Murder by Magic (4 page)

‘My
own dog is best of pals with one of these, sir.’

The
man regards the animal with a detached stare.

‘They
make good friends – and bad enemies.’

‘That
might be why our chaps use them, sir.’

The
man nods, though his expression remains inscrutable.

‘I am
about to walk around the perimeter – it is a route I take some days
– precisely five kilometres.  If I see anything I shall contact you.’

Skelgill
nods.  There is little they can do to detain him – even should they
have more questions.  His responses have been perfectly adequate, if
economical.

‘I
didn’t catch your name, sir?’

The
man has already begun to move off.  He hesitates, and then turns back to
face the two officers.  He contrives a perfunctory smile.

‘It is
Wolfstein – Doctor.’

*

‘I was
surprised you didn’t ask him about the girl, Guv.’

Skelgill
holds up his pint against the light of the pub window.

‘Aye
– I didn’t feel inclined for some reason.’  He takes a sup of the golden
ale.  ‘He was as tight-lipped as the gamekeeper.’

DS
Jones swirls the cubes of ice and sliver of lemon around her glass of mineral
water.

‘It
seemed a bit of a coincidence that he was just coming out as we arrived.’

Skelgill
nods over the rim of his glass.

‘Certainly
saved us a trip inside.’

‘That
guy Tarr could have tipped him off that we were on our way, Guv.’

Now
Skelgill shrugs.

‘We
shouldn’t make too much of a conspiracy out of this – it’s only because
we’re quiet at the moment that we’ve followed it up this far.’

‘Is
there something wrong, sir?’

Skelgill
and DS Jones turn simultaneously towards the bar.  The landlord, a portly
chap in his mid forties, has raised the serving hatch and is lumbering across
the stone-flagged floor of the old inn.

‘I’m
sorry?’

‘I
noticed you were checking the beer, sir – I wondered if it were
cloudy?  Would you prefer something else – the guest IPA’s pulling
well?  I’m afraid Eva the new barmaid hasn’t quite got the hang of the
cask ales yet.’

Skelgill
looks wide-eyed – that the landlord has been so attentive.  He takes
another swig and holds up the now half-empty glass.

‘The
only thing wrong with this is that I can probably only have two pints.’

The
landlord glances at DS Jones’s water.

‘You
seem to have a driver, sir?’

Skelgill
grins.

‘Unfortunately
Sergeant Jones here will be taking me back to my car later.’

Skelgill
flashes his ID in a non-threatening sort of way.

‘Ooh.’ 
The landlord holds up his hands in apology.  ‘To what do we owe the
honour?’

Skelgill
shakes his head.

‘Just
thirsty after a bit of a hike, sir – although you may be able to help
us.’

The
man rather awkwardly straddles the stool at the head of their table.

‘I’d
be pleased to make your acquaintance, er – Inspector.  I’m new
around here myself – as you can probably guess from my accent.’

Skelgill
nods.  The
Langdale Arms
is a favourite watering hole, though
occasional given its distance from his regular North Lakes stamping
ground.  It is one he patronises more often on foot than by road. 
However, since his last visit the previous autumn, the long-standing elderly
local couple who ran the place appear to have moved on, and the tenancy to have
been taken up by the self-confessed ‘offcomer’ – who sounds like he hails
from the Black Country, pronouncing you as
yow
and your as
yower
. 
Skelgill indicates to DS Jones that she should go ahead and show him the
photographs.

‘We
believe this man has gone missing – he could have been in the vicinity
within the last twenty-four hours.’

The
landlord leans over, breathing wheezily as he examines the picture.  DS
Jones slides the photograph of the girl beside it.

‘He
may have some connection to this girl.’

Now
the man glances from one to the other.  Then he shakes his head and puffs
out his cheeks.

‘We
were dead quiet last night – closed early – what with it being a
Sunday and the holidays coming late this year – and today we’ve just had
three or four elderly couples in for lunch.’

DS
Jones nods.

‘Were
you here in the bar the whole time?’

The
man seems a little worried by this question, as if he is unwilling to admit
that he abandoned his post at any point.

‘Well
– I’ve got Eva, you see?’

‘Perhaps
we could ask her, sir?’

Rather
reluctantly he rises and pads across to the bar.  The young barmaid appears
to be humouring an overweight duo of middle-aged commercial travellers who are perched
on stools at the counter; they give the impression of settling in to make a
night of it.  She is about to pull them fresh pints, but the landlord moves
in to take over, and mutters a few words of instruction.  She looks anxiously
in the direction of Skelgill and DS Jones, before rather self-consciously parading
around the bar and across to their table.

