Murder by Magic (11 page)

‘I was
starving by then.

‘And
angry – I couldn’t get the telly working.

‘I
remember waiting.

‘For
ages, looking out the window.’

He
pauses, almost panting, as if the entire monologue thus far has come on the
back of a single lungful of air.  His irises seem enlarged and greener
than their regular greyish hue; it must be a constricting of his pupils and the
reflected blue scatter from sky and sea.  His lips barely move as he
continues.

‘Then
finally the van pulls up.

‘Dad
walks round dead slow and opens the passenger door.

‘I
dash out, shouting I want my tea.

‘Then
I see Ma’s face.

‘She’s
got Carol’s blanket folded over her arm.

‘Only
the blanket’s come home.

‘I
keep running down the path and straight past them.

‘I’m
in the fells all night.

‘It
takes the Rescue to bring me back.

‘I’m convinced
it’s my fault.

‘Those
ten greedy minutes this morning.

‘Else
they might have got her there in time.

‘She
had meningitis.

‘A
light’s gone out today.’

Now he
falls silent, unmoving, though his eyes track a Herring Gull, its melancholy
cry fading as it passes out to sea and fades from sight.

‘That’s
why I joined the Rescue when I was still a kid.

‘Lied
about my age.

‘Probably
why I joined the police, too.

‘I
never had the brains to be a doctor.

‘But I
figured if one day I could save just one life...’

He
turns to look at DS Jones; tears are streaming down her cheeks.  He steps
close and hugs her.  While his outward manner might be parental, his
childhood brogue clings on.

‘Hey
up, lass – Ah should be bubblin’ – not thee.’

‘I’ve
never breathed a word about Carol, not to a living soul.’

Skelgill
is driving again.  They have departed Whitehaven, heading south on the
coast road.  This is not the way back to Penrith, but if DS Jones has
noticed she has perhaps concluded that to interrogate her superior along such
lines would be an intrusion during these first few miles.  Now, his
statement breaks the reflective silence.

‘What
made you, Guv?’

Skelgill
stares at his companion – for overly long – and she looks alarmed
that he takes his eyes off the road.

‘Don’t
worry, lass – we’re protected by magic.’

DS
Jones gives a nervous giggle.  To her relief he tightens his grip on the
wheel and gazes ahead.

‘You
won’t believe this – but when I checked my phone – you know how you
get a preview of the texts and calls you’ve missed while it’s been on silent?’

‘Aha?’

‘I saw
the words, “Carol” and “Peace” – I swear it – but then I unlocked the
screen,’ (he shakes his head) ‘and there was nothing there – just junk from
Leyton and HQ and whatnot.’

DS
Jones’s eyes widen, though she seems to want to offer a plausible explanation.

‘Guv
– perhaps it was just a combination of words – or even letters
– that your brain selected from all the phrases that were displayed? 
It sometimes happens to me when I’m reading.’

Skelgill’s
demeanour is dark and brooding.

‘But
she had my phone, didn’t she?’

‘Mrs
Roberts?’

‘Aye.’

They
round a curve in the road and the towers and chimneys of Sellafield nuclear
power station swing into view on the horizon.  It is possible to live in
the Lakes and imagine that Mother Nature’s beauty abounds on all sides, soaring
fells and tumbling becks, gambolling lambs, walled pastures rolling on
endlessly.  Not so.  If their conversation had not anyway reached an
abrupt hiatus, this disquieting vision provides one.  It is another minute
before Skelgill speaks again.

‘Look
– don’t mention any of this to Leyton – that we’ve seen the Roberts
woman.’ (DS Jones nods obediently.) ‘He thinks I’m barmy enough as it is.’

‘What
about me, Guv?’

‘You
know I am.’

DS
Jones chuckles, but her mirth is short-lived.  Skelgill has slowed the car
to a crawl: they are following a lycra-clad cyclist up an incline towards a
blind summit, and it is not safe to overtake.  Except, as Skelgill puts it
(with expletives deleted) the impatient “idiot that’s been up their backside
for the last five minutes” does overtake.  A gleaming black Porsche
Cayenne, driven by a balding male in late middle age, roars past towing a shiny
aluminium trailer loaded with purchases from a builder’s merchant.  As he
does so a car crests the brow of the hill.  The Porsche cuts in, its
trailer missing the cyclist by a whisker, and forcing the approaching vehicle
to take evasive action, rattling up onto the footpath (where thankfully there
are no pedestrians).  The cyclist throws a middle digit in irate protest,
while the oncoming driver blasts his horn.  Skelgill and DS Jones can only
watch helplessly as the near miss unfolds, DS Jones making a sharp intake of
breath while Skelgill trots out his full repertoire of curses.

