Murder by Magic (13 page)

*

‘What
was all that about squatter’s rights and adverse possession, Guv?’

Skelgill
is driving slowly down the track from the castle, peering from side to side
into the woodland.

‘I
made it up.’

DS
Jones raises her eyebrows.

‘It
sounded convincing – well, maybe until you mentioned
Bleak House
.’

Skelgill
forces a grin.

‘It
did the job.’

DS
Jones looks like she is not entirely sure to which ‘job’ he refers.

‘And
the back garden, Guv – the moles?’

Skelgill
glances sharply across at his sergeant.  It is evident from her tone that
she suspects some ulterior motive is at play.

‘There
were mounds of soil in the middle of the lawn.’  His voice sounds rather
distracted and he pauses reflectively before he continues.  ‘Unless I was
imagining things.’

‘He
seemed a bit touchy about it, Guv.’

Skelgill
grimaces.

‘He
wanted us out.’

‘I got
the distinct feeling he didn’t want us
in
.  I notice he didn’t ask
if we’d found Leonid Pavlenko.’

Skelgill
nods grimly.

‘What
did you make of the KGB bodyguards?’

DS
Jones chuckles.

‘Actually,
Guv – I didn’t think they were Russian – not from their accents.’

‘No?’

‘I’ve
heard a fair amount of Russian used in my family – my great aunts and
uncles from Ukraine – it’s still the lingua franca of the former Soviet Bloc
– these girls could speak Russian and be from any one of twenty countries.’

Skelgill
remains pensive.

‘Guv
– the information we got from them – you couldn’t really describe
it as statement material?’

Now
Skelgill grins sardonically.

‘Aye,
well – happen they wouldn’t notice that.’

He is
no more forthcoming on this point – but clearly things do not quite stack
up – to go to the lengths of visiting and breaching the security of the
castle simply to obtain information of a quality that could equally have been
achieved with a telephone call – unless it comes down to wiling away the
afternoon.

‘What
about the gamekeeper, Guv – are we going to see him?’

Skelgill
scowls.

‘I
think we know what his answer’s going to be, Jones.’

She nods.

‘I
can’t say I’m sorry, Guv.’

Skelgill
shoots her a searching glance.

‘What did
you think of Wolfstein’s performance?’

DS
Jones folds her arms; perhaps she detects an underlying nuance in Skelgill’s
question.

‘He’s
creepy, Guv.’

Again
Skelgill nods.

‘Funny
looking cleaner and cook.’

DS
Jones squirms in her seat; there is something that disconcerts her about
Skelgill’s blunt yet oblique observation.  It takes a few moments before
her thoughts regroup along practical lines.

‘It
will be interesting to hear what the team unearths, Guv – how come a
professor from Prague ends up owning an English country estate?’

‘Aye
– maybe there’ll be something there.’

‘Do
you think there’s a connection, Guv – between Wolfstein and Pavlenko?’

Skelgill
hesitates for a moment.

‘Best
not to look too hard for connections, Jones – you can usually find the
wrong one.’

His
reply is characteristically cryptic, though DS Jones knows him well enough by
now to understand this is not necessarily a case of being cantankerous. 
He simply dislikes to be pressed when he doesn’t yet know himself.  Though
she must wonder what cards he holds close to his chest, she does not pursue the
point.  As they reach the road he settles broodingly over the wheel. 
The time on the dashboard clock now reads almost six p.m. – if wiling
away the afternoon was an objective he has succeeded.  However, call it
belt-and-braces, but as they weave through the tiny hamlet of Little Langdale he
draws up outside the village inn.

The
landlord is nowhere to be seen, and it is to their evident surprise that a new
barmaid comes forward to take their order.  There is a cluster of early-evening
patrons loitering around the servery, and Skelgill despatches his colleague to
bag what is becoming a regular table over by the window.  Meanwhile he watches
the girl as she inexpertly wrestles with a hand-pump.  She is shorter than
her predecessor, with shoulder-length dark brown hair and hazel eyes.  Her
nose is long and a touch bulbous, and combines with relaxed smile lines to give
her a somewhat melancholy appearance.  She works purposefully, and does
not attempt to engage him in conversation.  Her attire is just a plain
white close-fitting t-shirt and jeans; her figure modest, small breasts, a
narrowing at the waist, and the plump curve of a belly suggestive of the very
earliest showing of pregnancy.  She must sense Skelgill’s attention, for
she glances up at him, but then quickly lowers her eyes; however his stare is
inquisitive rather than ogling.

‘Where
are you from, love?’

‘Poland.’

‘Good
for pike.’

He grins
mechanically and turns away with the glasses.  There is a log fire
crackling in the hearth close to their table and he sets down the drinks and
shrugs off his jacket; DS Jones has already done likewise.  Skelgill
fishes a silvery object from a pocket and flicks it deftly into a brass coal
scuttle.

