Murder by Magic (22 page)

DS
Leyton glances up – but if he is surprised, or even shocked, then he does
not show it – and in any event, Skelgill’s response to an intractable
predicament is never easy to forecast; he has learned that there are times when
his boss is best left to his own devices.

‘Really,
Guv – what’s good about now?’

‘This
warm weather, Leyton – you know fish are cold blooded?’  (DS Leyton
nods eagerly; Skelgill regards his enthusiasm with a doubting frown.) 
‘The higher the water temperature, the more they eat.  Now they’ve
finished spawning, pike’ll even take a fly.’

Esox
lucius
, the
scientific name for the pike, is said to mean “pitiless water wolf” –
though Skelgill’s own pursuit of the creature’s etymology (relentless, much
like his pursuit of the creature itself) has revealed a more literal translation
that he prefers: “great fish of the light”.

As the
sun sets and the full moon rises to take its place in the pearly evening sky,
it is illumination that Skelgill seeks – and not his regular quarry, the spotted
wolf that lurks below.  He has paddled out, slipping across the silvery
meniscus that is the surface of Bassenthwaite Lake, his bow wave creasing the
perfect reflection of Skiddaw’s great pyramid, its upper slopes aglow beneath
the sun’s dying rays.  With no wind – no need for an anchor, and too
early in the season for there to be large squadrons of midges – he is
becalmed with his thoughts and the occasional plaintive birdcall.

Of
course, he has a line out.  To sit in the boat, empty handed, would not
only make him feel – and even
look
– naked, but also it
would deprive him of his powers.  Like a crossword solver without a pen, a
drummer without sticks, an artist without a brush, stripped of his fishing gear
his imagination is emasculated.  In common with the copper lightning
conductor on a church tower, through his rod – and the taut filament of
nylon that penetrates the skin of the great body of water – is his channel
of communion with nature’s latent forces.  Thus he pays lip service to
angling, and awaits inspiration to bite.

That
he can be here at all owes much to DS Leyton.  Skelgill’s intimation that he
might fish had been recognised as an act of bravado, a valiant effort to
demonstrate (perhaps to himself) that he had not lost his nerve, that he
believed the situation was under control; but it was a cry for help.  Consequently,
later in the day – the longest day, of blank news, of pacing, of coffee
by the gallon – his trusty lieutenant had rekindled the idea, pointing
out that, while there was little but to sit and wait for some form of contact
from DS Jones, surely it would benefit Skelgill to get a break?  In
response to this incontestable reasoning, Skelgill had insisted that DS Leyton,
too, must go home and attend to his family’s routine – a sure fire way of
taking one’s mind off the nagging worry that returns like a recalcitrant
toothache.  Curiously (it seemed to Skelgill, largely unfamiliar with such
bath-time bedlam) DS Leyton had eschewed this offer and proposed a small
venture of his own.

In the
absence of a tangible lead, it remains DS Leyton’s assertion that Little
Langdale is a hotspot of sorts as far as their investigation is concerned
– and he persists with this view despite Skelgill’s reluctance to draw
conclusions from the events they have recorded.  As he had reiterated to
his boss, there is no denying that William Thymer –
Ticker
–
had suspiciously drowned in the village tarn, with various signs of (as DS
Leyton put it) “hocus-pocus” about his camp, and in his possession a
distinctive charm that potentially linked him to the missing Leonid
Pavlenko.  Pavlenko, in turn, was almost certainly in the vicinity (at
nearby Coniston, at least), and had a note on the back of his girlfriend’s
photograph that made reference to “black beck”.  They have evidence from
Kiev that this female, Irina Yanukovych, came to Cumbria, and there are further
Eastern European connections in the area, including the Polish girl Eva who
abruptly departed from the local inn having apparently tried to contact the
police.

Thus
DS Leyton’s proposal had been to spend the evening quietly tucked away, incognito,
in a corner of the Langdale Arms.  As he pointed out, the landlord believes
he is a visitor on a walking holiday, lodging nearby, and expressly partial to
the establishment’s renowned pies. 