‘Have
a seat, miss.’

The
girl does as DS Jones bids.  She is tall and slim, perhaps five feet ten,
with short dark hair and blue eyes – attractive despite a nose that some
would cruelly call
beaky
.  She appears braless in a low-cut vest
top, and wears faded hipster jeans and ankle boots with cut-away toes.  She
could still be late teenage, and the low stool only serves to emphasise her
height, as she contrives to fold her gangly limbs into a comfortable position.

‘It’s
just a quick word – we were wondering if you have noticed either of these
two people come into the pub – within the last day or so?’

The
girl’s eyes flick from one photograph to the other, though they seem to pay
more attention to the blonde female.  However, it only takes her a couple
of seconds to respond.

‘I
have not seen them.’

Skelgill
leans forward with an arm on the table.

‘How
long have you been here, Eva?’

‘I come
in March.’

Although
she has spoken little, it is evident from her accent that she is Eastern
European.

‘Where
are you from?’

‘Lublin.’

Skelgill
frowns in an endearing manner.  The girl elaborates.

‘It is
city in Poland.’

‘You’re
a long way from home.’

‘It is
very poor region.’

Skelgill
nods.  He sighs and casts around the place – it is a quaint enough
old hostelry – but the isolated mountain hamlet of Little Langdale is a
far cry even from the bright lights of Penrith, let alone some distant Slavic
metropolis.

‘How’s
it going?’

‘Is
okay.’

‘Can’t
be much social life?’

‘I
like outdoors – is different from my city.’

Skelgill
nods.

‘Well
– if you happen to see either of these people – in here or out
– your boss will know how to contact us – Penrith CID.’

The
girl inhales as though she is about to speak – then she glances over to
the bar and notices that the landlord is watching her – instead she holds
in the breath for a moment.  She lowers her eyes and folds her long
slender hands upon her lap.

‘Is
all?’

Skelgill
stares at her for a moment.  Then he too exhales and reclines against his
spindle-back chair.

‘Aye,
that’s all.  Apart from what time do you start serving food?’

The
girl begins to rise from the stool.

‘Chef
arrive at seven.’

Skelgill
checks his wristwatch.  The time is five-thirty.  Beyond the window
the light has subtly deepened, the sun has dropped behind the fells, creating a
premature sense of evening in the Langdales.  He nods.

‘Thanks
– but we’ll love you and leave you.’

As the
girl returns to her station Skelgill rises and wanders across to a noticeboard fixed
on the wall to the right of the bar.  Its main feature is an out-of-date
promotional poster from one of the beer companies, offering a free inflatable leprechaun’s
hat with four pints of their gassy stout.  Skelgill scowls disapprovingly
and mutters, “Handy to be sick into,” and then realises he has said this out
loud and winces in the direction of DS Jones.  She chuckles and joins him
in perusing the various postcards, faded photographs and local newspaper
clippings – many of which date back to the time of the previous tenants. 
Skelgill points out a blurred image of an elderly bearded tramp, beneath the
headline,
“Ticker Thymer Clocks Up 25 Years In The Woods.”

‘What
is it, Guv?’

‘I’ve
heard of this guy, “Ticker” – supposedly lives up in Blackbeck Wood
– never come across him, though.’

DS
Jones is reading the article.

‘It
says it’s a mystery how he feeds himself – all he would tell this
journalist is that “Mother Nature is bountiful” – but it’s rumoured that
some of the older locals conceal tins in regular hiding places and he exchanges
them for prophesies written on charms carved from oak.  And he does
character readings and predictions at local fairs and shepherds’ meets.’

Skelgill
gives an ironic laugh.

‘I
must find out where and ask him when England are going to win the World Cup
again.’

DS
Jones raises her eyebrows, acknowledging the improbability.

‘It’s
hard to envisage, though, Guv – how anyone could survive like that.’

Skelgill
shrugs.

‘If
he’s got folk helping him – plus think of all the food that’s dumped in
bins in laybys and picnic spots, most of the year round – and he could
probably scavenge round the back of the shops and restaurants in Coniston.’

‘Imagine
being ill, Guv – getting the flu and being stuck on your own in a camp in
the woods in winter.’

