Murder by Magic (21 page)

In
fact it is a good mile short of the village – although well beyond the
bend on which the Porsche formerly had its accident – that Peter Henry
Rick turns abruptly into a driveway.  Skelgill coasts to a halt behind the
boundary wall and kills his engine.  He drops his helmet upon the grass
verge and scrambles for a clear view.  The property is set back from the
lane by some fifty yards.  There is a large detached brick-built residence
of modern design and a series of outbuildings to one side and beyond, where a
floodlit compound holds stacks of construction materials and a yellow backhoe
loader of an American make.  The house itself is in darkness. 
Skelgill watches intently as the driver gets out and triggers with his movement
a security light; he ducks lower, raising a crooked forearm to shield his pale
brow from sight.

Instead
of entering the house, as might be expected, the man strides across the
crunching gravel of the drive and unlocks the door of the nearest
outbuilding.  There must be a staircase within, for a light now comes on
in a first floor window, and there is a glimpse of his head and shoulders as he
apparently takes some item from a shelf and sits down.  After about thirty
seconds more, the security light trips off.  Skelgill decides to
act.  He kneels beside his motorcycle and tugs free from beneath the seat
a tubular aluminium torch.

There
is lawn on either side of the driveway and he choses this for its forgiving
nature underfoot.  Commando fashion he runs along its margin until he
reaches the point where the gravel opens out into a turning area.  He has
noted that the car itself did not set off the spotlight, and now he crouches
and approaches gingerly, almost on all fours, keeping the vehicle directly
between himself and the wall-mounted light fitting.  Reaching his target,
slowly he rises.  Across the interior of the Porsche he can just discern
that the office light is still on – although that the driver apparently
did not lock the car suggests he might return at any moment.  Now Skelgill
raises his torch.  Cupping the lens with one hand, he angles the powerful
beam down through the smoked glass.

The
back seat and rear compartment are both empty.  Wherever DS Jones might
be, she did not leave Keswick in this car.

Retracing
his steps Skelgill returns to his bike.  Squatting behind the boundary
wall he takes out his mobile, only to silently curse his luck: on this occasion
there really is no signal.  Be careful of what you wish for.  He taps
out a text to DS Leyton nonetheless – perhaps hoping that the phone will
be smart enough to despatch the message at the faintest hint of one bar. 
Hooking an arm through his helmet, he kicks the bike off its stand and, bending
his back to the task, heaves its near quarter ton of metal onto the tarmac and
begins to push.  Only when he has rounded two bends, a good furlong from
the entrance to the driveway, and separated by a thick belt of trees, does he
relent and pause for breath.

Now he
may depart without revealing his presence.  He depresses the electric
starter, but though the engine turns over a dozen times it does not fire. 
His eyes narrow.  He throws a leg across the seat and sits astride the
machine, flicking up the stand with his left heel.  He adjusts the choke
and squeezes the clutch and tries again.  The battery is strong yet there
is no ignition.  He reaches down on his left side to turn the petrol tap
to reserve – only to sit up with a look of consternation: in his haste to
leave home he failed to notice that the switch was
already
set to
reserve.  He is out of fuel.

He kicks
down the stand and dismounts, then he checks his mobile again – but still
there is no signal.  He wipes both hands hard across his face – it
is a gesture of frustration, though he smears the perspiration that is a
product of his efforts.  He folds his arms and stares with a grimace at
the bright moon.  There is a service station just north of Gosforth on the
main A595 coast road – maybe three miles from his present position
– but at this time of night in such a rural district it is likely to be closed. 
His eyes begin to dart aimlessly about the heavens, drawn to those familiar constellations
not outshone by the moon.  But then a light of another kind offers a
glimmer of hope.  Slowly moving towards him, perhaps half a mile away, a
single headlamp is winding down the lane.

Skelgill
reaches for his torch.  Such is the biker’s code that no knight of the
road could ever pass another in distress – it is an unwritten duty to
help a fellow enthusiast.  Here is a chance of the couple of pints of fuel
that will get him to the nearest garage (he even carries a coiled length of
syphon tubing for such purpose, and has obliged others on occasion).  He
steps into the road with his torch at his side, and prepares to flag down the
approaching rider.

