Murder by Magic (18 page)

Skelgill
jerks his head in a gesture of accord, though he continues to gaze ahead, unblinking.

‘I
figured you’re a big girl.’

DS
Jones shrugs coyly.

‘Not
always, Guv.’

He
looks sharply at her; as though her tone bears a nuance he cannot read.  If
he is reviewing events post-midnight through the fractured kaleidoscope of his recall
– then perhaps the revelation that it was she who was responsible for
their homeward transition, albeit from frying pan to fire, casts a modicum of
clarity upon a confusing maelstrom of emotions.  Indeed, when he responds,
his concerns appear to have shifted from the immediate past to the near future.

‘Having
second thoughts?’

‘You
mean about...?’  But DS Jones has not made the same leap, and it takes a
moment for her to realise what he is talking about.  ‘Oh – look
– I know you – you guys – will be watching over me.’

Her frank
admission draws from Skelgill a paternal frown.

‘Beats
me how you think you’ll get past first base – what if the contact is
someone we’ve met already?  They’ll take one look at you and leg it.’

‘But
– whoever it is almost certainly Polish, Guv – in which case we surely
haven’t met him – plus he’ll be expecting a Ukrainian.’

Skelgill
clearly harbours doubts about the scheme – and perhaps new concerns
surface with each passing minute’s cogent analysis.

‘We’re
going to have to think this through, lass.’

DS
Jones nods obediently – but all of a sudden they are distracted, as jay
walking becomes a necessity.  They have reached the busy Naberezhne Highway
that borders the west bank of the Dneiper and Skelgill – in contrast to
his apprehension for her safety a moment ago – is striding out with scant
regard for the vehicles that flash past them.  In a series of jerky darts
they reach the sanctuary of the promenade, marked off from the hurtling traffic
by motorway-style
Armco
.  Skelgill makes directly for the waterside
balustrade, and gazes across the river.

He
appears mesmerised by the vast body of water; like a great lava flow from some
distant eruption it slides past, silent and ominous, solid and mercurial, with
the opacity of molten glass.  There is a conflict unfolding before them, a
battle of nature’s force and human industry, an inland port of girders and
pontoons, rusting wharves and cranes, stone breakwaters and steel buoys –
yet amidst these manmade obstructions graceful terns flit and twist and dive
for fry, and beyond, a third of a mile away, conscientious objectors basking in
the sun speckle yellow beaches backed by the thick green mangrove shrub of
Trukhaniv island.

‘Thinking
of Bassenthwaite Lake, Guv?’

Skelgill
yawns imperiously.

‘When
aren’t I?’

‘I’m
sorry, Miss – you can’t just turn up to see a senior officer –
Inspector Skelgill’s a very busy man.’

To say
that George, the desk sergeant at Penrith Police HQ, is a little hot under the
collar would perhaps be something of an understatement.  Monday morning generally
witnesses a gasket or two blown – when members of the public jostle to
demand the whereabouts of their carelessly lost pets or to brandish “outrageous”
parking fines (issued by an altogether different authority).  Today has
been no exception, compounded by an influx of Easter tourists asking for
sightseeing recommendations.  And now his thermostat is additionally challenged
by the undoubtedly alluring though insistent young foreigner of striking
appearance – spiked peroxide hair and heavy mascara, skin-tight white hipsters,
jaunty silver ankle boots, matching metallic-and-black leather jacket slung
casually over one bare shoulder, a figure-hugging vest-top in shocking pink
with a
Rolling Stones
motif – who taps slender pink talons casually
upon the counter.  Her look of insouciance seems to grow as his complexion
reddens and a film of perspiration forms a glossy sheen upon his bald crown.

Skelgill
might be a busy man – but at this moment he happens to be crossing the
foyer amidst a band of darkly muttering colleagues, having attended the Chief’s
Monday sermon – and the exasperated mention of his name has his antennae
twitching.  And others’.

‘You’ve
got a biker chick on your case, Skel – grease-up the old machine at the
weekend, eh?’

DI
Smart is quick to quip, the snide insinuation in his voice all too apparent
– but as Skelgill rounds upon him disparagingly he cannot fail to notice
his fellow inspector’s eyes are elsewhere engaged, and upon proverbial stalks.

‘I’ll
see to her – if you’re too busy with your sheep, Skel.’

‘No thanks.’

Skelgill,
his jaw set firm, pushes past DI Smart and steps swiftly towards the girl. 
But whatever baser instincts drive him – competition with DI Smart being
among them – his eagerness is suddenly dampened.  Rather ineptly, he
assumes a casual stance, and digs his hands into his trouser pockets, and makes
a face that suggests he has known (whatever it is) all along.

‘It’s
alright George, she’s got an appointment.’

