Murder by Magic (20 page)

‘Sorry.’

‘
Sorry
,
sir?’

‘I’m
just getting you to practise for when I see you.’  Skelgill sounds rather
like a Dickensian judge handing down a death sentence.  ‘Now get off the
line and get back to Keswick as fast as your little Keystone Cops’ machine will
carry you – park up south of the junction on High Hill – stop that Porsche
if it comes your way – preferably by the pair of you lying in the road!’

Skelgill
has to brace against the dashboard as DS Leyton brings the car to a shuddering halt
before his house.  He bales out like a pilot abandoning a badly winged World
War I biplane, but then he swings around on the door and leans back inside.

‘Leyton
– you take the Borrowdale road – lie up facing south, just after
the mini-roundabout.  He might not suspect he’s being tailed – he could
just be covering his tracks.  Get back on to HQ to check the next signal
– but before you do, call Whitehaven.  Jones took that car’s number
last Wednesday – it’s got to be the same one – she was going to
forward it – if she did, find out who he is and where he might be heading.’

‘Righto,
Guv – what about you?’

‘I’ll
blast into the town centre.’

‘How
will I contact you, Guv?’

‘I’ll call
you in a few minutes – I can jam the phone into my helmet – not
very hi-tech but it does the job.’

*

‘Can
you hear me, Leyton?’

‘Just
about, Guv – it sounds like you’re in a hurricane.’

‘Aye,
well – I’m doing ninety-five.’

‘Cor
blimey – take it easy, squire.’

Skelgill
evidently ignores this advice and drops a couple of gears to roar past a truck
held up by a caravan.

‘What’s
the latest?’

‘There
was another signal just after I left your gaff – centre of Keswick
– possibly stationary – could be the traffic lights near the car
park.’

‘Where
are the Manc no-marks?’

‘They’re
in place, Guv – like you told ’em.’

‘Did
you get hold of Whitehaven?’

‘They’re
checking their emails now, Guv – this time of night there’s only one duty
officer in the admin section.’

‘Where
are you?’

‘Just
getting into position, Guv – nothing passed me on the way in – how
about you?’

‘I’m
about a minute behind – what about the transmitter?’

There
now comes a delay before DS Leyton responds – as if he is hoping
something will happen while he formulates a response.

‘I’m
waiting to hear, Guv – I’m keeping the radio channel clear – no
report for a few minutes.’

‘I
want to know about every single bleep, Leyton.’  Skelgill hisses the words
between gritted teeth.  ‘Call them up.’

He has
reached the eastern edge of Keswick, and is now obliged to decelerate – though
his manoeuvres remain unpopular with those motorists he both overtakes and
forces into evasive action.  Despite the reduced wind noise, he cannot
hear properly DS Leyton’s two-way radio conversation with police HQ, and has to
wait in frustration for his sergeant to return to the mobile phone line.

‘Come
on, Leyton.’

‘Nothing
for six minutes, Guv.’

Skelgill
does not reply.  The implications of this news must come as another strangling
wrench of the icy dread that has gripped his insides since things began to go awry
some fifteen minutes ago.  Has the device failed?  Has DS Jones
turned it off?  Has it been discovered and destroyed?

But
then – respite of a kind.

‘Leyton
– I see the Porsche.’

‘Jeez,
Guv – where?’

‘It’s
coming out of town – heading east on Penrith Road.’

‘He
must have turned round, Guv – I’m on my way.’

Again
Skelgill is silent.  Behind his visor his grey-green eyes stare icily. 
The car passes within touching distance of his right hand.

‘Stay put,
Leyton.’

‘Guv
– but – why?’

‘There’s
no passenger.’

 ‘What
if she’s in the back, Guv... or – ?’  In scrabbling for an
explanation DS Leyton arrives at a possibility he cannot contemplate.

‘Leyton
– head for the town centre – in case there’s another signal from there.’

DS
Leyton inhales to protest – he is torn between his instincts to join the
chase and his superior’s pragmatism.