‘If he
keeps to himself he probably avoids most bugs – there was a famous hermit
lived over in Dodd Wood above Bass Lake – this is going back to the
eighteen hundreds – they say he subsisted on tea and sugar and never got
sick – aside from a liking for the local ale.’  Skelgill shrugs and
turns to move away.  ‘I can see the appeal of the simple life.’

DS
Jones grins knowingly and follows her superior.  She checks the time on
her mobile.  They have already overrun their official shift, but one of
the perils of working with Skelgill is that he operates to his own timetable
– or, rather, to no particular timetable at all, and will continue apparently
‘on duty’ without reference to formal hours, and equally undertake what are
apparently ‘off duty’ activities (including fell walking and fishing) during
his shifts, if challenged claiming ‘thinking time’.  Now, with the clock
approaching six p.m. and a good hour’s drive to Penrith ahead, there is no
guarantee he will not be distracted by some whim – perhaps to seek out
the local ‘Prophet of the Woods’.  As they pass the bar and make for the
timbered door, the landlord breaks off from the hushed conversation he is
having with the suited sales reps; he raises a hand of farewell.

‘Thanks
for
yower
custom.’

The
two men facing the bar turn disinterested stares upon the departing couple
– although perhaps slightly less so in the case of DS Jones. 
Skelgill glowers in return as he passes, and nods to the landlord.  The
girl, Eva, has already moved out to collect their empty glasses, and casts a
rather forlorn glance at their backs as they leave.  By the time she
returns to the sink behind the counter, the landlord has the pub’s telephone
handset to his ear, and seems to be awaiting a response.

‘By
all accounts, Guv, the border between the Ukraine and Poland leaks like a sieve
– Customs reckon ten billion contraband cigarettes get smuggled through
every year.  A quarter of a million Ukrainians work in Poland in low-wage
jobs the Poles have left behind.  Immigration quoted me an annual figure
of twelve million border crossings.  Once you’re in Poland you’re in the Schengen
Area.’

Skelgill
is shaking his head.

‘Leyton,
you’ll be on
Mastermind
at this rate.’

DS
Leyton grins and taps his notepad with his knuckles.

‘I’d
never remember all this, Guv – blimey, I struggle with my own date of
birth.’

A mug
of tea sits on the desk and Skelgill tastes it.  He has allowed it to get
cold.  He swallows the lot in one gulp and pulls a face of disgust.

‘We’re
not in Schengen.’

‘I
know, Guv – but say you’ve got a couple of Polish pals living in
Britain.  They drive over to Poland for a few days – then only one
of them returns – you come in place of the other geezer, using his
passport.’

Skelgill
nods.

‘I imagine
there’s plenty just take their chance in the boot of a car.’

‘That
as well, Guv.’

‘So
what about Pavlenko?’

DS
Leyton shakes his head.

‘No
record of him entering Britain – or leaving the Ukraine.  The border
authorities in Kiev are investigating – but our boys are saying don’t
hold your breath.’  He puts down his pad and folds his arms.  ‘On the
plus side, they’ve confirmed it’s a genuine passport, and it hasn’t been
reported stolen – so it’s a fair bet that it’s him as came to Keswick and
not some lookalike.’

Skelgill
shrugs indifferently – he appears to need no convincing on this
particular point.

‘We need
a mobile number or a bank account – something we can trace.’

‘I’ve
asked for all the usual details, Guv.’  DS Leyton looks a bit ruffled. 
‘Want me to organise some door-to-door inquiries in Keswick – shops and
cafés and other guest houses?’

Now
Skelgill rather rounds on his subordinate.

‘Leyton,
he’s not even officially missing – technically he’s the one who’s committed
an offence – doing a runner from his B&B without paying.  The Chief
will start breathing fire if I ask for extra manpower to catch a petty crook.  So
unless you’re volunteering for some door-knocking –’

DS
Leyton shrugs stoically.  His suggestion is a speculative retort to his
superior’s unreasonable expectation in the time available.  However, it is
common knowledge that Skelgill’s rival DI Alec Smart has been commandeering
staff in anticipation of a salvo of cash machine raids – the dubious
product of a tip-off from among his netherworld network of informants.  Undoubtedly
he schemes to enlist the services of DS Leyton and DS Jones – and in this
relatively arid period before the Lake District floods with visitors on Good
Friday, Skelgill is struggling to justify otherwise.

‘Seems
like he’s just disappeared into thin air, Guv.’  DS Leyton rubs the top of
his head absently.  ‘Then again, I suppose he came out of it in the first
place.’

‘What
about Ukrainian contacts in the area?’

