Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 1, page 73
part #1 of Detective Inspector Skelgill Series
She steps back to admit him, only at the last second extending a hand, as if she is unsure how to greet a policeman.
‘Veronica – duty housekeeper – I’m on until six in the morning.’
‘Skelgill, Cumbria CID. I believe you spoke with one of my colleagues.’
The woman nods eagerly, closing the door and ushering Skelgill ahead of her into a surprisingly wide hallway furnished with a small settee and an easy chair, and a coffee table angled between them.
‘You’re here to see Maurice – he’s expecting you – he’s just finishing off his supper.’ She pulls on the back of the chair, an action suggesting that he should sit. ‘Would you like a cup of tea and a wee cake while you wait – you’ll have had a long journey?’
‘Don’t mind if I do – if it’s no bother?’
‘Och, you just sit yourself down – I shan’t be a wee minute.’
His acquiescence seems to have an endearing effect. She beams widely and bustles away. Skelgill lowers himself into the seat, an amused smile creasing the corners of his mouth: she has an English accent of a Midlands nature – but, in the way of many an incomer to a foreign region, she has adopted some of the local vernacular, if not quite the pronunciation. Presently, from what must be a small staff kitchen, emanate the promising rumble of a boiling kettle and the ring of a tin – and perhaps the sound of slicing, several times repeated. Indeed, Skelgill is not disappointed when she reappears bearing a well-stocked tray of refreshments, comprising a large steaming mug of tea and a reserve pot, milk and sugar, and a stand with three slices each of carrot cake and Victoria sponge. There is only one side plate.
‘You not having some yourself?’
‘Och – no, I’ve got to watch my figure.’
She smoothens the sides of her dress as she settles upon the settee and helps Skelgill to his first slice; there is no doubt that, with just a few inches trimmed off here and there, her now matronly curves would once have turned heads. Skelgill might empathise with the mismatched challenge of idling away long nightshifts, and only a tin of cakes for company.
‘You’re not Scottish?’
‘We’re from West Bridgford.’
Skelgill nods as he chews.
‘Nottingham.’
‘That’s right, duck – not many people up here know that.’
Skelgill cocks his head to one side.
‘Probably not many people up here have fished the Trent.’
‘Och – so that’s how you know.’
Skelgill raises his eyebrows in affirmation as he takes a gulp of tea.
‘You said we?’
‘My husband, Bill – he’s the handyman, does the grounds as well – it’ll be four years this September we moved up – we’ve got a little cottage down by the loch. Bill likes his fishing, too.’
Skelgill nods, perhaps wrestling with the temptation to become sidetracked.
‘What’s the set-up here – as regards your patients?’
The woman’s eyes seem longingly to be following the movements of Skelgill’s side plate, with its diminishing portion of Victoria sponge. Skelgill notices this and changes tack.
‘Why don’t you get yourself a mug and a plate – if Mr Stewart is going to be a few minutes – I’m in no rush.’
‘Are you sure, duck?’
But in asking this question she is already rising to her feet and heading for the kitchenette. Returning, she sighs with relief as she makes herself comfortable once more. Skelgill watches with interest as she opts for the sponge, as if he has a little wager with himself resting on this outcome.
‘It’s just a gentleman’s retirement home – nothing fancy – for those who’d struggle to manage on their own. Though we don’t provide medical care, so they have to move on if a condition becomes a problem.’ She takes a bite of cake and then, holding one hand over her mouth out of politeness, quickly adds, as if for the official record, ‘We’re all first-aid-trained, of course.’
Skelgill nods encouragingly.
‘And Mr Stewart – was he here before you came?’
The woman nods.
‘About seven years, I think he’s been.’
‘Does he have any visitors?’
Now she shakes her head, and finishes her next mouthful before she replies.
‘None at all – but he’s got a mobile phone – we have to buy him top-up vouchers in Castle Douglas when he’s running low.’
‘Do you know who he speaks with? We’re trying to trace his son, Clifford.’
Again there is the cake-induced delay.
