Murder by Magic (19 page)

DS
Jones offers another suggestion.

‘Perhaps
he ran out of credit?’

Skelgill
shrugs hopelessly; he knows this is a blind alley.

‘There’s
half a dozen possible explanations.’  He appears unwilling to iterate what
these may be.

Now a silence
descends.  DS Leyton frowns and peruses his notes rather glumly.  However,
after a minute he perks up.

‘We’ve
got more on that Jed Tarr character, Guv.’

He
waits for his superior to show some interest.

‘Aye?’

‘He’s
an ex-miner – worked at Haig colliery at Whitehaven until it closed after
the miner’s strike.  Bit of a firebrand by all accounts.  Did a
six-month stretch for
grievous
– lorry driver tried to cross a
picket line and he whacked him with an axe handle.’

Skelgill
is making grotesque faces that suggest he is imagining some
confrontation.  This unfavourable reaction is not ameliorated by DS
Leyton’s supplementary information.

‘Five
years ago he got a caution for suspected involvement in a dog-fighting ring
– there wasn’t enough evidence to press charges but the fact he took the
caution suggests he was up to no good.  There’s mention of badger baiting
in the case reports.’

Skelgill
grimaces.

‘You
wouldn’t want to be a small mammal on his patch then, Leyton.’

‘Not even
a large one, Guv.  There’s a bunch of complaints from walkers and cavers
about his aggressive behaviour – folks who’ve got perfect rights to be on
the land – him carrying a shotgun and all.’

Skelgill
folds his arms and slumps back in his chair.

‘Trouble
is, Leyton, so long as he’s on the estate
he’s
got a perfect right to
tote a twelve-bore.’

DS
Leyton is nodding – but now he has been reminded of another point.

‘On
the animal cruelty front, Guv – your farmer chum Arthur Hope left a voice
message over the weekend.’

‘Another
killing?’

‘Rustled,
Guv.’  He consults his notes.  ‘He said from Dunnerdale – “Herdwick
tup” – I expect that makes sense to you?’

Skelgill
is already nodding in a slightly superior way.

‘A
tup’s a ram, Leyton – you can pay upwards of three thousand guineas for a
show champion.’

DS
Leyton raises his thick eyebrows and grins mischievously.

‘Cor
blimey, Guv – that’s an expensive lamb chop.’

Skelgill
frowns disapprovingly.

‘Leyton
– tups are not bred for eating.’

DS
Leyton looks rather sheepish.

‘Sorry,
Guv.’

Skelgill
shakes his head resignedly.  He ponders this new information, his features
undergoing more variations – but these freeze into an unreceptive scowl as
his office door opens and the angular, sharp-suited figure of DI Alec Smart
slides into the space beside DS Leyton’s seat.  His stoat-like eyes dart
about, after each scan returning to dwell upon DS Jones, as though she is some
favoured prey item.

‘Just
got wind of your jape, Skel.’

Skelgill
takes a second to respond.

‘It’s
no jape – it’s dead serious.’

DI
Smart seems not to detect the hostility in Skelgill’s tone.

‘The
Chief just had a quiet word – asked me to put a couple of my lads on standby.’ 
He casts about the room with a disparaging smile.  ‘Since your crew’s a
bit thin on the ground.’

Unsurprisingly,
Skelgill is no more endeared by this observation.

‘I
think we’ll cope, Smart.’

DI
Smart brushes a sleeve of his jacket and glances down in an admiring way at his
own outfit.

‘Chief
said you might need a tail – my lads are city boys, they’re used to it
– and we don’t want our
next
Inspector coming to any harm.’ 
He sneers fawningly at DS Jones and, without taking his eyes off her, places a patronising
hand on DS Leyton’s shoulder.  ‘No offence, mate.’

Skelgill’s
expression has darkened to the extent that it is a wonder there is no rumble of
thunder.  But at this juncture his telephone rings, and his sergeants both
lean forward expectantly, knowing this will be the call they have
awaited.  Skelgill ignores DI Smart and picks up the receiver and, though
he does not speak, he listens to the operator.

‘Ask
him to hold thirty seconds – I’ve got someone just leaving.’

