Murder by Magic (12 page)

‘That’s
the trouble with coming this way.’

DS
Jones grins – she knows Skelgill’s renegade alter ego is never happier
than when he escapes the shackles of the electronic tag that is the mobile
communications device.  Meanwhile he is ducking his head to get a view
through the passenger window.

‘Never
mind the Vikings – here’s the Roman fort.’

Skelgill
does not jest.  The incline has steepened, and the character of the
surrounding landscape has made a swift transition from wooded dale to barren
fell.  Here the route snakes between Harter Fell and Hard Knott, where the
col reached in due course takes its name from the latter.  About a quarter
of the way up this ascent is what must have been one of the Roman Empire’s least
celebrated commissions, Hardknott Castle, a well-preserved garrison that once guarded
the ‘Tenth Highway’, the route from the Roman naval base of Glannoventa
(today’s Ravenglass) to the fort of Galava at Ambleside and on to Kendal. 
It is difficult to imagine what its detachment of five hundred Croatians would
have made of such an assignment, the rainstorms of summer, the snowstorms of
winter, and Skelgill’s unruly Brittonic ancestors snapping at their heels.

‘It’s
turning into quite a history tour, Guv – you could almost say magical.’

‘Very
witty, Jones.  Want to stop?’

She
appears surprised by his suggestion.

‘Actually,
Guv – I kind of figured we’d be calling at a less ancient castle.’

Skelgill
gives an involuntary tip of his head.

‘Aye,
well – you’re right there.’

DS Jones
waves a hand at the roadside Roman ruins.

‘I’ve
been here on school trips – it would seem strange to wander around
without a clipboard and questionnaire, and teenage boys making rude noises in
the bath house.’

Skelgill
forces a wry grin.

‘I can
probably help you on the latter.’

DS Jones
suppresses a snigger.

‘Maybe
we should just continue, Guv.’

Skelgill
pushes back into his seat and accelerates sharply.

‘Hang
on to your hat – here comes Hard Knott.’

This
is not such an inappropriate statement – for in no time the track becomes
improbably sheer and winding – a gradient of one-in-three makes it the
steepest road in England, with hairpin bends treacherous beneath the thinnest
skim of ice.  But conditions are good today, and the route almost
deserted, and Skelgill has no need to rely upon oncoming motorists to
anticipate and yield to their climb.  As they reach the col and begin the
descent into the wilderness that stretches beyond, Skelgill’s phone signal cuts
in and almost immediately a call comes through.  Skelgill answers on
speaker.

‘Hey
up, Leyton.’

‘Guv
– where are you?’

‘Just
heading for Wrynose Bottom.’

DS
Leyton hesitates – of course to his Londoner’s ear this description
sounds like a wind-up – but he is quick to fashion what he thinks is an
apposite response.

‘Yeah,
well – you can keep your rhino, I’m in the flamin’ lion’s den, Guv
– Smart’s been prowling everywhere looking for you both.’

‘Let
him prowl – what’s the griff?’

‘Nothing
more yet on Pavlenko or your Doctor Wolfstein – other than we’ve got a
line on him as formerly being a university professor in Prague – but it’s
something else that I’ve remembered.’

‘Aye?’ 
Skelgill sounds underwhelmed.

‘What
it is, Guv – when I was in the pub yesterday, incognito – and I’d
ordered a pie –’

‘Leyton
– you’re not still going on about the missing pie.’

‘No,
Guv – it’s not that,’ (though he hesitates, evidently reminded of the
said item) ‘but just then the phone rang on the bar and the Brummie geezer
answered it – and he came over a bit strange – said he couldn’t talk
now – so he hung up and went through the back with my order –’

‘Leyton
does this have a punch line?’

‘Give
us a break, Guv – I’m getting there – so I’m waiting on me Sweeney
Todd, and then me old copper’s nose starts twitching – I don’t know why
– and I pick up the phone and dial that code that gives you the last
number – and I write it down – then the next thing all hell breaks
lose – the National Park ranger bursts in shouting there’s a body in the
lake – I mean
tarn
– and the phone business slipped my mind
until –’

‘Leyton
– we could lose the signal any minute.’

‘Sorry,
Guv – anyway – this morning I rang that guest house in Keswick
where Pavlenko stayed – in case he’d pitched up – and then just a
while ago I was going through my notebook and I came across the phone number
from the pub –’

Skelgill
inhales as though he is reaching the end of his tether, but DS Leyton detects
this and blurts out what is indeed a kind of punch line.

