Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 1, page 86
part #1 of Detective Inspector Skelgill Series
Of course, there are other possible explanations for his possession of the drug. He travelled widely, speaking at conferences on a global basis. The identical medicine is available, for instance, in the United States, where he had most recently attended a major international book fair – and he could have obtained it privately, if not indeed on the same basis in Great Britain or elsewhere. Nonetheless, as Skelgill put it, there were simply ‘too many straws in the wind’ – the wind, from his perspective, also being one of the straws.
Thus by late afternoon on Monday, Skelgill and his two sergeants – all travelling for austerity purposes on second-class tickets – are seated, upon Skelgill’s insistence, in an empty first-class carriage, that rattles down the West Coast Line through indistinct countryside and enfolding dusk towards England’s sprawling capital.
While it might have seemed sensible, in hindsight, to detain the retreat’s seven surviving participants in Cumbria – indeed on Grisholm – to facilitate convenient interviewing, Skelgill has identified that the scenario is more complex. (Not least, there is no obvious crime, and no obvious suspect.) In any event, to discover much about Rich Buckley it will be necessary to visit his London office and speak with the staff; there is also his wife, and potentially his GP; and then the agents that handle the rental of Grisholm Hall. Moreover, as has already been recognised, the members of the retreat had little with them in the way of reference information that may be of practical use to the police. And although Dr Gerald Bond and Linda Gray, who both live in Cumbria, and the successful author, Sarah – aka Xara – Redmond, is based in Edinburgh, four of the seven – Dickie Lampray, Angela Cutting, Burt Boston and Lucy Hecate – reside in the Central London area. Finally, less tangibly, there is the view that Skelgill has iterated to his own superior: that if anyone has anything to hide they are less likely to be on guard on their home turf.
Skelgill’s request to pursue the investigation south was thus approved, though not without reservations on behalf of his boss. The rationale for ‘foul play’ of some kind is very much a matter of conjecture, and seems dependent upon a healthy dose of intuition on Skelgill’s part – not a quality that generally carries much weight with the powers that be. Indeed, there is a strong case to be made that Skelgill’s personal embroilment in the events (albeit not comprehensively reported) renders him too close to the situation to conduct an objective investigation. Countering this, however, is the argument that he has obtained an insider’s insight into the characters concerned, and indeed the minutiae of events as they unfolded. From this perspective he is uniquely placed to move matters forward with greatest haste.
Perhaps this latter point was the clincher, given that there is a desire on high to see the mystery untangled, and its threads neatly wound up, with maximum speed and minimum fuss. However, it is only on the proviso that he achieves these goals that he has been cleared to proceed. He has thus rallied his troops, called fleetingly at home to shower, change and pack an overnight holdall, extend the boarding arrangements for his dog, and rendezvous at Penrith railway station just in time to jump aboard the departing 4:50 express for Euston. Thence, it is not long before trouble arrives in the shape of the conductor.
‘This is a second-class ticket, I’m afraid, sir.’
Skelgill nods. His jacket lies on the spare seat beside him, and he reaches into the pocket to retrieve his warrant card, now restored to his possession. He brandishes it at the railway employee, an underfed and rather lopsided young man burdened by an unfashionable hairstyle and a permanently harried set to his pale and pinched features.
‘It doesn’t make any difference I’m afraid, sir – we’re a private company these days.’
Skelgill takes back his card and patiently stows it away. He squints at the man’s identity badge.
‘Are you a taxpayer, Norris?’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘And serving the public – if not by name a public servant?’
‘In a manner of speaking, sir.’
‘We’re travelling south to investigate a very serious case. We need to discuss our plan – it’ll take us an hour or so.’ He lowers his voice conspiratorially. ‘It’s a double murder.’ The ticket inspector’s eyes widen. ‘At the moment we’re on contracted time – but we can’t conduct the meeting in second class because it’s packed full and people will overhear. If we have to wait until we reach London we’ll need to do it tonight and the taxpayer will be charged overtime. Think how much that will cost.’
‘I see, sir.’