While
he shows no urgency, it must be evident even to the thick-skinned DI Alec Smart
that Skelgill has supplied him with his marching orders.  He takes a last
lingering look at DS Jones, a wry smile curving his thin lips into a spare crescent,
makes a telephone gesture to Skelgill with the thumb and little finger of one
hand and, ignoring DS Leyton entirely, sidles out of the office leaving the
door ajar.  DS Leyton quickly reaches across and slaps it shut with a
bang.  Although there is clearly a desire among the small coterie to
exchange some comradely disapproval in relation to DI Smart’s uninvited
intervention, there is no time – Skelgill presses a button on the
telephone base and replaces the handset.

‘Captain
– I’ve got you on loudspeaker – Jones and Leyton are with me.’

Immediately
the harsh eastern voice with its curious American drawl crackles into their
midst.

‘Crazy
new look, Anya.’

Shevchenko
has dispensed with introductions.  DS Jones seems momentarily discomfited,
as if he has inadvertently revealed some pet name of theirs.  She replies
with a tentative, ‘Anya?’

‘We
have your internal passport – it will arrive by courier tomorrow morning
– the name is Anya Davydenko – she is known to Irina Yanukovych
– a contemporary from college.’

‘And who’s
this Irina – ?’  Skelgill sounds perplexed.

‘Inspector
– the woman in the photograph – Leonid Pavlenko’s girl.’

‘You’ve
identified her?’

‘Of
course.’  Captain Shevchenko sounds like he has known this fact all along.

‘Is
there anything you can tell us about her?’

‘Is
more difficult.’

‘How
come?’

‘She
is from Donetsk – and also Pavlenko – you know we have problems in
the east – is not possible to investigate officially.’

‘Aye
– we’ve seen it on the news.’

‘But it
fits our story that the name of the new girl is familiar to Irina Yanukovych.’

‘I get
that.’  Skelgill glances at DS Jones; he looks like he might be wondering
if she can really play Anya Davydenko.  He addresses the microphone.  ‘What
about timings?’

 ‘Is
arranged.’  Shevchenko pauses, though there is the sound of his breathing
and he is probably lighting a cigarette.  ‘
Anya’
(he persists with
the alias) ‘you need to be on the London train tomorrow – arrive at your
city eight-fifteen evening time.’

The
three British officers exchange amused glances at the description of the small
provincial town of Penrith as a city.  Shevchenko continues, a little
stiltedly, as though he might be referring to some roughly prepared notes.

‘Imagine
you leave Kiev last Saturday by car – Lviv, Poland – Wroclaw,
Dresden, Germany – Cologne, Brussels, Belgium – Calais, France
– to Dover by tomorrow morning.  Then make own way – train to
London – train from London.’

DS
Jones is scribbling furiously.  She leans closer to the telephone base
unit.

‘Should
I catch it from London?’

Shevchenko
laughs.  ‘Is not KGB.  They only care if you arrive – not how
you get there – but if you come to railway station in police car they
might suspect.’

Now
there is a polite chorus of chuckles. 

‘What
if they ask how I got into Britain?’

‘You
say you are brought on Polish passport – but remember – you speak
only little English – so do not understand too much – it will make simple
for you.  Is more important you look like you have long journey –
not come straight from boudoir.’

DS
Jones looks earnestly at Skelgill.

‘Maybe
I should sleep on the couch in my clothes tonight.’

Shevchenko
replies in Ukrainian, and DS Jones’s cheeks seem to colour – although she
keeps a straight face and hurriedly continues with the conversation.

‘What
do you think they will ask me?’

‘Who
knows – you have met Yashin – he is man of few words – he
would rather not talk with me at all.’

Now DS
Leyton clears his throat by way of introduction.

‘Captain
– it’s DS Leyton speaking – any idea who the geezer’s going to be
that’s meeting DS Jones?’

Shevchenko’s
disembodied voice seems to take on a note of amusement.

‘You
are Cockney – you sound like
Eastenders
– BBC is always
favourite of my mother.’

DS
Leyton takes hold of the lapels of his jacket and, from a seated position, does
an amusing rendition of a Cockney walk.

‘Least
you can understand me, squire – can’t always say that for my colleagues.’

Skelgill
interjects.

‘Aye
– we do that on purpose, Leyton – when you’re talking tripe.’

For
the benefit of Shevchenko, DS Jones pours a little oil on these troubled
waters.

‘We
have our regional differences – just not quite on your scale.’

‘In
our regions they speak different languages – but answer to question is
no
– no idea.  Although I expect will be Polish, as we have discussed
previously.’

Skelgill
is nodding.

‘What
chance they suspect something?’