But
when the dazzling light rounds the final bend and forces him to raise a shading
hand in a salute, his shoulders sag.  It is not a motorbike, but a Morris
Minor shooting-brake, a timbered pre-63 registration with a split windshield
and only one functioning headlamp, on main beam, at that.  The car draws
to a halt and its engine stalls.  For some obscure reason, the wipers
graunch back and forth across the dry screen.  Skelgill has retreated to
the verge, on the driver’s side of the narrow lane.

‘This
is as far as it goes.’

‘I beg
your pardon, madam?’

That
Skelgill uses the term
madam
reflects the fact that an elderly woman
addresses him.  She is wearing a dark headscarf from which spills a mass
of unruly grey curls.  She has a fawn mackintosh buttoned up around her
throat.  She squints at him from behind thick-lensed horn-rimmed
spectacles, through a gap of a couple of inches between the glass and the top
of the doorframe.  Her accent is pukka RP.

‘The
window – it doesn’t wind down any further – nor up, come to that
– hasn’t for the best part of thirty years – heater doesn’t work
either – and there’s only a pouffe for the passenger seat – so
don’t expect any home comforts.’

Skelgill
is nonplussed.  He gestures rather pathetically across to his motorcycle.

‘I’ve
run out of fuel.’

The
woman glares at him furiously.

‘Well
– what are you waiting for?  Hop in, man – I keep a spare can
for my
Kawasaki
– you may have that – though you shall have
to walk back – I can’t possibly drive – I’ve had four double
whiskies.’

‘It’s
like she vanished into thin air, Guv.’

Skelgill
is bent over his desk; his hangs wrung together, his funereal countenance is a mask
of concern.  It is now eight a.m. on Wednesday morning and there has been
no sighting of DS Jones since she disembarked from the bus bound for Workington
almost twelve hours ago.  Skelgill has slept fitfully in his office, every
so often waking and pacing to the control room where her tracking device is
being monitored; but the last signal sounded in the centre of Keswick just
before nine p.m.

He did
not return to headquarters until almost two a.m.  Having secured the
precious gallon of petrol offered by the eccentric gentlewoman –
establishing in the process that she does indeed own a
Kawasaki
(and
that
four
whiskies was probably a conservative estimate on her part) –
there was still much to do.  He had trudged back to his bike, and
subsequently returned the empty jerry can, and then he had driven the much
quicker coastal route, filling up his tank at an all-night garage on the
outskirts of Whitehaven.  He had not revealed to the woman that he is a
detective.  Although it seems unlikely she would spread any such hot
gossip – she had been entirely uninquiring of his presence in the
vicinity – he does not want to take the chance of Peter Henry Rick
hearing talk of a police officer stranded in the lane outside his
property.  With a similar aim in mind, and a restored mobile signal, he
had called DS Leyton.  As he had anticipated, his sergeant was champing at
the bit to search the premises of Rick & Co – and thus he cautioned
him against any such precipitous action.

Some
time after midnight he had parked up in the deserted public lot in the centre
of Keswick.  With pubs and restaurants long closed and locals back to work
after the Bank Holiday there was an unearthly sense of desolation.  It was
not only DS Jones that was gone – but it seemed
everyone
had
gone.  Skelgill might have believed he was walking in a dream, sole
survivor in a scene from a horror movie just before the first zombie lurches
into view.  Despite the stark emptiness he had kept a low profile, sticking
to the shadows and slipping through cobbled ginnels as he crisscrossed the old
town.  Quite what clue he was hoping to discover, perhaps even he did not
know, but he had searched around, looking in shop doorways and windows, and in
loading bays and gated yards.  He had checked communal entrances to flats
and the front gardens of nearby houses.  He had shone his torch into
almost every car and van he passed, and it was a wonder some householder,
heading late to bed and drawing their curtains, had not spotted his suspicious
behaviour and reported him as a sneak thief on the prowl.  He had
inspected the row of B&Bs where – in a fashion – these events
had their origin just over a week earlier.  He had stared pensively at the
end property,
Grisedale Vista
, from where Leonid Pavlenko (erroneously
called “Mr Leonard”) was reported missing.  All of the guesthouses were in
darkness, but he could make out from street level that there was another of Mrs
Robinson’s notices in the front window.  He scaled the steps to discover
it stated, “Closed until Whitsun” – perhaps Easter had been a financial
success (or maybe too much of a trial).  He had paused to reinstate a
gnome that was lying face down in a pool of water; it turned out to be the one
with the fishing rod.