‘He’s quite secretive, you see – keeps to himself, even among the other chaps – and we’ve only got eight residents altogether at the moment.’
She leans forward a little conspiratorially, although at first Skelgill must assume she wants a second helping of cake, since he lifts the remaining selection for her consideration.
‘Och, I shouldn’t, you know.’
Skelgill grins at her disarmingly.
‘Thing is – I’ll eat it all, if you won’t – and I’m not sure that’s a good idea either.’
‘Well, just a wee slice then, to help you out.’
This wee can only be intended euphemistically, since none of the surviving slices could remotely be described as ungenerous. She opts for the last piece of Victoria sponge, which seems to satisfy Skelgill as he helps himself to carrot cake. The woman resumes her confidential pose, and speaks in something of a hushed tone.
‘What I was going to say was – and you’ll see for yourself – he’s a bit strange.’
‘In what way?’
‘He spends most of his time studying horses – he gets that racing newspaper delivered every day – and he likes to watch the races on the television – when the others will let him.’
‘Does he place bets?’
‘Not that I know of – I mean he doesn’t leave here.’
‘What about online betting?’
The woman shakes her head decisively.
‘I know you can do it with computers these days – but we don’t have any – not even for the staff. My Bill says good riddance – it’s one less thing to go wrong.’
‘Could he bet by phone?’
The woman considers this, but again shakes her head.
‘I’m not sure he’s got a credit card – he pays us in cheques and cash.’ She gazes at her empty plate for a moment. ‘He receives regular mail though – thick envelopes that come recorded – he must get his money sent through the post.’
Skelgill does not respond immediately. Perhaps he is trying to work something out, and is disguising these mental calculations as the process of savouring the carrot cake.
‘Excellent, this – did you bake it yourself?’
The woman looks pleased and nods with affected modesty.
‘Wait till I tell my sergeant – he’ll be cooking up an excuse for us to come back.’
Now she chuckles and perhaps even blushes with pride. Skelgill resumes his stealthy interrogation.
‘Veronica – you said he was strange – the business with the horses – that’s not so unusual is it?’
She nods, recognising that there is an unfinished part to her explanation.
‘It’s more Maurice himself, really – it’s like... well, sometimes he’s not quite there – except that you can’t help thinking he’s putting it on.’
‘What – as if he’s acting a bit daft in order to be evasive?’
She nods enthusiastically.
‘That’s exactly it.’
Skelgill grimaces.
‘I must admit – it’s a tactic I use myself often enough – sometimes I don’t even know I’m doing it – according to my boss, anyway.’
She smiles at his little joke. Skelgill casually prods at the crumbs on his plate.
‘Veronica – you probably know him better than anybody – do you think I can trust what he says?’
She has been swift to answer most of Skelgill’s questions, but now she wavers. She leans back in her seat, brushing crumbs from her lap and keeping her eyes on her hands as she interlocks her fingers; she appears undecided.
‘Possibly – but I shouldn’t stake your job on it, if I were you, duck.’
Skelgill nods pensively, and reaches for another slice of carrot cake.
*
Skelgill has been guided through the smaller property into the adjoining main house, and now he enters the day room alone. There are five elderly men comfortably seated around a large television, from which blares a popular soap opera – though on reflection not that popular, since they all appear to be sleeping. Two others click dominoes at a card table in one corner; neither looks up as he advances and then exits the lounge through double doors that lead into a large conservatory. Mercifully, the glazing is efficient, and the strident cockney angst is excluded once he closes the doors behind him. The conservatory itself is pleasantly furnished with wicker settees and matching low tables; healthy looking houseplants spill from hanging baskets; beyond the glass there is a view down to the loch, though the misty dusk precludes much detail. Seated in a wheelchair and bent over a desk and facing the same outlook, is a schoolboy-like figure, though closer inspection reveals him to be bald, but for a few wisps of hair forming a crescent at the back of his skull. Maurice Stewart is making notes as Skelgill approaches, and shows no sign that he detects the latter’s presence. A small transistor radio beside him emits the chatter of a sports talk-station. Skelgill takes a slight detour, and grabs the top of a wicker chair, which he drags with him.