‘Then
they will not come – is no point risk to be identified – if they
come, you can believe they do not know.’

‘We
have CCTV at all of our railway stations – it’s common knowledge.’

‘But
meeting prove nothing – you are going to record conversation?’

Skelgill
hesitates.  He glances with concern at DS Jones – their discussions
to date have not found accord on the pros and cons of a wire.

‘We
might.’

Shevchenko
apparently blows out a lungful of smoke.  He sounds a little scathing.

‘If I
were meeting you – I would say, “Can I help?” – there is nothing
given away.’

Again
Skelgill looks anxiously at his female subordinate.

‘We
might recognise the person straight off – then the game’s up.’

‘But
if you do not?’

There
is a considerable pause before Skelgill replies.

‘Then
we take it to the next stage.’

There
is silence from the loudspeaker, but after a few moments Shevchenko’s voice
comes back on the line.

‘For
me – the deeper you go the better.’

Skelgill
is nodding grimly.

‘We’ll
do our best – thanks for your help so far.’

‘You’re
welcome – bud’ laska.’

He now
continues in Ukrainian – DS Jones appears to understand, though she seems
embarrassed, and her reply is somewhat blurted.

‘Spasybi,
Juri.’

Skelgill
glowers, but Shevchenko has a message for him.

‘Inspector
– Lieutenant Stransky send best regards – she say she sorry not to
join you in banya – but maybe next time?’

Skelgill
is temporarily tongue-tied, but in this small hiatus Shevchenko clears the
line.  He is left staring at a rather nonplussed DS Leyton.

‘Guv
– what’s a
banya
?’

As the
20:15
Pendolino
from London Euston slides like a great unblinking reptile
into Penrith North Lakes only a handful of citizens wait in the cool spring dusk. 
The Easter long-weekend is over, and few folk have cause to travel north from
here on a Tuesday evening.  It is that time of day when darkness has not
quite taken hold and yet artificial light does little to enhance
visibility.  A brace of feral pigeons strut anxiously about the feet of a bearded
and bush-hatted tramp who squats in the right angle of the Victorian stone
building and the Elizabethan concrete platform.  The birds dart to
retrieve bread flakes exploding from an untidily devoured burger, retreating from
each foray lest they become too tempting a target.  Fellow passengers have
spaced themselves judiciously away from this little pocket of activity; the
scene could be a long museum plaza decorated with statues, and the birds litter
caught by a wind devil – but now the slowing train draws the people like
iron filings to a passing magnet, as they spy attractive vacant double-seats that
might elude their possession.  There is a moment’s tension when the
carriages come to a halt but no doors open, until an electronic signal
disengages the locks.  An orderly and roughly equal exchange of travellers
then follows, although the rolling stock surely gains in testosterone.

Seen
through the furtive eyes of the tramp, perhaps with a view to potential
donations, disembarking are a local family – going by their accents
– whose primary-age twin boys wear identical
London Eye
baseball
caps and alternatively punch one another, a couple of dishevelled-looking
businessmen, an elderly lady and gent – from the First Class section
(rarely a good bet) – and, slowly approaching from one of the rear carriages,
pulling an airline trolley-bag whose rattling wheels create a discernable
Doppler effect, an attractive young woman who might be a foreign student (and
hence unlikely to be in a position to offer charity).

The
train pulls away and the new arrivals in their turn swing into the small sectioned-off
concourse; only the nearest of the boys seems to notice the tramp, and he gets
a whack in the ear for his trouble, the price of taking his eye off his opponent. 
“Pack ’eet, will thee!” emanates from the father, although with limited
impact.  The girl, meanwhile, seems less certain of her destination. 
She reaches the mahogany-and-glass partition and double doors and stops, and
then she gazes rather wistfully at the overhead departures board.  The
tramp is now preoccupied with a milkshake; he has the lid off and is
determinedly (and noisily) vacuuming up the last of the froth in the base of
the cup.

‘Do
you need some directions?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll
show you.’

*

‘Leyton
– what do you mean
they’re on the bus
?’

‘Apparently
they both got on the bus, Guv – Jones and the guy you saw.’

‘I didn’t
see him, Leyton – he was out of my line of sight – he opened the
station doors and spoke to her – he never came out on the platform.’

‘Why
did she go with him, Guv?’