‘What
was that, Guv?’

‘Pie
tray – I’ve been meaning to bin it all afternoon.’

DS
Jones chuckles.

‘So
that was why the Alsatians were so friendly?’

‘Shortest
way to a dog’s heart – ask Cleopatra.’

‘Aw,
Guv – I’m sure she’s more loyal than that.’

‘Jones
– she’d have your dinner off your plate the second you’re out of the room
– she ate three quarters of a keema naan the other night – and the
lime pickle.’

DS
Jones looks pained, though she must be secretly amused by the irony of Skelgill
getting a taste of his own medicine.  She cranes around to read the
specials board beside the bar.

‘The
steak-and-ale pie’s not on tonight, Guv.’

‘Tough
on Leyton – I owe him one.’

The
new barmaid notices their interest – perhaps she thinks they seek her
attendance – she picks up a pad and begins to round the end of the bar. 
Skelgill mutters under his breath.

‘He’s
not hung around getting a Polish replacement.’

DS
Jones raises her eyebrows, but the girl is upon them.

‘Yes
please?’

She
addresses DS Jones, but Skelgill does not stand on ceremony – here is a gift
horse as far as speed of service is concerned.

‘Cod
and chips, love – and mushy peas.’

The barmaid
casts a suspicious glance at him – but she writes down some version of
his order, and then nods to DS Jones.

‘Could
I have the grilled sea bass with a salad instead of rice, please?’

The
girl makes more diligent notes.

‘I ask
chef – I am sure no problem.’

DS
Jones smiles engagingly.

‘Spasybi.’

‘Bud’
laska.’

The
girl’s reply comes automatically as she turns away.  Skelgill inhales to
speak, but DS Jones’s eyes widen and she puts a finger hurriedly to her
lips.  When the barmaid has disappeared from sight she leans forward over
the table.  Skelgill frowns.

‘What?’

‘Guv –
that was Ukrainian.’

‘Come
again?’

‘I
just said
thank you
and she replied
you’re welcome
.  In
Ukrainian.’

‘Maybe
she’s got a granny like yours.’

DS
Jones ponders for a moment.

‘It’s
an ingrained thing, isn’t it – in every language there’s a
gracias
and a
de nada
, a
merci
and a
de rien
– someone thanks
you and you say you’re welcome.  In your native tongue it’s a reflex
– you do it without thinking.’

Skelgill
looks perplexed – it is impossible to tell if he is more preoccupied by the
idea that the girl might not be all that she claims, or the novelty of DS
Jones’s premise.

‘Now
we’re sitting comfortably, shall I begin with Wolfstein or Pavlenko?’

DS
Leyton glances apprehensively from one to the other of his colleagues. 
They are ensconced in Skelgill’s office, suitably provisioned with hot drinks
and – predictably in Skelgill’s case – a bacon roll from the
canteen.  The energetic spring song of a blackbird drifts in through the open
window, carried on the cool, fresh morning air.  In contrast, Skelgill and
DS Jones both appear less than lively – Skelgill is yawning periodically,
and the normally immaculate DS Jones has perhaps overslept, and arrived in a
hurry in yesterday’s clothes and make-up unevenly applied at traffic lights. 
She has her slender fingers wrapped around an Americano.

Skelgill
sighs and shakes his head.

‘Can’t
believe we’re sitting here talking about folk with names from a
Bond
film.
 Where are good old Burke and Hare these days?’

DS
Leyton seems surprised by his superior’s nostalgia.

‘That’s
the EU for you, Guv – what is it now, half a billion people?’

DS
Jones nods in accord with her fellow sergeant, her expression thoughtful.

‘Potentially
another forty-five million if Ukraine eventually joins – then there’s
Turkey.’

DS
Leyton grins and taps his chest with the fingers of one hand.

‘Won’t
be long before you have to consider me as a local, Guv.’

Over
the rim of his mug of tea Skelgill raises his eyebrows, as if that is no more
than a distant possibility.

‘Start
with Wolfstein.’

DS
Leyton opens his case file and begins to thumb through its contents. 
Skelgill looks at DS Jones – she senses his attention and returns his
gaze, but he only stares absently and she averts her eyes.

‘Here
we go, Guv – it’s not a lot so far – but it might explain what he’s
doing here.’  DS Leyton extracts a single sheet of paper.  ‘Article in
February last year from the
Westmorland Gazette
– property section
– shall I read it out?’

Skelgill,
now chewing, nods.

DS
Leyton moves the page back and forth like a trombone player, until he finds his
focal length.