‘We
don’t even know she got into that car, Leyton.  She was last seen by the
bus driver – standing in the shelter.’

‘But
the transmitter, Guv –
that
went to Keswick.’

‘Aye,
the transmitter.’

DS
Leyton’s tiredness has translated into dark bags beneath his eyes.  His
heavy jowls seem more pronounced than usual, their contours raised by a day’s
unshaven growth.  He watches his boss with a pained expression: one that
tells he worries not only for DS Jones, but also that he shares Skelgill’s
agony.  Skelgill has literally limped back into his office following a
review with the Chief.  She did of course show understanding (compassion
would be too much to hope for), but in such circumstances there is no need to
point an accusing finger – no matter that it was DI Smart’s team that
allowed DS Jones to disappear from under their noses – it is plain where
the responsibility lies, and Skelgill is not shirking it.  (DI Smart, on
the other hand, is attending an unspecified “emergency” in Carlisle, along with
others who can be spared.)  However, the decision has been taken to restrict
on a need-to-know basis news of DS Jones’s predicament.  The rationale for
this is that a limited undercover operation was officially sanctioned, and DS
Jones equipped accordingly – and in the absence of any definitive
information concerning her whereabouts, or that her safety is threatened, there
is a strategy, albeit tenuous, that says she will be best served if her
superiors can hold their nerve.  Skelgill has been given twenty-four hours
before the lid must be lifted and all hell breaks loose.

‘I
can’t see beyond pulling this Rick geezer in, Guv – I mean, what else can
we do?’

Skelgill
responds with a look of exasperation – though it is not aimed at his
colleague, but the circumstances.  He shakes his head and exhales deeply.

‘Leyton
– I know where you’re coming from – but we’ve got nothing on him
– not a shred of evidence.’

‘But
the car was at the bus stop, Guv – then he drove to Keswick.’

‘Leyton
– Smart’s pair of goons can’t even be certain that Rick is the guy she
left the station with.’

‘But
if we pull him, Guv – we can find out what he was up to.’

‘If we
pull him, Leyton – and he
is
involved – the cat’s out of the
bag.’

DS Leyton
furrows his brow.

‘What
are you saying, Guv – that we’re stuck in a
Catch 22
?’

‘Let’s
just assume Jones is fine – that she reckons everything’s going to plan
– she thinks the transmitter’s working and that we know where she is.’ 
Skelgill slaps his palms down upon the desk.  ‘If we jump in with our size
twelves – blow her cover – alert them that they’ve been infiltrated
– what are they going to do?’

‘Well,
Guv...’

‘If
we’ve stumbled on a people-trafficking operation – or worse – are
they going to present themselves to George at the front desk and say it’s a
fair cop?’

Closing
his eyes, DS Leyton scratches his head vigorously, as though he is trying to
dislodge a particularly tenacious thought that might be useful at this moment.

‘Guv
– we don’t have to reveal we’re looking for DS Jones – we could say
it’s Anya Davydenko that we’re trying to find.’

‘That’s
as likely to have the same result, Leyton – they’re going to ask
themselves how come we fastened onto them so quickly.’  Skelgill’s
features are grim.  ‘Then they might start asking
her
.’

A look
of trepidation slowly takes hold of DS Leyton’s countenance.

‘It
don’t bear thinking about, Guv.’

‘So
don’t think about it.’

With
this retort Skelgill snaps unfairly at his sergeant – but the pressure is
telling.  DS Leyton, however, takes it on the chin.

‘This
Rick geezer, Guv – I get your drift – about how we can’t be certain
– but why else would he take that route – when he could have got
home via Whitehaven in half the time?’

Skelgill
nods.  The inference is that the longer cross-country journey would minimise
the chances of being spotted by a police patrol or inadvertently caught on
camera.  And there is also the possibility that another purpose lay behind
Peter Henry Rick’s choice – one that he abandoned for some reason. 
But such speculation does not take them any closer to identifying DS Jones’s
whereabouts.  Skelgill grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes. 
Then he reaches for his cup – he is drinking black coffee from the
machine this morning – but it is empty and he crushes and tosses it away
in frustration.

‘I’ll
fetch us some more in a mo, Guv.’