‘It
was the
same
flippin’ number, Guv – it was the B&B that phoned
the pub at Little Langdale.’

Skelgill
glances searchingly at DS Jones.

‘We
never mentioned that Pavlenko had stayed in Keswick.’

DS
Jones shakes her head vehemently.

‘Not
even when I went to get details of the Polish girl, Guv.’

DS
Leyton’s wheezy voice comes back on line.

‘I
didn’t think you would have, Guv.’

‘Remind
me Leyton – the phone was in the hall, wasn’t it – under the
stairs?’

‘That’s
right, Guv – with a gnome money-box – so guests cough up when they
use it.’

Skelgill
looks thoughtful – but DS Leyton breaks back in before he can
pontificate.

‘Oh-oh,
Guv – here’s the Chief just marched into the open plan.’

‘Tell
me about the pie.’

‘Come
again, Guv?’

‘You’re
speaking to your wife, Leyton – about your dinner.’

‘She’s
heading for my desk, Guv – she’ll be able to see your number on the
display.’

‘Can’t
hear you, Leyton – the signal’s going.’

‘Guv
– I can hear you fine – what shall I –’

Skelgill
reaches forward and deftly terminates the call.  Then he rips the handset
from its mount and tosses it to DS Jones.  Without needing to be told, she
switches it off.  Then she checks her own phone.

‘I’ve
still got no signal, Guv – your network must be better than mine.’

‘Aye,
well – you never know when you’re out in the fells and you might need to
order a curry.’

‘Guv
– the gates are opening.’

Skelgill
engages first gear and edges the idling estate towards the receding barriers
that guard the main entrance of Blackbeck Castle.  It is only a minute since
he suggested they need a minor miracle to avoid being refused access, or simply
ignored, and now his wish has been granted.  A chestnut courier van is
champing at the bit, waiting for the gap to enlarge sufficiently to squeeze
through, but the gates hinge inwards and Skelgill goes with them.  There
is a short-lived mimed stand off, the driver gesticulating with frustration,
until Skelgill presses his warrant card against the windscreen and the van
backs up.  The castle walls are breached.

‘This
is a trick I learned from my dog – when you’re going in and she’s coming
out there’s no getting past her.’

DS
Jones chuckles apprehensively.

‘Let’s
hope the Alsatians are not on the loose, Guv.’

Skelgill
shrugs indifferently, though he drives right up to the front door, and slews
the car around so that the passenger side is nearest to the building. 
There is no obvious bell – the main entry phone system being located
beside the perimeter gate, so Skelgill gives three raps of a large brass
knocker in the shape of a woven Celtic triqueta.  Immediately the dogs
strike up from somewhere within, although their barking remains distant as the
sound of light footsteps approaches and the door swings cautiously ajar.

‘We’re
here to see Doctor Wolfstein.’

Skelgill
is again brandishing his credentials.

‘I
sorry?’

The
female is in her mid-twenties, of medium height with short black hair and
contrasting milky skin, and very pale blue eyes beneath fine arched
brows.  She is quite strikingly attractive, but equally distinctive is the
two-piece orderly’s uniform she wears, which owes more to martial arts than
domestic science.  Charcoal in colour, it is of a soft material and well
tailored, such that the belt tied around her midriff emphasises an hourglass
figure.  The trousers fall just below calf length, and on her feet are
matching black ballet pumps.  She glances nervously over her shoulder.

‘Doctor
Wolfstein.’  Skelgill takes a step forward.  ‘It is important. 
We are the
police
.’

He
speaks with exaggerated enunciation and stresses the final word.  It seems
he has detected both her deficiency in English and her surprise and confusion
at their unannounced arrival within the normally impregnable confines of the
wall.  It is likely she assumed the courier had returned for some reason. 
As she backs away from his advance he sidles past, surreptitiously pulling DS
Jones by the sleeve.  Now they are inside, and turn to face her as she
clings uncertainly to the door.  Skelgill continues to display his warrant
card.

‘Doctor
Wolfstein.’