But in
a flash the incident is over.  The Porsche disappears from sight; the
oncoming car resumes its position in the carriageway and continues north; only
the shaken cyclist remains ahead of them, pedalling rather more unsteadily than
before.  Skelgill waits all the way over the rise – until he can see
the road is clear – before taking a wide berth.  The rider raises a
thumb of approval, and they exchange glances to the effect that the Porsche
driver should be committed.

‘That’s
when you wish you were on traffic patrol, Guv.’

‘Aye.’ 
Skelgill nods grimly.  ‘I’m tempted to catch him as it is.  I’ve seen
a guy get six years for causing a death doing an identical overtake.’

‘I got
his number, Guv.’

Skelgill
casts a sideways glance at his efficient subordinate.

‘You’ve
memorised it?’

‘Aha.’

Skelgill
raises an eyebrow.

‘Maybe
pass it on to the Whitehaven boys – he’s no tourist, not with that
trailer.  At least they can keep an eye out for him.’

DS
Jones nods reluctantly.  The incident has grounded them, an uncomfortable touchdown
on planet police work, a land where misdemeanours minor and major abound
– a reminder of the continual need to assess where and when to
intervene.  The interview with Rhian Roberts must begin to seem distant,
metaphysical, and somewhat unreal.

Skelgill
slows the car – a junction approaches, and a sign for Santon Bridge.

‘Where
are we going, by the way, Guv?’

‘Home
– by the scenic route.’  He scowls innocently.  ‘I’ve got a
thing or two in mind.’

DS
Jones grins.  She must suspect that afternoon tea is next on his agenda. 
However, her geography of Lakeland is sufficient to tell her that not only will
this circuitous route take them over the oft-treacherous Hard Knott and Wrynose
passes, but also that it leads into Little Langdale.  So maybe there is
more to Skelgill’s navigation than fruit scones and the eating up of time that
may otherwise see her ensnared by the scheming DI Smart.

But
first they find themselves cast upon the horns of a dilemma.

Rounding
a sharp right-hand bend beyond the hamlet of Santon Bridge, beneath the wooded
hill known as Irton Pike, the southern outlier of the Wast Water Screes, they
come upon a road accident.  It involves only one vehicle – a black
Porsche Cayenne.

In
trying to negotiate the corner too fast it has met side-on with a dry stone
wall; the sturdy ancient boundary unyielding, unlike the buckled coachwork. 
The aluminium trailer is detached, a wheel missing and badly misshapen, its
load of rough-sawn timber and paving scattered along the verge.  The
driver – the balding middle-aged man – surveys the wreckage.  He
is short in stature, his distended stomach bulging from a Tattersall shirt to spill
over the belt that supports his corduroys.

Hearing
the approach of the detectives’ car he looks up to reveal a face flushed red
and distorted with anger.  Quickly he takes a step out into the road,
raising a palm that demands they stop and provide assistance.  Skelgill
swerves past him, watching with some curiosity in his wing mirror as the man
fumes and yells and hops and stamps and disappears from sight as they slip round
the next bend.

‘Guv
– shouldn’t we...?’

Skelgill
cuts her short with a severe glance.

‘Jones
– this is a murder investigation – I’ve not got time for folk with
manners like that.’  He gives a flap of his arms and concentrates on the
road ahead with renewed vigour.  ‘Besides, there’s a café at the station
at Dalegarth – they might still be serving if the last train’s not left.’

He
looks pleased with himself, as if a little wager has just come to fruition;
with exaggerated craning of the neck he affects to admire the scenery that
rises into relief as they penetrate deeper into fell country.  Resignedly,
DS Jones sinks back into her seat – although after a few moments’ silence
she suddenly strikes up.

‘Guv
– you just said
murder
investigation.’

‘Aye.’

‘Did
you mean it?’

Skelgill
hesitates for a moment.

‘I was
thinking of the sheep.’

He produces
a wry grin, and says no more – yet there is something about his manner
that suggests this is more than a joke.  DS Jones switches tack.

‘I
thought she was convincing, Guv – Mrs Roberts.’

‘There’s
some in my family reckon so.’

‘You
mean you don’t?’

Skelgill
forces out a breath, his compressed lips vibrating.