He levels
a hostile stare at the loitering DI Smart.  After a moment’s standoff the
latter shrugs indifferently and backs off, employing a series of gunslinger
finger gestures, with a flourish blowing imaginary smoke from the
barrels.  It is not entirely apparent what this means, and all the time his
gaze is fixed on the girl, who watches him with bafflement.  He tips an
invisible hat, spins on his heel and disappears through the interconnecting
doors.

DS
Jones bursts into laughter.  For it is
she
– the mystery caller
– and Skelgill, if she deceived him with radically altered hair and
striking make-up, has perhaps recognised the ensemble.  This was purchased
for the purposes of authenticity – along with other such new and
second-hand personal possessions – while he kicked his heels outside various
Kiev emporia on Friday morning.  She turns back to the counter and raises her
palms in apology.

‘Sorry,
George – I couldn’t resist it.’  Her regular Cumbrian accent has
returned, with additional emphasis.

‘
Emma
– is that you lass?’

She beams
endearingly.

‘You’ve
been a big help – I figured who better to test my disguise on.’  She
shoots a tentative glance at Skelgill, who is now scrutinising her as if he
disapproves of most aspects of her appearance.  ‘I have to get the photo
done, Guv – so I thought I may as well try the whole look.’

Skelgill
nods grimly; he cannot really object to this logic.

‘Aye
– you’d better shoot downstairs and get it sent.’  Now he grins reluctantly. 
‘I’ll see you in my office – you can play the same trick on Leyton.’

‘I’ll
bring canteen teas, Guv.’

She nods
at George and glides from reception, her departure observed in thoughtful
silence by the two males.

‘You’ve
got your hands nicely full there, Skelly lad.’

*

‘Morning,
Emma.’

For
the second time in fifteen minutes DS Jones breaks out into laughter.  DS
Leyton has greeted her with his usual phlegmatic cheeriness.

‘You’re
supposed to ask who I am.’

He
taps the side of his nose with an index finger.

‘Shall
I tell you the giveaway, girl?’

She
nods, still smiling.

‘Four
mugs of tea, three people.  Only you would know that.’  (She holds
out the said offering.)  ‘Much obliged – plus I was in the car park
– listening to the end of the sports report – saw you hop out of
your motor.’

DS
Jones places the tray on Skelgill’s desk and slides it with his double ration
to within his reach (he makes a vague grunt of acknowledgement, though it is
clear his thoughts are still disturbed by her appearance) and then she takes
her regular seat at the window – albeit with more than usual care, for her
jeans are exceptionally snug.  DS Leyton raises his mug to Skelgill in a
celebratory gesture.

‘Brainwave,
Guv – this undercover job – stroke of genius how you’ve pulled that
off.’  He tries to drink but the liquid is too hot.  ‘And here’s me
thinking you’ve swanned off to the Ukraine ’cause you couldn’t think of
anything better.’

Skelgill’s
countenance presents conflicted emotions: a clear willingness to take the
credit for the idea (but a certain embarrassment under the amused gaze of DS
Jones) and yet consternation at DS Leyton’s revealing remark.  In the end
he settles for a scowl.

‘Ukraine.’

‘Come
again, Guv?’

‘It’s
just Ukraine – not
the
Ukraine.’  Skelgill glances at DS
Jones, who is still smirking.  ‘You don’t say
the
Poland, do you?’

DS
Leyton is momentarily flummoxed.

‘You
say
the
Lakes, Guv.’

With
this spanner thrown into the works Skelgill’s attention reverts by default to
DS Jones.  Over the weekend, of her own accord, she has undergone a
radical haircut and bleaching in the line of duty, and – while it must be
said – she carries well the provocative look, it is an uncompromising departure
from her usual serene appearance.  She detects his scrutiny, and begins to
shuffle her papers self-consciously.  Watching on, DS Leyton assumes
responsibility for rebooting the conversation.

‘So
– how did it go in Kiev, then, Guv?  From what I see on the news
it’s pretty hairy.’

‘What?’ 
Skelgill wrestles to free his thoughts.  ‘Uneventful, Leyton.  We met
Shevchenko and his sidekick – sorted out this plan – quick walk
round while Jones was buying her outfit – no sooner we were there than it
was time to fly home.  These trips are not all they’re bulled up to be.’

DS
Leyton nods, though he appears rather unconvinced by this explanation. 
However, he turns to DS Jones and waves a hand in reference to her get-up.

‘Well,
if this is how the girls look, Kiev must be one big disco.’

DS
Jones glances over at him.

‘I
think it’s fair to say they’re a little less conservative than us Brits.’

‘Well,
you hoodwinked DI Smart.’  DS Leyton turns back to Skelgill.  ‘He passed
here a minute before you came back, Guvnor – he was rabbiting away about some...
er –
young lady
you were making a fuss over in reception.’