‘The
title says, “Blackbeck Castle sells to overseas buyer.”  Then there’s the rest.
 “The six-thousand acre Blackbeck estate in the Langdale area has been
bought in its entirety for an undisclosed sum by a buyer from the Czech Republic. 
On the market for almost three years, the spectacular Victorian property is
believed to require considerable renovation.  Originally the domain of a Whitehaven
shipping heiress, the castle has a chequered past, with previous occupants
including a reclusive American industrialist during the early part of the
twentieth century, the War Office between 1939 and 1964, and a New Age
religious sect in the 1970s.  Most recently it has been operated as a country
house hotel, offering rough shooting and quad biking, together with rock
climbing and cave exploration in the abandoned Blackbeck mines, which are
situated on the estate.  It is believed that the isolated location, and
stiff competition from Lakeland’s burgeoning outdoor activity businesses and
gourmet hotels, were the main factors contributing to the closure and sale.  Land
agents
Pope & Parish
were not available for comment, but a source
close to the
Gazette
reports that the new owner is a former professor of
medieval history from the University of Prague, who intends to use the castle
as a study centre for his private research.  Due to the change of use, it
is not known at this stage if existing staff will be retained.”’

DS
Leyton inhales wheezily and looks expectantly to Skelgill.  But his
superior is preoccupied with the remnants of his bacon roll – he jams the
last of it into his mouth and casts about for a napkin – and in the
absence of such he settles for a less-than-clandestine wipe of the fingers on
his trousers.  It is DS Jones who speaks next.

‘Going
by what we saw, Wolfstein has certainly invested.  The décor was fully restored
– and that art collection in the hall must be worth a small fortune.’

Skelgill
is nodding.

‘Aye
– the boundary wall’s been made good – and the gates and electronic
entry system wouldn’t come cheap.’

‘He
surely must have money behind him, Guv – my lecturers were always
pleading poverty.’

Skelgill
grimaces.

‘Unless
he’s famous on the continent – why would we know that?’

Now DS
Leyton chips in.

‘Not
much comes up online, Guv – we’re waiting for the university in Prague to
get back to us – the boys found some academic papers that have been
archived as pdfs – but we’d need to get them translated from Czech or
whatever it is.’

Skelgill
appears uninterested in this prospect.  His subordinates wait in silence
as he ponders – he seems reluctant to move on, and yet it must appear to
them that the connection of Blackbeck estate and its idiosyncratic proprietor
to the matters they are investigating is largely circumstantial, and any
‘foreign’ commonality – hardly rare these days, as DS Leyton has pointed
out – no more than a coincidence.

‘What
about the local plod?’

DS
Leyton nods, his fleshy jowls absorbing the downward movements of his square
jaw.

‘He’s
asked around, Guv – not that there’s many folk lives over there –
but he’s a Langdale lad.’

Skelgill,
knowing this, waves an impatient hand.

‘What
he’s gleaned bears out the press report, Guv – apparently this Doctor
Wolfstein hosts academic conferences – some of the delegates lodge at the
Langdale Arms – kind of overflow accommodation.’  DS Leyton glances
at his notes.  ‘Also he’s pally with one of the regular UPS drivers
– he reckons they get shipments of historical artefacts up to the castle
from time to time.’

DS Jones
is nodding.

‘That
could be what we saw being delivered.’

DS
Leyton looks pleased with this corroboration.

‘There’s
some word the locals have got the hump, Guv – like it says in the paper, there
must have been a few hotel jobs lost – but what can you expect – it
had gone bust, after all.  Just ’cause he’s employing foreigners –
who doesn’t these days?’

‘The keeper’s
got a Whitehaven accent.’

Skelgill
makes this observation but does not elaborate.  After a few moments DS
Jones offers a suggestion.

‘I
don’t suppose it’s a skill you could so easily, import – wouldn’t you
need local knowledge and experience, Guv?’

That she
phrases her remark as a question appeals to Skelgill’s vanity.

‘Aye
– to do it well, you would.’  He leans forward, elbows on his
desk.  ‘But why does he need a gamekeeper at all if he’s a boffin?’

His
subordinates assume they are to play devil’s advocate.  DS Jones is first
to make a suggestion.

‘It might
just be his hobby – it appears he could afford it – and he dresses
like a country gent.’

DS
Leyton proposes another angle.

‘Maybe
they still do some shooting, Guv – as part of the conferences – you
know how these team-building jaunts are all the rage.’

Skelgill
puckers his lips.  He does not appear convinced.  He stares challengingly
at DS Jones.

‘How
many pheasants did we see?’

‘Pheasants?’

‘When
we walked up through the woods and down from the mines?’

DS
Jones looks a little uneasy.

‘I
didn’t notice, Guv – there were those deer, and the tracks.’

Skelgill
transfers his gaze to the rolling farmland beyond the office window.

‘This
time of year you’d expect cock pheasants to be crowing all over the place
– I didn’t hear one.’