Skelgill
had been sceptical.  The idea that DS Leyton might hit upon some nugget of
information, strike a rich seam of evidence that would lead them to DS Jones’s
whereabouts, had seemed to him a most unlikely prospect.  But he could not
argue with his sergeant’s wish to do
something
.  Rather than
twiddle his thumbs (or dunk his kids) he could at least feel that he was making
a positive contribution to the case.  And with this sentiment, Skelgill
could concur.  He set aside his reservations and consented to the request
– and now, at just past eight-thirty p.m., he receives a text message to
confirm that his colleague is in situ.  DS Leyton also reports that the
pub is conveniently busy because there is an overflow of delegates from the
latest conference being held at Blackbeck Castle.

Skelgill
replaces his phone in one of the many pockets of his vest.  It has the
appearance of a field medic’s garment, adorned as it is with various items of angling
paraphernalia – disgorging forceps, line clippers, pliers and suchlike, spare
flies and weights and lures, and iridescent imitation minnows that bristle with
treble hooks.  To accidentally sit upon Skelgill’s carelessly discarded
waistcoat could be the precursor to a trip to the nearest A&E
department.  He retrieves the line that has gone slack out in the water
– a ledgering rig baited with a brandling – he is ostensibly fishing
for perch, a less troublesome catch – though at this time the fish are
not troubling the worm.  And ideas are not troubling his brain.

That
Skelgill is drawn to his stamping ground, however, suggests he has some
solution – it is just not yet available to his conscious mind.  The
facts and inferences he has gathered – many of which seem at best vaguely
connected – perhaps bear relationships that, once understood, will explain
one another, rather like individual jigsaw pieces that, triggered by a moment
of insight, suddenly begin to fall into place and reveal the bigger
picture.  To appreciate the true nature of a great wood, when all one sees
is trees, it is necessary to find that forest giant – not always so
obvious at its foot – that can be scaled to provide a revealing overview.

Conscious
analysis does not come easily to Skelgill, nor anyway does it offer the
processing power to deal with a multiplicity of variables.  Moreover,
though he would claim that the much-vaunted managerial skill of “T-CUP”
(thinking clearly under pressure) numbers among his abilities, right now he is
burdened by guilt over DS Jones’s disappearance, which interrupts his deliberations
at least every minute.  And yet he and DS Leyton, discussing this several
times over during the day, have concluded there was little more they could have
done.  DS Jones had to be given sufficient leeway to ‘play it by
ear’.  To penetrate the ring – to make a single arrest, even –
she had to obtain evidence of a sufficient quality to demonstrate there was a crime
afoot.  Being offered directions at a railway station by a helpful
stranger would receive short shrift from the Crown Prosecution Service, never
mind a jury.  Being accompanied to the correct bus, shown the right stop,
being offered a lift – none of these actions are against the law –
so it is easy to see why DS Jones played along (believing she was under the
watchful eye of her colleagues).  But, step by step, she had walked voluntarily
into what was effectively her own abduction.  Could they have foreseen
this?  Might they have anticipated a malfunction with the tracking
device?  On reflection, probably.  But time and, above all, resources
were limited.  And now – with DI Smart’s operation apparently
cracking off (the “Carlisle emergency”) – manpower is even more
stretched.  Indeed, the clandestine watch that was put on the premises of
Rick & Co – to track his movements should he leave – had to be
recalled when shifts changed over at six p.m. this evening.

One
thing Skelgill can be sure about, however, is that the person who met DS Jones
at Penrith railway station could not have suspected she was a police officer. 
As Captain Shevchenko had rightly asserted, they would simply not turn
up.  This knowledge also suggests that the use of first the bus and then
the car – left at an isolated and darkened village stop – is simply
a regular precaution to avoid being identified, and was not a conscious act to
lose a tail.  It does not, however, explain what occurred in Keswick, and
how they lost trace of her altogether.  And while Skelgill has been adamant
the police should not jeopardise DS Jones’s cover, he does not share DS
Leyton’s optimism that it will protect her indefinitely.  In the meantime
can he dare to believe that she is burrowing deeply enough to undermine the
foundations of whatever illegal edifice has been built on their patch? 
That she is waiting for the right moment to make her move and get back in touch? 
With a second night upon them, he needs it to be soon.