‘Are
you following, Guv?’

‘I’m
just turning – I don’t want to make it obvious.’

‘Right,
Guv.  What about stopping it?’

There
is a delay before Skelgill replies.  He is concentrating on the Porsche,
which is several cars ahead, and hemmed in itself by a couple more
vehicles.  It would be easy at this point for Skelgill to pull alongside,
as a motorcyclist might slice through suburban traffic – but the car’s
windows are heavily tinted, and in the dark the reflection of streetlamps is
all he is likely to see.

‘Leyton
– he’s taking the Windermere road – I’ve not got enough battery to
give you a running commentary – hang up the call – I’ll phone you
as soon as it’s clear what his game is.’

‘But,
Guv –’

‘Leyton
– we haven’t got the resources to cover all the options – he can’t
lose me on these roads.’

‘Have
you got plenty of petrol, Guv?’

‘Hang
up, Leyton.’

DS
Leyton reluctantly does as he is bid and Skelgill’s phone, safely though
somewhat uncomfortably tucked into his helmet, lapses into resting mode. 
As the line of traffic that has turned south climbs out of Keswick and leaves
the last habitation behind, it becomes evident that the Porsche driver is not
going to settle for travelling in slow convoy.  At the first opportunity
he pulls out and overtakes the two cars ahead of him – notwithstanding
the approach of a sharp left-hand bend.  On this occasion the road remains
clear, though Skelgill watches with consternation; he might not mind if the
driver ploughs himself into another wall – but if DS Jones is with him...

And
now he faces an additional conundrum.  Keeping up with the car is not a
problem – with nine hundred CCs throbbing between his legs, Skelgill has
power to burn, and only on the motorway could the 4X4 outrun him.  But it
is more a matter of remaining inconspicuous.  Though he has the cover of
darkness, it is also his enemy, for a continuous single headlight in the
rear-view mirror is far more distinctive than a pair.

Skelgill’s
response to the dilemma is characteristically counter-intuitive.  Rather
than hang back at the furthest possible distance, trying his best not to draw
attention to himself, he does precisely the opposite.  He clears the
intervening traffic, switches on his full beam, and races up close behind his
quarry.  As Lakeland roads go the A591 from Keswick, at least as far as Grasmere,
is generally a fast one – it bisects the dale that holds Thirlmere
reservoir (an unnatural lake and Skelgill’s least favourite for angling),
sweeps beneath the screes of Helvellyn, and even boasts a section of dual
carriageway as it crosses the pass at Dunmail Raise, where a massive cairn of
mythical origins rises between the divided lanes.  But Skelgill has little
time for his surroundings, rich though they may be in interest.  Instead
he appears intent upon intimidating the Porsche driver, and persistently
tailgates him as they hurtle due south.

Skelgill’s
bravado elicits an intriguing though not entirely unpredictable response. 
His actions prove to be something of a red rag to the proverbial bull, who
– rather than give way and let his pursuer past – accelerates
violently at every opportunity and, where he must slow down, hogs the road such
that he blocks the overtake.  Skelgill plays along with this game of cat
and mouse.  He attempts passes and permits the car to thwart him, and
allows the driver to believe he has superior acceleration each time they reach
a short straight.  When the Porsche speeds through Grasmere and
subsequently Ambleside, ignoring the statutory limits, Skelgill drops off, as
though he draws the line at such flagrant law breaking.

Given
the Porsche driver’s reaction, it may be surmised that Skelgill’s tactic of
hiding in plain sight is working.  And surely any remaining flicker of
doubt must be extinguished when the truck-and-trailer of car and bike part
company at the junction marked Little Langdale.  Unsurprisingly there is
no indication from the Porsche as it slows to turn right – but Skelgill
seems to be anticipating the manoeuvre.  He undertakes the car, passing
its damaged front wing, and raises his right hand in the traditional English
archer’s two-fingered salute.  The driver blasts his horn – it would
seem in anger rather than in comradely recognition of a road race well run
– and the pair parts company.

For a
few moments, at least.