‘I
guess she didn’t recognise him.’  Skelgill rubs his chin with one hand as
he talks into his mobile.  The removal of his false beard has left some
sticky substance behind.  ‘She must have felt safe enough to go outside.’

‘And
on the bus, Guv – it’s not like she’s getting into some stranger’s car
– apparently there’s a dozen or more people on board.’

‘So
where are Smart’s crew now?’

‘They’re
right behind it, Guv – I spoke to them under a minute ago – it’s
the Workington service, heading west on the A66.’

‘Where
are you?’

‘Just
coming off the M6, Guv – I’ll be two ticks.’

‘Make
it one, Leyton – I could have done with you here before she went.’

‘I
know, Guv – but that express gets a shift on – I’ve been busting a
gut and it still beat me – I didn’t like to leave her at Oxenholme
– I figured we needed to know she got on safely.’

Skelgill
is still rubbing furiously.

‘Aye.’ 
He cannot question his colleague’s concern.

‘How
will I recognise you, Guv?’

‘Very
funny, Leyton.’

Skelgill
is waiting outside the railway station.  He has an old sleeping bag draped
over one arm, and several bulging plastic carrier bags grasped by the fingers
of the same hand, albeit these contain lightweight items of outdoor clothing,
chosen for their bulk.  Directly in front there is a designated drop-off
and pick-up zone, about a dozen restricted-use car parking spaces and, just a
few yards further round as the traffic flows, a standing area reserved for
buses.  While DS Leyton was driving DS Jones to Kendal, to intercept and
board the train one stop south, Skelgill had shambled the half mile from the
local police station, having changed into his vagrant’s outfit (employing to
good effect, it must be said, clothes from his own wardrobe).  DI Smart’s
team – whose charity Skelgill has reluctantly decided to accept (though
he relayed this request through the Chief’s office, and not directly to Smart)
– a cocky DS and a loquacious DC who with their sharp suits and Mancunian
accents might have been cloned from their immediate boss, were not then in
place.  However their detail was, on arrival, to keep their heads down and
tail DS Jones if the need arose.

Through
narrowed eyes in the growing darkness Skelgill stares at the ruins of Penrith Castle,
illuminated little more than fifty yards away.  Built six hundred years
ago as a defence against raids by the Scots, its red sandstone matches that of
the station – and, given that at one time it fell into the ownership of
the Lancaster & Carlisle Railway Company, there is a temptation to
speculate whether its depleted condition owes something to the construction of
the railway offices.  However, it seems unlikely that any such conundrum
occupies Skelgill’s thoughts at present – perhaps only that it is a
castle, and a reminder of the temptation to draw a connection between the
events he is investigating and the vaguely comparable edifice at Blackbeck.

‘Need
a lift, squire?’

Skelgill
is disturbed from his reverie – DS Leyton has arrived, and calls out
across the interior of his car through the open passenger window. 
Skelgill dumps his gear in the back seat, and clambers into the front.

‘Where
are they now?’

‘Jones
is still on the bus.  The tail’s right behind.  They’re just passing north
of Keswick.  Starsky and Hutch are radioing every time there’s a stop
– there’s been two so far.’

Skelgill
permits himself a wry grin at his colleague’s description of DI Smart’s team.

‘Next
stop’ll be Cockermouth.’

‘Want
to catch ’em up, Guv?’

There
is an eager note in DS Leyton’s voice.  Skelgill is nodding rather absently,
and it is not entirely clear if this is in direct response to the question. 
DS Leyton, however, takes it as a
yes
and only the head restraint saves
his boss from whiplash.  Despite the jolt, Skelgill remains focused.

‘What
did they see?’

‘Male,
middle-aged, balding, stocky, about five-eight, smart-casual clothes –
they just walked over to the bus beside one another – he was talking, DS
Jones was nodding.’

‘The
Workington service is a shuttle – did he get off when it arrived?’

‘They didn’t
say, Guv.’

‘It connects
with the train – that’s why it didn’t hang about.’

DS
Leyton presses the tip of his tongue against his upper lip as he concentrates
on the curves of the traffic island that crosses above the motorway.  Once
he has beaten the last set of amber lights he relaxes and speaks again.

‘I’d
better radio in about the trace, Guv – make sure it’s still working
– it was fine while she was on the train.’