The conductor takes a half step backward and glances up and down the carriage. Skelgill casts an arm about the four-seater section they occupy.
‘I notice these seats are not reserved.’
‘That’s correct, sir. It’s not a popular service, this time of day – at least not for business travellers.’
‘So you could do both us and the taxpayer a favour if we were able to use them.’ Skelgill grins in a friendly manner. ‘Naturally we’ll move if the carriage begins to fill up – but I wouldn’t have though there’s much chance of that this side of Manchester?’
‘It’s Warrington we go through, actually, sir.’
Skelgill beams.
‘There you go then – one-horse town – no danger of getting busy, eh?’
‘Probably not, sir.’ The man frowns, however.
‘Excellent – and when do we get the free buffet service?’
The conductor hesitates for a moment, as though he is having second thoughts. But then he sighs and his shoulders droop – lopsidedly – by another inch or so.
‘It’ll be along in about twenty minutes, sir.’
‘Perfect – thanks for your cooperation, Norris – we’ll keep you posted on our progress as the journey goes on.’
‘My shift ends at Warrington, sir – that’s... where I live.’
‘Good for you, Norris.’
Skelgill settles back and folds his arms, as though the matter is closed. His two sergeants, somewhat embarrassed, tender their tickets for clipping, avoiding eye contact. The remainder of this operation is conducted amidst an awkward silence, until finally the man shambles swaying along the aisle and disappears from their carriage with a swish and a clunk of the automatic door.
‘Fair enough, don’t you think?’ Skelgill addresses his subordinates, seeking approval. ‘No point having all this empty space – never mind good food going to waste.’
DS Jones grins at her incorrigible superior. DS Leyton shakes his head.
‘I think you nearly blew it, slagging off Warrington, Guv.’
Now Skelgill paradoxically disagrees. ‘Nothing wrong with Warrington, Leyton – I was best man at a wedding there once.’ He falls silent, and appears to be replaying an old memory, for the hint of a smile creases his lips.
‘Anyway, Guv – it did the trick – we might be stuck on here for a while if there’s a knock-on effect from the tube strike.’
Skelgill breaks off from his reverie. ‘All the more reason to be comfortable, Leyton.’ He activates the recline position of his seat and places his hands behind his head. He nods to DS Jones who has arranged her notebook and documents on the table before her. ‘Give me a shout when the trolley dolly turns up.’ And he promptly closes his eyes.
*
‘Beats me how you can solve those things, Emma – does my head in, even the easy ones.’
They have been given complimentary newspapers, and DS Jones is steadily working her way through the cryptic crossword of the Daily Telegraph, while DS Leyton peruses the pages of a less cultured journal. Skelgill is perhaps sleeping, although at intervals during the journey so far he has surprised them by suddenly chipping in with a contribution to their conversation, despite his lowered eyelids and sporadic snores. DS Jones smiles at her colleague.
‘Oh, well – a... friend... showed me how to do them when I was at uni – half the battle is cracking the secret code that the compiler uses. If you can work out what the clue means the answer’s usually staring you in the face.’
DS Leyton puts down his own newspaper and glances across at her half-completed grid.
‘Give us an idea, then.’
DS Jones taps her pen on the folded broadsheet.
‘Ok – take this one – I’ve already solved it. The clue says, “Go without love, with girls getting visual aids” and it’s seven letters long.’
DS Leyton puffs out his cheeks and stares vacantly at the page, and then hopefully about the carriage, as if they are playing a game of I-spy and the item is close at hand, if only he can spot it. But after a few moments he shakes his head and concedes defeat.
‘That’s just double Dutch to me, Emma – it might as well be written in French.’
DS Jones smiles patiently.
‘Let me show you. There are a couple of encrypted elements in here.’ She writes out the clue along the foot of the page, spacing it into three distinct phrases. ‘See this last bit, “getting visual aids”? The word “getting” is telling us that the answer is something that means “visual aids” and the first parts of the clue will resolve to make this word.’
DS Leyton scratches his head.