DS
Leyton’s sagging countenance foretells of limited news.

‘There’s
a Carlisle branch of the Association of Ukrainians in Great Britain –
mainly for those folks and their families who fled here after the last war
– but there’s only a scattering in Cumbria.  The place is just a
social club, Guv – like the Legion.  They’ve got a
Facebook
page – but there’s no indication of Leonid Pavlenko trying to get in
touch.  I spoke to the branch secretary and he didn’t know of him –
but he said they’d put out a request for information.’

Skelgill
is leaning back with arms folded.  With a stirrup kick he swivels the seat
and gazes up at the map of the Lake District on the wall behind him.  It
seems likely he is revisiting his earlier remark about needles and haystacks,
for his eyes dance about the shaded fells and green dales with their blue
ribbon glacial lakes.  Missing persons are a nagging thorn in the side of the
police – every year some quarter of a million are reported, of which
ninety-five per cent subsequently turn up safe and sound.  The potential
waste of police resources is therefore enormous – especially in times of
austerity – and the ‘thin blue line’ does not easily translate into an
effective blue drag net in a district as geographically challenging as the
Lakes.  And in this outdoor playground is the added dilemma presented daily
by thoughtless enthusiasts who simply omit to mention they are spending a night
or two wild camping in the hills.  How is anyone to know whether they are
safely tucked up in a sleeping bag, or bleeding to death beneath a precipice? 
Thus Skelgill’s present predicament is far from unfamiliar.  And more than
nine times out of ten he would be justified in closing the file and letting
nature take its course.  Yet some inertia within seems to resist this easy
option – perhaps some underlying sense of unease, some accumulation of
subtle signals received to date, still to manifest themselves as a tangible or
logical objection.

As he
ponders – and while DS Leyton appears to be distracted by measuring his
feet, one against the other, perplexed by a hitherto unnoticed size discrepancy
– the office door opens and DS Jones slowly enters, listening to her
mobile phone.  Skelgill turns and stares, and DS Leyton inhales to greet
her – but she puts a silencing finger to her lips – and then
employs the same digit to terminate the call.

‘Ah
– that’s interesting.’

‘What
is?’  Skelgill’s tone is harsh, as if he thinks it has been a social call.

DS
Jones taps the display a couple of times, and then approaches Skelgill’s desk
and slides her mobile in front of him.

‘Last
night, Guv – about eleven-thirty – the duty desk took a call from this
number.  It was a female.  She asked for the police and then rang
off.’

Skelgill
is still looking irked.

‘How
many people do that every day?’

‘Well,
there were a few hoax calls last night, Guv.  But George is back on the
desk this morning and he’s been checking through them, just in case.  He
asked me to listen to the recording – and the girl sounded
familiar.  What’s more, she asked for “Police who come today” – so I
just rang the number.’  Now she rests a manicured nail upon the screen of
her phone.  ‘It’s the Langdale Arms, Guv.  The call must have been
from the Polish girl, Eva.’

Skelgill
is gnawing at a recalcitrant thumbnail, and now he leans over the handset and
stares at the screen.

‘You withheld
your number?’

‘Aha.’

‘Who
answered?’

‘I’m
pretty certain it was the landlord, Guv.’

Skelgill
continues to gaze unblinking at the phone, but then – to DS Jones’s
dismay – he suddenly picks it up and tosses it to DS Leyton.  Fortunately,
despite a momentary juggle, he proves to be a safe pair of hands.

‘Leyton,
redial that number.  Say you just got cut off.  Then ask if they serve
pub lunches – say you’re about to climb Pike of Blisco from Great
Langdale and you’re thinking of stopping off that way.’

DS
Leyton looks bemused, but he knows better than to question Skelgill when he is
in a capricious mood.

‘Hold your
horses, Guv – I’d better write these down.’

He
reaches for his notepad while Skelgill impatiently repeats the names. 
Then he presses the redial key and puts the handset to his ear.  The call
is answered promptly and he follows his superior’s instructions.  The
conversation takes under half a minute.

‘The
geezer says twelve till two, Guv.’

DS
Leyton looks pleased with himself.  Skelgill is frowning.

‘I
know that, Leyton – we were there yesterday.’

Now DS
Leyton glances from one of his colleagues to the other, as though he thinks
there is some practical joke being perpetrated.  He passes the mobile back
to DS Jones and then turns to his superior.

‘I
don’t get it, Guv.’

‘What
you get, Leyton, is lunch on expenses – you’re going hillwalking.’