It
could be that he banks on the authorities – from wherever she may hail
– having a rather more sinister reputation than the British police. 
If so, his hunch perhaps proves correct, for she closes the front door and with
a tentative wave of one hand indicates they should follow her across what is a
large shadowy hallway that extends along the front of the building.  The
décor is heavily oak-panelled, and huge oil paintings occupy much of the walls,
Dantean scenes the minutiae of which are difficult to discern in the dimly lit
surrounds.  Skelgill is more taken by a stack of large boxes and oddly
shaped parcels that bear customs stickers – presumably the delivery just received. 
She guides them into what might be the anteroom to a larger chamber, though it
is sizable in its own right, with two long sash windows that overlook the
croquet lawn at the rear.  The walls are papered in flock of a fine
heraldic pattern, and the pictures traditional hunting scenes.  A pair of
austere chesterfields face one another across a low coffee table on which are
arrayed various county set and field sport periodicals; there is the air of a
waiting room in a country medical practice.

Without
speaking the girl slips out, her pale eyes anxious.  As she closes the
door Skelgill scoops up a glossy fishing magazine – but rather than
settle down to peruse it he strides to a window and gazes out.  DS Jones
remains near the entrance – indeed a noise must reach her sharp ears for,
very carefully, she turns the handle and re-opens the door by just a
crack.  After listening for a few moments she crosses to Skelgill. 
She speaks in hushed tones.

‘Sounds
like the girl’s getting told off, Guv – but he’s talking in a language I
don’t recognise.’

Skelgill
is about to reply, but there is the crescendo of approaching footsteps and he
gestures towards the nearest sofa.  When Doctor Wolfstein enters, Skelgill
is staring at a spring salmon and DS Jones admiring a country house interior. 
It behoves the tall man to speak first, though it is with grudging civility that
he makes an oblique greeting.

‘To
what do I owe the pleasure – the second time in three days, Inspector?’

Though
he addresses Skelgill his icy blue eyes appraise DS Jones as the two detectives
rise, and under his scrutiny she self-consciously brushes back hair from her
cheek.  He does not suggest they sit again, nor make an offer of
refreshments.  Beneath his outward composure there is an underlying tremor
– in his voice, and the muscles of his jaw.  No doubt he disapproves
of their guileful entry – however, he does not deign to acknowledge the feat.

‘It’s
a different matter, sir – you are aware of the drowning in Little
Langdale Tarn?’

He
nods slowly.

‘I believe
I heard mention of it on your local news – some worthless vagrant.’

Skelgill
narrows his eyes – the man’s condescending manner is plainly not
endearing.

‘Then
you may have heard mention of our laws on squatter’s rights.’

There
is a stiffening in the man’s demeanour.

‘I
don’t see what that has to do with me, Inspector.’

‘I
believe your estate includes Blackbeck Wood, sir.’

‘That
is correct.’

‘Then
there may be some legal relationship – there’s such a thing as adverse
possession.’

A hint
of a furrow appears above the bridge of his aquiline nose.

‘Inspector,
I have almost six thousand acres – to most of which there is unrestricted
access  – I can hardly be held responsible for people who camp
without permission.’

‘It’s
not quite that simple, I’m afraid sir – you’ll have read what the English
courts can be like –
Bleak House
and all that.’

The
man is beginning to be rattled, and his tone becomes increasingly terse.

‘I
don’t doubt that my lawyers can provide all the information you require,
Inspector.’

Skelgill
puts his hands in his trouser pockets and gives an exaggerated and magnanimous shrug
of the shoulders.

‘That
may not be necessary, sir.  It appears to us the drowning was accidental.’ 
He glances pointedly at DS Jones who nods in confirmation.  ‘Meanwhile we
have a tip-off that an organised crime syndicate is poised to commit a string
of cashpoint robberies across the county – we’re keen to wrap this case
up – but we are obliged to investigate to the satisfaction of the Coroner
– another of our laws.’

‘I
see.’

It is
apparent that Doctor Wolfstein doesn’t quite ‘see’ – but that he senses
there is some deal about to be made.  He raises a hand to his chin and
rubs his neatly trimmed beard with a forefinger.

‘So if
we could just get brief informal statements from you and your domestic staff to
confirm what contact you have had with the deceased – we ought not need
to trouble you again, sir.’

The
man folds his arms and tilts back his head, like an aristocrat unwillingly held
at bay by a couple of impertinent peasants.

‘In my
case the answer is that I have not set eyes upon the man – and I can
assure you that my staff have certainly had no contact with him.’