Skelgill
glowers.  He knows “young lady” is unlikely to have been the phrase
employed by DI Smart.

‘Aye
– and she fooled George, as well.’

‘So we
should have no bother with Wolfstein, Guv.’

Skelgill
is startled by this suggestion.

‘Hold
your horses, Leyton – who said anything about Wolfstein?’

DS
Leyton is taken aback by his superior’s vehemence.

‘But,
Guv – I thought it was pretty obvious it must be him – that’s why
you’ve been sniffing around Blackbeck Castle – and getting me to research
into him – and Pavlenko had the name of Wolfstein’s gaff written on that
photograph.’

Skelgill
is again frowning.

‘That
might have said “black beck”, Leyton – but there was nothing about the
castle.’

DS
Leyton seems alarmed.

‘He’s
the only foreigner we’ve got in our sights, Guv.’

‘Aye
– but he’s not Polish, is he?’  Skelgill waves a dismissive hand. 
‘He might be eccentric but he’s hardly gangmaster material.’

Now DS
Leyton licks a finger and flicks through his notes.

‘Actually,
Guv – the boys have come up with a bit of biography on him.’  He folds
over a couple of pages.  ‘Far as we can gather – he comes from a
wealthy German family that lived in what was Czechoslovakia – he was sent
to school in England – but went back and studied at college in
Prague.  All the career references have him as an academic – but I
reckon there’s definitely something dodgy about him leaving his last job at the
university.’

‘How
come?’

‘If it
ain’t being lost in translation – they’re being cagey about what they’ll
tell us – claiming the parties are bound by a compromise agreement
– whatever that is when it’s at home.’

Automatically,
Skelgill and DS Leyton glance to their female colleague.  (She has done
all the courses –
and
paid attention.)  She looks startled,
as though they have caught her entertaining inappropriate thoughts that are
readable on her face – but then she demonstrates her mind has at worst
been multi-tasking.

‘I
think it’s to preserve confidentiality – when someone leaves a job and
they have information that might prejudice their former employer – especially
if they go to work for a competitor.’

Skelgill
ponders for a moment.

‘What
about vice versa?’

‘I
suppose it’s possible, Guv.  I guess there’d need to be something on both
sides to reach a compromise in the first place.’

Left
handed, Skelgill picks up his first mug of tea and swallows its remaining
contents.

‘Anyway,
Leyton – I can’t see Wolfstein turning up in person to meet Jones –
he’d send the kung fu twins.’

‘At
least we’d know straightaway, Guv.’  DS Jones gestures towards her boss’s
desktop telephone.  ‘Maybe Kiev will be able to tell us what to expect
– if Yashin has come up with the rendezvous.’

Skelgill
turns to DS Leyton.

‘What
time’s Shevchenko supposed to call?’

‘He
sent me an email at the crack of dawn, Guv – reckoned he’d phone about
ten-thirty.’  He checks his watch.  ‘Quarter of an hour – what
are they, two hours ahead?’

DS
Jones nods to confirm this fact.

DS Leyton
looks hopefully towards Skelgill.

‘Couple
of things I can fill you in with in the meantime, Guv?’

Over
the rim of his fresh mug, Skelgill nods his assent.

‘First
off – and this might be significant, Guv – Leonid Pavlenko’s
mobile.’

‘Have
we found it?’

DS Leyton
shakes his head with slow reluctance.

‘Nah,
Guv – but we got a trace – it was switched on for a couple of hours
near Coniston on the Thursday – eleven days ago.’

Skelgill
stares blankly at his subordinate.

‘Is
that it?’

‘That’s
it, Guv.’

‘Remind
me when he was reported missing?’

‘Not
till the Monday, Guv, this time last week.’

Skelgill
remains pensive.  DS Leyton continues.

‘He
was knocking around the Coniston area three days before he checked into the
B&B at Keswick.’

Skelgill
has his eyes screwed up; the action emphasizes the puffy bags beneath that indicate
a deficit of sleep.

‘A
phone signal doesn’t prove he was there, Leyton.’

DS
Leyton holds out a palm in appeal.

‘Surely,
though, Guv – add that to the necklace, what the old geezer had hold of
– plus “black beck” written on the photo – it’s some coincidence,
all together.’

However,
Skelgill’s doubts are now embellished with a series of deep furrows that line
his brow.

‘So
why didn’t he use the phone after Thursday?’

DS Leyton’s
expression becomes conspiratorial.

‘Maybe
he was mugged, Guv?’

‘What
– by a seventy-five-year-old tramp?’

‘He might
not have had a UK adaptor.’  This is DS Jones that chips in.  ‘The
phone could have run out of charge.’

Skelgill
looks questioningly at DS Leyton.

‘Right
enough – I don’t recall one being in his bag, Guv.’