‘I’d
say after today’s experience I’m a shade north of agnostic.’

‘She
was so matter of fact, Guv – and people come to her – it’s not like
she’s publically advertising miracles or trying to get rich or famous.’

Skelgill
nods; he seems largely in accord with his sergeant.

‘Few
generations ago in these parts, if you were sick the nearest doctor was two
days away in the back of an uncovered cart – if you could afford a doctor
– or a cart.  Small wonder folk knocked up the old crone at the top
of the village, with her cauldron and her cat.’

‘But
it
would
be old women, wouldn’t it, Guv – they lived the longest
and their skills were in the kitchen – they’d know about herbs and
natural cures – they’d be the keepers of the family wisdom – the
wicce
.’

Again Skelgill
can only agree.

‘Aye
– my Granny could make a mean poultice – would draw a splinter overnight. 
Ma was always sending us round to her.  She’d mumble some old gobbledygook
while she was bandaging it up.’

‘A
spell, Guv!’

Skelgill
frowns.

‘Aye
– but where our Mrs Roberts crosses the line is this idea of energy
– willing it, directing it.’  Skelgill narrows his eyes and performs
a series of grimaces, as though he is running through a scenario in his
mind.  ‘I can’t see the Chief buying into this line of investigation
– much as she has her own broomstick.’

DS
Jones smiles, and then nods reluctantly.  They both fall silent, whether
contemplating the supernatural aspect itself, or its questionable value as a bargaining
chip to help Skelgill keep his team together.  As they round a bend a
white shape drifts out of the trees on their left, followed by another, and
then another.  DS Jones starts, but does not speak, as though she might be
wondering if her imagination is playing tricks upon her.  Then Skelgill
laughs.

‘It’s
the train, you wally.’

Indeed,
the ghostly shapes are puffs of steam; the road and the Ravenglass-to-Eskdale
railway track have converged and they are rapidly gaining upon one of the
little engines with its payload of early-season tourists.  DS Jones
relaxes, though she watches with interest as they overtake.  The rolling
stock and loco have a Lilliputian quality, hijacked by their oversized
boiler-suited driver and his giant passengers, cramped and bowed in their
coloured cagoules in the open-sided carriages.

‘They
look frozen, Guv.’

‘Aye
– they’ll be wanting their cocoa – we need to beat them to it.’

Of
course, the train is no express; it takes forty minutes to cover the seven
miles from Ravenglass on the coast to Dalegarth station near Boot in Eskdale
– but who would wish to rush England’s most scenic rail journey, whatever
the weather?  Thus Skelgill’s phobia of queuing whilst hungry (a
phenomenon that must apply each and every time he lines up) is quickly left
behind with the clouds of steam that mark the engine’s gentle progress.

*

‘Look at
that, Guv.’

‘Aye,
it’s Birker Force – worth a visit on a rainy day.’

Refreshments
taken on board – mineral water in DS Jones’s case and tea and a brace of
scones in Skelgill’s – they are back on the road, the fells beginning to
close in on either side as they press deeper into Eskdale.  Skelgill seems
in good spirits, perhaps fortified by carbohydrates and excited by the prospect
of the driving challenge that lies ahead.  He cocks a head in the
direction of the waterfall.

‘Here’s
one for you and your languages – know why it’s called a
force
?’

DS
Jones ponders for a moment.

‘I’ve
always assumed it’s descriptive, Guv – of the force of the water coming
down over the edge.’

Skelgill
smirks rather superciliously; as he must have hoped, she has opted for the
obvious explanation, and now he can demonstrate his superior knowledge.

‘How
about if I said to you that Dettifoss in Iceland is the most powerful waterfall
in Europe?’

‘Ah
– I see, Guv – is it Nordic?’

Skelgill
looks a little deflated, that she has so speedily made the connection. 
Cumbria’s era as a Viking fiefdom is reflected in many local names.  Reluctantly
he is obliged to confirm her hypothesis.

‘Aye
– it’s not force – not as we know it – it’s never been force
– it’s
foss
.’

DS
Jones has a follow-up question.

‘So
what does foss mean?’

‘Waterfall.’

‘No,
Guv – I mean in Norwegian – or Old Nordic, more like – the
original etymology.  In French it means
pit
.’

Skelgill
scowls; he looks like he regrets bringing up the subject.  DS Jones raises
her hips and slips her phone from her back pocket – she intends to ask
the oracle.  But then she makes a disappointed sound.

‘No
signal.’

Skelgill
tuts ingenuously.