‘Visual aids? What – like for a presentation when you hold up crime-scene photos?’ He counts on his fingers, silently mouthing letters. ‘How about ‘example’ – that’s got seven letters?’
DS Jones nods encouragingly.
‘It could be – but if we work out the rest of the clue, it will tell us.’
‘Go on then.’
‘Well, there’s another coded phrase: “go without love” – that means the letter “g” – because “love” is usually code for an “o” – so “g” is the first letter of the solution.”
‘Bang goes my example.’ He puffs out his cheeks. ‘What about ‘gadget’ then?’ He counts again. ‘Cor blimey – not enough letters.’
She chuckles.
‘And lastly we need another word for “girls” – because the clue is telling us to put “g” with girls.’
‘Lasses.’
They both glance up, for this submission comes from the ‘slumbering’ Skelgill. It is a word from his regular northern lexicon.
DS Jones writes down “lasses” – and then with a flourish inks the letter “g” in front of it.
‘Glasses?’
DS Leyton looks crestfallen – as though her little exercise has been futile – he puts a supportive hand on her arm, as though to share some of the burden of her failure.
‘Specs – you Cockney oik.’
Despite Skelgill’s disparaging remark, DS Leyton’s face suddenly lights up.
‘Stone me – that kind of visual aids!’ He claps his hands together joyfully. ‘That’s brilliant, Emma – mind you I still don’t reckon I’d get anywhere near it on me Tod Sloan.’
Skelgill, having apparently returned to his siesta, has a contentedly smug grin spread upon his countenance, as though he considers himself solely responsible for solving the clue. DS Jones glances sympathetically at DS Leyton. She places the newspaper on the table and rests her pen on top of it.
‘Actually, I was on a training course in September. One of the sessions was really fascinating. They had this guy who works in advertising as a Creative Director. His job is to invent ideas for campaigns. He showed us how he uses cryptic crosswords as a kind of brain gym to practise what he called slow thinking.’
‘Sounds like that’s right up my street, Emma.’
DS Jones laughs.
‘Actually, he made solving an advertising brief seem just like solving a crime. You have all these pieces of information – first you have to decide which ones are important – and then discover how they fit together. He believes there’s always a perfect solution.’
DS Leyton grins disarmingly.
‘I would have been rubbish at advertising, as well.’
Skelgill, like some malevolent serpent, opens a reptilian eye – it appears he is tempted to bite, cruelly – perhaps that therein lies the explanation for stasis at the rank of sergeant; but DS Jones continues before he can intervene.
‘It’s not something you can force. It’s like the difference between an ordinary crossword and a cryptic crossword. In an ordinary crossword the clue might say ‘solid fuel’, four letters. And you just go, ‘coal’. It’s linear thinking. But in a cryptic crossword the clue has two or three parts, so you have to kind of half-solve them individually and then dump them into the mixer and let your mind churn out the connection in its own time. That’s why it’s called slow thinking. You can’t do it to order.’
DS Leyton scratches his head and grimaces ruefully.
‘Thing is, Emma – you see these detectives on the telly – like Sherlock Holmes and Poirot – and they’ve got brains the size of planets – and they get the solution, like that.’ He snaps his fingers. ‘So, when something gets lost round our house, ‘cause I’m a copper the missus expects me to be able to deduce where it is!’
DS Jones is amused and smiles attractively, her full lips parting to reveal her even white teeth. She touches the tip of her nose with a finger.
‘I’d say Inspector Morse is closer to the real thing – he’s always charging up blind alleys – thinking he’s got the right answer. It’s like that with cryptic clues – you convince yourself you’re there, but something still niggles. And then when you do get it right, the logic of the clue smacks you between the eyes.’
Skelgill adjusts his seat into the upright position and stretches his arms above his head. He rubs his eyes and yawns.
‘Half the crimes I’ve solved have only made sense afterwards.’
DS Leyton suddenly seems perturbed, as though some long-standing belief in a magic quality possessed by his superior has been dispelled; for a second he has the demeanour of a child recognising for the first time the fallibility of a parent.
