stakeout.’
‘I’ll give you that one, Jones. Stick to your crossword. Especially if it mithers him.’
‘You can be sure of that.’
Skelgill appears to approve of her stance, but now he shifts back in his seat as their meals arrive: sea bass and green salad for DS Jones, a hefty portion of home-made steak-and-ale pie for him, garnished with carrots and chunky fries. He has already emptied a basket of its mountain of rustic wholemeal bread, generously buttered, but shows no sign of a diminished appetite as they both tuck in while the food is piping hot. After a minute or two it is DS Jones who speaks, only now taking the opportunity to raise the subject of work.
‘I saw DS Leyton’s email about the CCTV, Guv. And the betting shop.’
Pensively, Skelgill takes a sup of beer.
‘Treat the bookie’s as a bit of a red herring.’
‘Think the owner was telling the truth, Guv?’
Skelgill shrugs.
‘No reason to suspect otherwise. She virtually offered us her own CCTV records. I don’t think Seddon was there on Monday.’
DS Jones nods acquiescently.
‘Just the supermarket, then, Guv.’
‘And not a lot from that, either. Went back to his van. Dropped off his phone and wallet and the newspaper. Then disappeared into thin air.’
‘Surely we’ll get a sighting, Guv – once we start asking? Especially if he went on foot. It’s not as though we’re talking Windermere, packed with tourists.’
‘Let’s hope so. It’s our only serious line of enquiry at the moment.’
‘Was he working in the area, Guv – or maybe on his way to do an estimate?’
‘But why not just park at the building site?’
DS Jones frowns.
‘I know, Guv – that doesn’t really make sense.’
‘Based on the calls we’ve traced from his phone, last week he had a job at Langwathby. He’d put up a scaffold for a big roof repair at a private house. Looks like that was all his kit out on hire. The roofers hadn’t finished on schedule – what with the rain we’ve had. So he was probably a free agent until they gave him the call to dismantle it.’
‘Still, Guv – at least we’ve got twelve noon nailed down. Quite possibly he was killed soon after he left the store – if you take the mid-point of the estimated range for time of death.’
There is a candle burning between them, its golden flame steady just below eye level. In the low light of the ancient hostelry DS Jones’s smooth tanned complexion is dark, and her striking features appear as sculpted shadows and highlights, hinting at an ancient and noble physiognomy. Skelgill stares broodingly at her before he speaks.
‘You said you’d had some thoughts.’
DS Jones, too, pauses before she replies, like an explorer coming unexpectedly upon a fork in the path.
‘On the case?’
Her question hints at an invitation for him to suggest otherwise. But Skelgill sticks to the straight and narrow.
‘Aha.’
Rather distractedly she shifts the untouched rice on her plate to make a space for her cutlery – which she places at five-twenty-five to indicate she has eaten sufficiently. Then she straightens her back and looks directly across at Skelgill.
‘It could be nothing, Guv – it’s just a minor detail.’
Skelgill frowns, and gestures with open palms to their surroundings, as if to indicate it has brought them here, and she ought to be forthcoming. She leans forward compliantly, lowering her voice a little.
‘The post-mortem report on Barry Seddon states that his underpants were on back to front.’
Skelgill is stern-faced.
‘You noticed that this morning?’
DS Jones nods.
‘I thought I’d wait until I could speak with you.’
Skelgill clears his throat.
‘Were you worried Leyton would make a joke of it?’
‘Something like that, Guv.’
Her reply implies it perhaps wasn’t only DS Leyton about whom she harboured a concern. After a moment’s consideration, Skelgill pontificates.
‘Truth is – there’s nothing unusual about that, Jones. Standard procedure for the second week of wear.’
‘Guv!’
She knows he’s ribbing her, and indeed now his features relax.
‘Then turn ’em inside out – get a couple more weeks’ use, front and back.’
‘That’s an awful thought.’
Skelgill shrugs indifferently.
‘If you were marooned on a desert island, why not?’
‘If you were on a desert island, Guv, you’d be surrounded by water – you could wash them.’
Skelgill gives a couple of seconds’ consideration to this proposition.
‘Depends who you were marooned with.’
DS Jones shakes her head, smiling resignedly.
‘I think you’re proving my point, Guv.’ She refers to her earlier reticence in raising the matter whilst outnumbered by male company.