Skelgill
grimaces.  He had implored DS Jones to wear a substantial transmitter, but
time, technological resources and – it must be said – DS Jones
herself were ranged against him.  Her argument is that a gadget hidden in
a bag, or concealed in her clothing, could be both easy to discover and perhaps
difficult to keep on one’s person.  Moreover, he has been forced to concede
that someone of Anya Davydenko’s means would certainly not possess a trackable
smartphone – and that, while a basic pay-as-you-go handset would be more
realistic, to appear authentic it would present the problem of needing to be
programmed with her contacts from home – and thus they have decided it
would be simpler if she has no mobile at all.  And while they have not
anticipated “Anya’s” credentials to be seriously tested, DS Jones has insisted
that her disguise be convincing in every possible detail – thus she had
even purchased locally branded underwear and toiletries in Kiev, to cover the eventuality
that her belongings be covertly examined.

Of
course, their expectation – indeed Skelgill’s plan as agreed with the
Chief – was that DS Jones would simply draw out Yashin’s Cumbrian contact
by meeting him at the railway station.  At this juncture an arrest might well
ensue.  Failing that, and provided DS Jones feels in no danger, she will
go so far as to allow the person to sufficiently incriminate himself, provided
she remains in public view (or, at least, confident that her colleagues know
her whereabouts).  In consequence, they have settled upon a tiny in-ear
tracking device that emits a GPS location signal every two minutes.  This
technology is employed in the preservation of rare migratory birds that must run
the gauntlet of Mediterranean marksmen.  It can be turned off by the
wearer (though not the bird) should they feel there is a risk of
detection.  Indeed Skelgill has been quick to highlight this weakness
– that all a shooter need do is obtain a scanner and dinner is served! 
No doubt his acuity in this regard owes something to various clandestine
methods he employs to locate specimen fish.

By now
DS Leyton is making rapid progress westwards, and they are only a couple of
miles short of Keswick as he calls HQ.

‘It’s
in Keswick, Sarge – moving towards the town centre.’  The DC
responsible for monitoring the tracking device sounds a little apprehensive, as
though he has an inkling this is not the plan.

‘What?’

‘Are
you sure?’

Both
officers exclaim in quick succession.

‘That’s
what’s come up on the screen, sir – last signal about thirty seconds
ago.’

Skelgill
reaches across and places a palm on DS Leyton’s shoulder.

‘Do a
u-turn.’

‘But, Guv?’

‘Turn
the car round, Leyton!’

DS
Leyton’s hesitancy is understandable; the exit for Keswick lies just ahead of
them.

‘I
want my bike, Leyton – get a shift on – it’s two minutes from
here!’

By
bike
,
Skelgill means his Triumph motorcycle – this much will be apparent to DS
Leyton – and the sudden reality of being sprung into an emergency
situation might explain Skelgill’s thinking: on two wheels he will command the
road in a way that even DS Leyton’s driving cannot match.  And his tone is
uncompromising.  As DS Leyton slews the car around, Skelgill terminates
the radio connection with HQ and calls up DI Smart’s team in the tailing
car.  He is answered by a laconic, “Yup.”

‘Stop
the bus.’

‘What’s
that, pal?’

The
voice is that of the DS.

‘Stop
the bus, now!’

“Stop
the bus, now!”
is actually an abridged version of Skelgill’s bellowed instruction, and if
these events one day become the subject of a ‘real crime’ TV reconstruction, or
even – heaven forbid – a detective series, then this particular
scene shall be notable for its high percentage of bleeped-out adjectives and
nouns, with up to three bleeps in succession, such is Skelgill’s command of
Anglo-Saxon.  Notwithstanding, the choice of words has the desired effect,
for the next response comes somewhat meekly.

‘We’re
just doing it, sir.’

There
then follows a minute of radio silence, until the line crackles back into
life.  Now the unenviable job has evidently been delegated to the
DC.  His voice is trembling and breathless.

‘She’s
not on it, sir – nor the bloke she met.’

‘I
know that you idiot.’  (Again there will be considerable editing.) 
‘What did the driver say?’

‘I
can’t believe it, sir – we stopped close behind both times and watched
until the bus drove away – he said they got off at Threlkeld – and
he thought it was odd – they went and stood in the bus shelter – it
was only a yard from the door of the coach – that’s why we didn’t see
them.  Then a minute or so later we did notice a strange thing – it
was a black Porsche Cayenne that had been parked just after the stop – it
came steaming past us before we even got out of the village.’

‘Did
you get the number?’

‘Didn’t
think to at the time, sir – but there was damage to the nearside.’