DS Jones, on the other hand, looks engagingly to her boss.
‘I’ll send you the slides from the course, Guv – if you like? The idea was called The Eye of the Brainstorm – he describes how you retreat into this quiet place in your mind, metaphorically in the eye of the hurricane, where it’s absolutely still and silent,’ (she raises both hands and makes the shape of a cylinder in the air) ‘and you’re surrounded by these towering black walls of cloud, with all this storm debris spinning around – and from this position your subconscious can identify the pieces that are important, and what they make when you put them together.’
Skelgill’s reluctance ever to be told of a better way to do anything is perhaps tempered by some subliminal sense of recognition in what she says. Notwithstanding, he manufactures a rather cynical scowl.
‘I find it best when I don’t put my mind to it.’
But DS Jones is undeterred.
‘That’s exactly it, Guv – it’s when you’re not trying that the answer comes – so long as you’ve got all the information you need. The guy running the course said he solves crossword clues when he stops thinking and looks out of the window – and that he has his best advertising ideas when he’s doing his ironing.’
Skelgill chortles.
‘That definitely rules you out, then, Leyton.’
Despite this blatant case of the pot calling the kettle black, DS Leyton phlegmatically hunches his shoulders, guilty as charged.
*
‘So where now?’
‘It’s two stops on the Northern Line, Guv – jump off at Tottenham Court Road, then Charlotte Street’s just around the corner.’
As DS Jones says this she glances back at DS Leyton, who lags a couple of paces behind herself and Skelgill. They have succeeded in riding the entire journey in first class, and so are among the most forward to alight upon the platform at London’s Euston station, walking with the slightly apprehensive gait of people who have dismounted from an escalator. However, the train has arrived almost an hour behind schedule, and hurrying hordes from second class begin to pour from their carriages, swarming past them with rumbling trolley cases and skyscraping rucksacks and protesting children who point out the fast-food outlet signs with plaintive cries of futile optimism. DS Leyton scurries to catch up, and calls out to make himself heard.
‘Or we could just walk, Guv?’
‘I thought you Cockneys went everywhere sitting down? Tube, taxi, bus.’
DS Leyton frowns rather defensively.
‘The underground might be chaos, Guv – what with the strike.’
Skelgill watches as part of the crowd veers off for the exits marked Northern and Victoria Lines.
‘Looks like it’s running – it’s always a novelty for me.’
DS Jones seems still to have half an eye on DS Leyton. Her brow creases and she turns to Skelgill with sudden vehemence.
‘Actually, it’s less than a mile, Guv – the fresh air will do us good after all that time sitting down.’
Skelgill shrugs and continues straight ahead. He casts a rather longing glance at the display counter of a snacks stall, and bumps heavily into an elderly gentleman, who immediately apologises.
‘Seems I’m outnumbered – though since when there was fresh air in London, I don’t know.’
His colleagues grin obediently. DS Leyton appears relieved. As they reach the street, DS Jones indicates with a hand that they should cross and then head west along Euston Road. It is after eight p.m. and the day’s workers are long gone, so once they have cleared the immediate vicinity of the station they find the broad pavements largely empty, and they are able to stroll three abreast. The traffic, however, offers little reflection of the time of day, and grumbles past them, honking and choking the six-lane urban highway, and filling the senses with diesel fumes and the distinctive squeal of taxi brakes at each set of lights. The Post Office tower stands sentinel over the area, providing vertigo-inducing glimpses as they proceed from block to block. Skelgill cranes his neck, but overhead the clouded sky is a nondescript haze of reflected neon and offers no clue as to tomorrow’s outlook. Right now the weather is substantially milder than that they have left behind in Cumbria and, though they walk into a light breeze, they have their overcoats draped on crooked arms. Presently DS Jones swings left at Tottenham Court Road, and then right into Grafton Way, which elbows ninety degrees onto Fitzroy Street, whence their lodgings are some eight hundred yards ahead. Skelgill squints at the nameplate, which has a small ‘W1’ in one corner.