DS
Leyton swallows the last of his own drink and rises and digs into his pocket
for change; he is keeping pace with Skelgill, though he must be running short
of suitable cash.  Skelgill, however, does not offer to pay; his eyes are
fixed on the bare desk before him.  DS Leyton makes as if to leave the
room, but then he hesitates, and raises a finger, as though a penny has
dropped.  He turns back to face Skelgill; now there is a note of
enthusiasm in his voice.

‘That’s
it, Guv – she is safe isn’t she?  So long as they think she’s Anya
Davydenko.’

Skelgill
looks up; he glares through narrowed eyes.

‘How
do you work that out?’

DS
Leyton seems taken aback by his superior’s hostility; after all, this is the
strategy he has borne from his meeting with the Chief.  He takes half a
pace back and holds out his palms in a gesture of appeal.

‘They’ve
gone to all this trouble to get her, Guv – she’s the precious commodity
– why would they want her to come to any harm?’

Skelgill
continues to stare – but there is a wild look in his eyes – as if he
is shocked that his sergeant is dangerously missing the point.  It must be
ten seconds before he fashions a reply.

‘She’s
taken it too far.’

In his
voice there is a strangled note that rings somewhere on the scale between frustration
and despair.  DS Leyton requires a moment to process the meaning of this
statement.

‘But
she’s a smart cookie, Guv – a whole lot smarter than me, that’s for sure
– she must have been confident in what she was doing – deciding to
go along with it – she knew the tail were behind her, if she needed them
to wade in.’

‘Aye
– and she’s smart enough to know you don’t go solo.’

Now it
is DS Leyton’s turn to harbour conflicting emotions.  For Skelgill to make
this assertion – he the undisputed champion, the number one exponent in
the art of maverick detective work (only a tiny fraction of which is known to
his superiors, and not a great deal more to his subordinates) – is a
severe case of pots, kettles and the colour of soot.  But his loyal
sergeant – long suffering in turning a blind eye to his boss’s unconventional
tactics – is not going to take Skelgill to task, probably never, and
certainly not at such a juncture.  Instead, he punches a fist into the
opposing palm.

‘Think
she’s in Keswick, Guv?’

It
takes Skelgill a moment to disembark from the train of thought that was rushing
him to an unwelcome destination.  But eventually he swivels in his chair
and gestures to one of the maps on the wall behind.

‘If
that transmitter was deliberately switched off, how far could you get from the town
centre in one minute fifty-nine seconds?’

DS
Leyton looks baffled.  But Skelgill waits patiently for his answer.

‘In a
car, Guv – up to a mile, if you got a clear run of the lights and
traffic.’

Skelgill
is nodding.

‘That’s
anywhere in Keswick, then.’  Scowling, he spins back around.  ‘Not to
mention that you could just keep on driving.’

DS
Leyton pulls the coins from his pocket and weighs them reflectively in the palm
of his hand.

‘If it
were switched off, Guv – surely it’s most likely that DS Jones did
it.’  Skelgill does not respond.  But DS Leyton seems empowered to
make a further suggestion.  ‘I was thinking, Guv – say it was
interfering with a car radio – you know – like a mobile phone each
time it talks to a mast – giving itself away.’

Skelgill
stares – rather vacantly, it must be said, despite this being an idea of
some merit.

‘So
why hasn’t she turned it back on?’

DS
Leyton looks a tad crestfallen.  He shrugs and tugs alternately at the
shoulders of his jacket.

‘Maybe
there’s a problem with the device – like you said, what if she thinks
it’s working?’

Skelgill
enters a few more moments’ brooding silence.

‘I
hope she does.’

He
says this with considerable emotion.  It might seem a paradoxical
statement – but DS Leyton appears to comprehend the point: provided DS
Jones believes in a guardian angel, she will find the strength to see out her mission.

‘Damn
technology, eh Guv?’

DS
Leyton slips out.  It seems he wishes to give his superior a moment alone,
and it is several minutes before he returns with their drinks, plus bars of
chocolate.

‘Cheers.’

‘You’re
welcome, Guv.’  DS Leyton deftly slits the packaging of his snack with a
thumbnail.  ‘Not often I get one of these to myself – the kids are
like gannets.’

Skelgill
raises an eyebrow.

‘Gannets
only eat fish, Leyton.’

‘Not
London gannets, Guv – they’ll eat anything – they’re allnivorous.’

Now
Skelgill can’t resist a wry smile.  He realises his sergeant is doing his
best to sustain their morale, when really this ought to be his remit.

‘I was
thinking of going fishing later.’