Skelgill
continues for just another hundred yards before he turns the Triumph around and
draws to a halt.  He kicks the gear up into neutral.  Bending forward
he tugs off his helmet and retrieves his mobile phone.  Quickly he summons
DS Leyton.

‘Guv.’ 
He sounds relieved, though somewhat wheezy.

‘Leyton
– he’s taken the turn for Little Langdale.’

‘We’ve
got an ID on the car, Guv – keeper by the name of Peter Henry Rick
– owns a building company – home address just outside of Gosforth,
near Seascale.’

‘What
about Jones – the trace?’

‘Nothing
since those two from Keswick, Guv.’  Now there is a discernable tremor in
the sergeant’s voice.

Skelgill
hisses, though he does not speak.

‘Want
me to send a team round to his house, Guv?  Won’t take them long from the
coast road.’

Skelgill
ponders for maybe five seconds.  Then his response is decisive.

‘Hold
off just now.  I need to go before I lose him.  I’ll call you back.’

Skelgill
waits neither for further questions, nor DS Leyton’s words of caution.  He
ends the call and slips the handset into a breast pocket of his weatherbeaten
Barbour
. 
He hooks his left forearm through the helmet, switches off the lights of his
bike, and shoots away, his hair streaming in the wind.  He knows well the
narrow lane that winds towards Little Langdale, and it is barely a minute
before he begins to glimpse ahead the impatient red flash of brake lights, as
the Porsche lumbers around one tight bend after another.  Following in the
darkness he will be virtually invisible to the driver – and for his part
he employs engine braking to further conceal his presence.  With his
helmet off he can hear the car, too – its discs emit a high-pitched
squeal each time they are rudely pressed into use.  He seems unperturbed
by the lack of illumination – the sky is cloudless and the waxing moon a
sliver shy of full; it casts a wan light across the rising fellsides.  And
as for oncoming traffic he is trusting to luck and judgement: that at this hour
there will be few if any travellers with cause to use such an obscure route.

After
some ten minutes the Porsche passes the gated track that leads up to Blackbeck
mines.  Skelgill seems to take this as his cue to close the gap.  Half
a minute more and there looms a shadowy recess in the wooded roadside.  It
is the mouth of Blackbeck Castle’s driveway.  The car’s brake lights
flicker and the vehicle slows – but then it slides past the opening and
swings round the next corner.  Skelgill, tense and hunched over his
handlebars, relaxes, stretching out his arms and flexing his stiffening back.

Thus
the Porsche and its grumbling shadow pass through the scattered hamlet of
Little Langdale.  There is an occasional light in a cottage window, and
half a dozen cars outside the pub – perhaps more than Skelgill might
expect for a quarter to ten on a Tuesday night – but on the road the only
sign of life is a dog fox that slinks towards the tarn, hurrying from
Skelgill’s unlit approach in search of moorhen chicks for supper.

Peter
Henry Rick – if it is
he
driving – shows no inclination to take
it easy.  Indeed, as the landscape opens out on the approach to Wrynose
Pass, and the absence of headlamps reveals a clear road ahead, he travels as
fast as the terrain allows, alternately accelerating and braking as successive
bends are negotiated.  Skelgill is now able to hang well back and, on the
sole occasion that a vehicle approaches from the west, he has ample warning to
pull into a passing place, dismount, and pretend he is attending to some call
of nature.

Skelgill
takes care in descending the sharp diving switchbacks of Hard Knott Pass
– a frost is not out of the question on such a night.  He skims past
the Roman fort, and as he spies the scattered lights of Eskdale he must call to
mind that it is just six days since he and DS Jones came this way, in high spirits
following their snack stop at Boot.  Now the circumstances could hardly be
more inauspicious.  He grimaces – though it might be the cold that
is taking its toll.  Riding is a chilling experience at the best of times;
the air temperature has fallen to low single figures and he is poorly kitted
out for the job.  But Gosforth lies just eight miles due west, so he has
at least broken the back of the ordeal.