DS
Leyton chuckles.

‘Maybe
Wolfstein’s potted ’em all, Guv?’

Skelgill
scowls.

‘Either
way, his keeper’s not done much of a job.’

DS
Jones is frowning.

‘When
we met him, Guv – he could have had no idea we were about to turn up
– but he looked the part – and he was repairing those bird traps
you warned him about.’

Now
Skelgill shrugs, as though this argument proves nothing to him.  DS Leyton
– perhaps unintentionally – tests his superior’s attitude.

‘Want
me to run a check on him, Guv?’

Skelgill
ponders for a moment.

‘So
long as you don’t rattle his cage.’

‘Righto,
Guv.’  DS Leyton nods, understanding the caveat, though he sounds a little
disappointed.  He scans his notes and turns a couple of pages. 
‘That’s about it for Doctor Wolfstein – got a bit more juice on Pavlenko,
though – I’ve had an email from a new contact in Kiev – seems like
he’s on the ball.’

‘Aye?’

‘Captain
Shevchenko, Guv.’

DS
Leyton grins expectantly, but Skelgill – far less of a soccer aficionado
than his sergeant – appears not to grasp the allusion and returns a
rather accusatory stare.  DS Leyton affects a cough to cover his
awkwardness.  He blinks several times before he continues.

‘It
appears Pavlenko is no angel, Guv – he’s got a string of petty
convictions for handling stolen goods – and as of now is officially
wanted for jumping bail – on suspicion of smuggling.’

Skelgill
is rubbing a knuckle pensively against his unshaven chin.

‘Any bright
ideas what he might be doing here?’

DS
Leyton leafs through his papers until he comes to a page printed in colour, an
enlarged photograph of rather grainy quality.  He reaches with a grunt and
slides it across the surface of Skelgill’s desk.

‘The
officer forwarded this, Guv – from social media, taken about a month ago
– that’s Pavlenko on the right.’

Skelgill
glowers as he considers the image.  Certainly Leonid Pavlenko is
recognisable, albeit more animated than in his passport photograph – a laugh
that reveals a missing upper left premolar, his prominent eyebrows curved
upwards, his hair longer and more unkempt.  He raises a celebratory beer
bottle, and three-quarters in shot is another male who reciprocates –
though with some reluctance it seems, for he is mirthless, his bulging eyes
empty of emotion, and he leans away from his companion as if he might wish to
escape the frame of the camera.

‘The
other geezer, Guv – he’s got underworld connections – Captain
Shevchenko’s tracked him down – reckons he’s meeting him tomorrow.’

Skelgill’s
taciturn features reveal little of his thoughts.  After a few more moments
he releases the page into the air and it planes towards DS Jones, making a last-second
loop that defies her attempt to catch it.  He watches as she reaches to
retrieve it from the floor; her hair falls to cover her face, and she has to
brush away stray strands before she can examine the picture in comfort.

‘We’ve
got a mobile number, Guv.’  DS Leyton raps his file with his
knuckles.  ‘Believed to be Pavlenko’s – we’re expecting a report
later today – should be able to tell if it was used in the area.’

Skelgill
nods, though again his expression reverts toward the sceptical.

‘How
difficult is it to pick up a pay-as-you-go phone?’

DS
Leyton shrugs rather helplessly.

‘It’s
all we can do, Guv – it’s worth a try.’

‘Guv.’

The cautioning
inflexion in DS Jones’s softly spoken entreaty has both of her male colleagues turning
abruptly from their exchange.  Her eyes are wide with disbelief.  Now
her voice rises.

‘Guv
– he’s wearing the necklace – the amber charm!’

She
stands and holds the photograph for Skelgill to see.  But he rises too and
pulls it from her and crosses to the window.  He tilts the image to catch
the daylight, his eyes narrowed to slits.

‘It
could be.’

DS
Jones looks a little crestfallen – for his tone lacks enthusiasm –
though it may be he chastises himself for missing the obvious.

‘Some
factory in Shanghai probably turns these out by the thousand, Jones.’

He hands
the page absently to DS Leyton, who is hungry for a look.

‘Cor
blimey, Guv – it’s one heck of a coincidence if it is one – if you
get my drift.’  He grins sheepishly at his tautology.  ‘It’s even got
the same leather strap like a square bootlace.’

Skelgill
resumes his seat and pitches back to scrutinise the ceiling, gnawing at a
thumbnail.  But DS Leyton is eager to advance the debate.

‘So
how did old Ticker get hold of that, then, Guv?’

Skelgill
folds his arms; he looks rather like an unwilling patient in a dentist’s chair.

‘If
it’s the same one.’

‘It
must prove Pavlenko was knocking around Little Langdale, Guv – Ticker
couldn’t have roamed all that far – not as his age.’