‘Yu’ve come through at last, then.’
The man, who seems to have knowledge of Skelgill’s earlier arrival, speaks in a Cumbrian accent, and without glancing up. As Skelgill positions his seat at forty-five degrees to the desk, Maurice Stewart switches off the wireless set and with some effort manipulates the wheelchair around to half-face him.
‘Mr Stewart – thanks for sparing the time – I waited until the all-weather meeting at Wolverhampton was finished – I figured you’d be following it.’ He grins affably. ‘Besides, your housekeeper bakes a mean carrot cake.’
The man regards Skelgill with a mixture of scepticism and guarded interest – the former presumably because he knows his visitor is a detective, and the latter perhaps because it must be rare for him to be engaged in terms that acknowledge his pet subject, let alone with some apparent know-how thrown in. While he is formulating a response – if indeed he is – Skelgill presses home the small advantage he might just have gained.
‘There was a horse I fancied in the last race – Danny’s Girl, it was called.’
Skelgill says this casually, though with such intonation to suggest he is interested in the outcome. Maurice Stewart glances briefly at the neat piles of papers arranged on the desk, and then turns back to Skelgill.
‘Aye, well – she din’t run, she were withdrawn – so yer saved yerself a few bob there.’
Skelgill looks a little surprised.
‘You wouldn’t have advised it?’
The man shakes his head. He has a long bulbous nose, a white chin-curtain beard, and brown eyes hazy with a hint of glaucoma. These features, together with his heavy brow and furtive demeanour, create a striking resemblance to a proboscis monkey. Whether of the wise variety or not, remains to be seen, but for the moment he certainly holds his peace, obliging Skelgill to continue.
‘I reckoned I had a reliable tip on that – in the bookie’s this morning.’
The man shifts slightly but still does not comment. Though Skelgill is to some extent playing a game of blind man’s buff, he is at least on firm ground – the filly bearing his own name caught his eye whilst he voluntarily posted up the race cards earlier.
‘Same person as gave me You Stupid Boy at Newmarket last Friday.’
Now Maurice Stewart shows signs of interest.
‘Aye, well – yer did alright there. What did yer get?’
Skelgill is straining the sinews of his gambling knowledge. He is obliged to guess the gist of this question.
‘Four to one.’
The man nods. It is evidently the correct answer. He swivels for a moment and picks up the sheet of lined foolscap on which he has been working. He glances cursorily at the page and then shows it to Skelgill.
‘Nine to two were available.’
He indicates with a bony index finger, tipped with a long brown nail, cracked and curved like a devil’s toenail fossil. There are several matching columns of handwritten figures in jerky black biro, perhaps a hundred pairs of numbers in all. The meaning of the first column is not clear, but the second clearly holds a record of the odds, written in the traditional style – 11/4, 2/1, 13/8 and so on. The nail traces a shaky course down the page, almost to the very bottom of the last column, where the figures 9/2 are written. At the top of the sheet is the heading ‘Naps & Next Best’. Skelgill takes hold of a corner of the page to get a better look; perhaps to his surprise the man releases it to him and slumps against his wheelchair with a small groan of discomfort. Skelgill likewise sits upright and scrutinises the page, frowning in an informed fashion and nodding from time to time. He must be racking his brains for some intelligent comment, but now the man is more forthcoming.
‘Yon figures in red are the losers.’
Skelgill scans the page for a second time, a puzzled expression clouding his features.
‘There aren’t any in red.’
The man throws back his head and cackles jubilantly, though the laughter quickly disintegrates into a chaotic bout of phlegmy coughing that culminates in him spitting profusely into a handkerchief wrestled from (and returned to) a trouser pocket. Skelgill watches implacably through this ostensibly disturbing episode; it seems he senses no distress. When calm is restored, he hands back the page of winners.
‘That’s some system you’ve got, Mr Stewart.’