Skelgill
nods generously.

‘How
can you be sure of that, sir?’

‘They
do not leave the property – they have no such desire or requirement.’

‘With
respect, sir – you’ll appreciate that for the sake of the record we would
need to ask them directly.’

Now
the man smirks, rather superciliously.

‘How
is your Russian, Inspector?’

Skelgill
turns hopefully to DS Jones, though the alarm in her eyes rebuffs his inquiry.

‘Perhaps
you would do the honours, sir?’

The
man hesitates, but the remnants of the grin continue to play at the corners of
his mouth.  After a moment he produces a tiny black and silver two-way
radio from his belt at the small of his back.  He presses a button and
almost immediately a woman’s voice answers.  He barks a curt order, the
only intelligible word being the last, the name
Martina
.  Within a
minute the familiar young woman appears, along with another girl sporting the same
uniform and who could almost be her twin – and might certainly be a
sister.  He introduces them as Natasha and Martina, the former being the
woman who admitted them.  They walk to within a couple of paces of the
detectives, and stand facing them obediently.  Still Doctor Wolfstein
makes no suggestion that anyone be seated – it is clearly his intention
to render the meeting as brief as possible.

DS
Jones pulls her notebook from the pocket of her denim jacket, but Skelgill
gives a slight shake of the head to indicate it is not necessary.  Via the
landowner he provides a brief explanation of William Thymer’s background and
demise, and asks whether either of the girls have seen him within the past
week, and of their whereabouts in particular on Monday night.  Not
unexpectedly, answers are relayed back to the effect that neither of them is
aware of Ticker’s existence (or lack of), nor have they left the castle grounds
within the last month.  While, of course, it is possible that Doctor Wolfstein
puts words into their mouths, their economical responses are nothing if not rapid,
which implies a certain legitimacy.

They
are dismissed, Doctor Wolfstein staring after them until they have left the
room.  He turns to Skelgill.

‘So
you see, Inspector, it is as I anticipated.’

Skelgill
nods, perhaps a little humbly.

‘And
just the two members of staff, sir – for a place this size?’

The
man does not appear disconcerted by the question.

‘My
needs are simple, Inspector.’  He flicks a cool glance at DS Jones. 
‘Cooking and housekeeping.’

There
is a silence.  Skelgill is nodding, his face puckered into an expression
of practical agreement.  He tugs at the lapels of his jacket in a gesture
of finality – but then he casually takes a couple of paces towards a window.

‘How about
the grounds, sir – they must be a bit of a handful?’

Doctor
Wolfstein moves into line so as to achieve the same view as Skelgill.

‘I allow
them to grow in a largely natural state, Inspector – my gamekeeper can
assist if necessary.’

‘It’s
a fair-sized lawn – I shouldn’t like to have to do that with my
Flymo
.’

‘I
have a ride-on machine, Inspector.’

Skelgill
seems interested in this concept, and takes a couple more steps closer to the
window.  He peers through the glass.

‘Looks
like your dogs have been getting to work with their bones, sir.’

Doctor
Wolfstein does not join him, and indeed now walks across in the opposite
direction, to the door.

‘We
have a mole infestation, Inspector.  As I say, my gamekeeper is on hand
for that sort of thing.’  He opens the door and keeps a grip of the
handle, standing to one side in a manner that indicates he is waiting for them
to leave.

Skelgill
shrugs amenably and obliges, indicating with a tip of the head to DS Jones that
she should fall in.  Doctor Wolfstein strides before them across the lobby. 
The hallway extends some sixty feet to either side, where it terminates in
stone walls similar to the exterior of the building.

‘Must
be a good view over the dale from the towers, sir.’

The
man seems to hesitate in the act of unfastening the latch.

‘They
are follies, Inspector – mere decoration – there is no
access.  They would have to be scaled from the roof.’

Skelgill
makes an enlightened face to demonstrate his edification, but any further
discussion is pre-empted by a boisterous reception from the German Shepherds,
which have found their way to the front of the castle.  Following an
initial roll call, they seem drawn to Skelgill, nosing in a friendly but pushy
way at his jacket.

‘Treats
all gone – someone beat you to it.’

Skelgill
pats his pockets to demonstrate his point, and then squats on his haunches to
fuss the animals.

Doctor
Wolfstein watches inscrutably, his eyes closely following the movements of Skelgill’s
hands.