His
mobile rings.

Skelgill
tears at the
Velcro
of his gilet.  The number is unfamiliar, though
at a glance it seems to comprise mostly threes and sevens.

‘Skelgill.’

‘Ah,
Inspector – is it convenient?  This is Rhian Roberts.’

He
looks again briefly at the handset, a puzzled expression crossing his features.

‘It’s
fine – madam.’

‘I
received a message that you need my help.’

Again
Skelgill hesitates.

‘Who
from?’

The
woman responds with an amused chuckle.

‘Let’s
say it was an anonymous source.  And so we have been conducting some...
investigations
of our own.’

In the
background behind her Skelgill can hear the light chatter of voices and the odd
clink and clatter of what could be teacups and saucers.  He checks his
watch – it is now after nine – late perhaps for her to be
socialising.

‘I
see.’

He
obviously doesn’t, but she does not elaborate.

‘You
are outdoors?’

‘I’m
fishing – on Bass Lake.’

‘Then
you see the full moon?’

Skelgill
turns to the southeast.

‘Plain
as day.’

‘I
mentioned that there are four great
sabbats
– tomorrow is Beltane
– tonight is May Eve, Walpurgis Night.’

A look
of alarm is gradually taking of hold of Skelgill’s countenance.

‘Tonight?’

‘You
understand what I am saying?’

Once
more, he is slow to respond.

‘Aye
– I think I do.’

‘I am
preparing with my own coven at this moment – a full moon on such a night
is exceptionally propitious.’

‘Or
not.’  His voice is quiet, mechanical.

‘Quite
right, Inspector – there are those who would wish to subvert such incalculable
energy.’

He
stares unblinking across the pale surface of the lake.  A mist is
beginning to rise as the night air cools more quickly than the water.  From
a distant shore the ululating hoot of a tawny owl resonates with the insistent
pinking of blackbirds.  Skelgill is motionless; though upon close
inspection the hairs on his bare forearms bristle in unison.  His right
hand, holding the mobile phone, has drifted away from his ear.  Now the
witch’s disembodied voice seems to emanate from dusk’s sharp ether.

‘If
you need to act, you might have only a few hours to do so.  You know where
to go.  We shall be with you in spirit – I have placed your cause
high upon our agenda.  Now, she awaits.’

*

‘Come
on Merkel – pull your weight, man!’

Skelgill
is jolted from his trance.  He looks with some incredulity at his mobile
phone, gripped tightly in the hand that has fallen to rest upon his lap. 
The screen is blank – in sleep mode.  Then he swivels at the waist to
face the source of the intrusion: a coxless four is crossing his bows some
seventy-five yards off.  In the gathering darkness it is difficult to make
out much of the rowers – they do not appear to be wearing athletic kit
– though their voices carry as if they are almost beside him.  They
appear oblivious to Skelgill’s presence.  They are sculling hard, and
their occasional breathless conversation (in the most refined of accents) tells
its own story: they are sixth-formers from Oakthwaite School – they have
obviously sneaked out to the pubic bar at the coaching inn just beyond Peel
Wyke, and have cut fine their homeward return.

‘Quick
hands, chaps – old Ravelston-Dykes will have our guts for garters if
we’re not back for lights-out!’

‘Jenkins,
I told you we should have drawn the line at two sherries!’

‘That
was you to blame, Merkel – come on man,
pull
– you Jerries
are supposed to be team-players!’

At the
behest of ‘Jenkins’ they fall silent and set to their task – at least
they seem to know what they are doing, and swiftly they make progress towards
the wooded banks where the great institution lies concealed from everyday sight.

But
Skelgill has activated his phone.  His features are cast into strong
relief by its eerie blue glow.  There is something vulpine about the light
in his eyes, his teeth are bared and his breath comes quickly.  He locates
a number and brings the handset up to his ear.

‘George?’

‘Skelly?’

‘Aye
– thank God you’re on, marra – can you nip into my office and do me
a favour?’