The man smirks, though there is perhaps the glisten of pride in his dark eyes – unless this is the product of tears that welled up during the coughing fit.
‘Aye, happen I’ve cracked it, eh lad?’
Skelgill folds his arms and shakes his head in admiration.
‘How do you do it – I mean, without revealing your formula?’
The man squints and picks at the back of his head with two hands, as though he is removing a tick.
‘I’ve got all me filters, twelve of ’em – usual things like bloodline, trainer, jockey, form, weight, going.’ He gestures towards a folded copy of the Racing Post that is arrayed with the other materials on the desk. ‘Official ratings, handicaps, tipsters’ predictions, odds ratios.’
He yawns without covering his mouth, revealing unnaturally white dentures top and bottom. Skelgill checks his wristwatch; it is true that the evening is wearing on and quite likely the old man is tiring.
‘Sounds impressive.’
But Maurice Stewart scoffs.
‘That’s nowt – anyone can get that information.’
Skelgill tips his head to one side.
‘But surely the skill is knowing what to do with it?’
The man shrugs dismissively. He leans out of his chair and stretches for a single sheet of paper, this one covered in printed data, with many columns of tiny figures set against horses’ names. He passes the page to Skelgill who, after a couple of moments’ scrutiny, looks up inquiringly. It seems this is a satisfactory response.
‘Time horses – that’s what it’s all about, lad – time horses.’
Skelgill again nods deferentially.
‘You must make a fortune, Mr Stewart.’
The man’s response is an abbreviated version of the cackle-and-cough routine, although this time thankfully not requiring the hanky.
‘I don’t bet, lad.’
Skelgill inhales as if he is about to speak, but in reaching to return the page his gaze drifts beyond Maurice Stewart and he notices a budget-edition mobile phone resting on the far corner of the desk. The man follows Skelgill’s eyes – and instead of replacing the data-sheet in its allocated space, he slides it casually over the handset. He hesitates for a moment before he settles back to face the detective. Now he yawns again, more laboriously this time.
‘Any’ow, lad – thee din’t come to discuss horses – yon Morag’ll be along to pack us off ter kip soon.’
Skelgill holds up a palm in acknowledgment, and then joins both hands together between his knees and assumes a more business-like though still affable posture. Whether he has detected the subtle change in his antagonist’s demeanour is difficult to gauge.
‘Mr Stewart – the main purpose of coming to see you is to ask about your son, Clifford.’
‘Why – what’s he bin up ter?’
Immediately there is the cackle, perhaps with a more manic flourish than before. The apelike eyes seem to glint with amusement.
‘Oh – it’s nothing like that, sir – it’s just that we have reason to believe he might be in danger.’
For a fleeting moment the man’s features seem pained, though the reaction could equally be one of contempt.
‘Danger, eh?’
‘It’s essential we trace him, you see, sir.’
‘Cliff Edge.’
There is a sense of wistful nostalgia conveyed in this short expression, with each word being separately emphasised.
‘I beg your pardon, sir?’
‘Cliff Edge – that’s what he called hisself – Dangerous Cliff Edge. He liked that – being the star turn. Lock up your daughters, here comes Dangerous Cliff Edge.’
Skelgill inches closer.
‘Do you mean when you had the outdoor activity centre – and the climbing wall? At Knott Halloo?’
‘Aye, he were a reet good climber were our Cliff.’ The man makes a throaty rattle, as though he is agreeing with himself by agitating the catarrh lining his trachea. ‘Cliff Edge. Ha!’
‘Do you know where we can find him, sir?’
The man pitches forward and pinches the end of his nose between the thumb and forefinger of one hand. Whether this is intended as a confiding gesture it is hard to discern, but his reply suggests such.
‘No one knows where to find Cliff.’
In his enunciation there is a hint of triumph – the accent upon no one – as if Clifford’s whereabouts is a long-held secret in which only he shares and he is flaunting this accomplishment before Skelgill. Suddenly he jerks back upright and again there is the unnerving laughter.