DS
Leyton looks dismayed.

‘What
about outdoor kit, Guv?  I’ve not got anything with me.’

‘Never
fear, Leyton – there’s plenty of spare gear in my car.’

As
this excuse is demolished, DS Leyton’s expression of alarm intensifies.

‘Have
pity, Guv – I got blisters on top of blisters last time I wore your old
boots.’

Skelgill
glares impatiently.

‘Leyton
– you’re not actually going to
climb
Pike of Blisco.  I’m about
to show you a photograph so you know what it’s like, if asked.  You just
need to look the part.  And for Pete’s sake don’t park too near the pub
– at least arrive looking like you’ve done a bit of a hike.’

DS Leyton’s
demeanour now shifts to one of tempered dismay. He surveys his ample stomach as
it spills over the belt of his trousers.

‘That
shouldn’t take too much doing, Guv.’

Skelgill
grins, perhaps a touch maliciously.

‘You
look out of breath just thinking about it, Leyton.’

DS
Leyton gives a good-natured shrug of his broad shoulders.  He glances
appealingly at DS Jones.

‘Thing
is – I’ve been meaning to get the family out – but with all the
rain this winter – you ought to try dragging a couple of whining kids
past the cinema when it’s blowing a gale and they can smell the pizza.’

DS
Jones smiles sympathetically.

‘I
noticed the Langdale Arms were advertising home-made steak-and-ale pie on their
specials board.  There was a news clipping pinned up – about it winning
some award.’

DS
Leyton casts a surreptitious glance at Skelgill.  His boss is tapping away
at his computer – perhaps retrieving the threatened mountain image
– but there is no disguising the fleeting scowl that crosses his features
at the mention of the acclaimed fare.  DS Leyton tries to make light of
the matter.

‘They
ought to call it
Scafell Pie.
’

He
forces a guffaw at his own joke – but Skelgill remains not amused.

‘That
aside, Guv – what exactly is it I’m doing?’

Skelgill
abruptly flips his screen round so the others can see.  There is in fact
no mountain summit, but instead a map of what appears to be Eastern Europe.

‘Finding
out what the barmaid wanted –
and
why she hung up.’

DS
Leyton’s brow furrows.

‘Couldn’t
we just phone, Guv – and ask to speak to her?’

Skelgill
suddenly looks surprised.  He raises a finger in apparent wonderment.

‘Leyton
– I never thought of that.’

‘Really,
Guv?’

Now Skelgill
tosses his hands up to the heavens.

‘Leyton,
you dummkopf – of course I thought of it.’

‘Oh,
right, Guv.’

Skelgill
looks despairingly at DS Jones – she appears unsure of how to interpret his
mood – but he seems now to be seeking her corroboration.

‘Yesterday,
Leyton, when we called into the pub to ask about Pavlenko, this girl –
I’m pretty sure – wanted to tell us something.’  He glances again at
DS Jones, and she nods reflectively.  ‘But the landlord was keeping a
close eye on her.  I let it pass – but I wouldn’t if I’d known she
was going to phone after closing time last night.  Now if Jones or I go
swanning back in there the guy’s going to be suspicious – whereas you can
pose as a dim-witted Cockney hillwalker.’  (DS Leyton’s features register
some disapproval at this suggestion.)  ‘Get a table well away from the bar
– when she brings your award-winning pie, identify yourself and find out
what she wants to tell us.’  Now he indicates loosely towards the map on
his screen.  ‘The city she said she’s from –
Lublin
–
it’s only an hour from the Ukrainian border.’

DS
Leyton is nodding, now comprehending.

‘Fair
enough, Guv.’

Skelgill
sits back and folds his arms.

‘What
else had you got on today?’

DS
Leyton blinks several times and reaches for his pad.  He flips over a
couple of pages and inhales rather wheezily.

‘Some
mean assignments, Guv.’  There is something faintly sarcastic in his tone,
that hints at retaliation for Skelgill’s disparaging remark about his
provenance.  ‘Theft of a mobility scooter from outside the Post Office in Grasmere
– suspected joyrider.  An organised raid on the allotments at Pooley
Bridge – bolt-croppers used and two sacks of seed potatoes taken.’ 
He steals a glance at DS Jones, who is trying her best not to laugh.  ‘Oh,
yeah, Guv – and a decapitated sheep over by Kirkstone Pass.’

Now he
looks up somewhat artfully to see if Skelgill is buying into his humour –
but he is confronted by an expression as black as thunder.