Murder by Magic (25 page)

But
Tarr finds himself between a rock and a hard place.

His
paymasters are behind him and an uncertain fate stands ahead.

As DS
Leyton takes another step towards him, now approaching within to six feet, Tarr
is prompted by his limited instincts.

The
gun is still broken and – since he holds the dogs – his left hand
is not free to snap up the barrel in the normal rapid manner a shooter would
employ as he raises it to fire.  Thus the action becomes more ungainly,
one of leverage against the forearm – and in this moment Skelgill yells
out.

‘Leyton!’

His
cry causes a split second of distraction.  Tarr turns his head to see
where the voice has come from, still trying to close the gun.  He finally succeeds
– but only as Skelgill hurls the axe – and perhaps this is what his
warning to his colleague meant.

In a
Western
of old, or perhaps a
Bond
movie of today, such an act would see the
hatchet bury itself between the shoulder blades of the villain and terminate
his role.  But, accurate with his left arm though Skelgill might be, such
an outcome would be too much to ask for.

However,
there is a melodramatic outcome of sorts – for the spinning axe at least
finds its target.  It strikes Tarr on the back of a leg with the full
force of its steel head – and instantly it takes him down onto one knee
with a sharp cry of pain.

DS
Leyton might give the appearance of being athletically challenged, but in this
moment he lowers a shoulder and there is a blur as he barges Tarr completely
off his feet.  The gun discharges with a flash of orange and a colossal bang
that reverberates about the rocky amphitheatre – but DS Leyton is not hit
and the weapon clatters onto the stony ground as he brings his bulk to bear
upon his foe.  The dogs – watchful thus far – suddenly join
the fray – but only by enthusiastically biting the ankles of their hissing
and spitting and kicking keeper.

A
second later Arthur Hope lumbers into action, and there is the thwack of solid
thudding punches and corresponding groans.  From behind this little stramash
the line of farmers makes its charge.  The coven now cowers yet closer together
– the smaller members retreating to the back of the group.  Skelgill
watches, inhaling through bared teeth, a look of trepidation taking over his
countenance; a citizens’ arrest of uncertain protocol is about to be enacted.

And
then he sees – with perhaps a tinge of regret – a superior
resolution as far as the law of the land is concerned – for into the mine
swings another vehicle – and another, and two more – and to
Skelgill’s relief they flicker with the reassuringly familiar blue lights of
the emergency services.

*

By the
time Skelgill has retrieved his rope from the iron anchor above the Apse and
lowered himself by means of the
Dülfersitz
, the traditional gearless
abseil, some sort of order has been established in the quarry below.  He
jogs across the bedrock.

Jed Tarr
is handcuffed and lying face down.

DS
Leyton has the gun safely in his possession.

Arthur
Hope holds the two Alsatians on their leashes.  (They recognise Skelgill
and seem pleased to see him.)

The
coven is being processed by the police – several of its male members are noticeably
bruised and bleeding, and looking none too well for their introduction to the
shepherding community.  However, sympathy does not seem to be going about
in large supply; most of the officers are local men, and like Skelgill they are
well acquainted with their farming brethren.  Skelgill makes a point of
thanking each of the latter in person.

But he
keeps his words of gratitude brief, for there is a more pressing matter.  He
detaches himself from the main throng and strides across to a uniformed
constable who stands to attention beside a squad car.

‘Dodd.’

‘Sir
– glad you’re alright.’

‘I
need your car, Dodd.’

‘Sir?’

‘I’ve
got to find DS Jones.’

‘We’ve
got her, sir – she’s at the Langdale Arms with a WPC and the other girl. 
A paramedic has stayed just to check they’re okay.’

‘What?’

‘The
tracker, sir – that’s how come we’re all here, sir.’

‘You
mean Leyton didn’t call you?’

‘No, sir.’

Skelgill
is nonplussed.  PC Dodd continues.

‘The
tracker began flashing, sir – about a quarter-to-eleven.  It was
moving south from Keswick – heading down this way.  We tried to call
you but there was no reply.’

‘Aye
– I was on my bike – then I lost the signal.’

‘And
we lost the tracker, too, sir – at about eleven-thirty p.m. – but
then it came back on again just after midnight – we found her where you’d
told her to hide, sir.’

Skelgill’s
brow is furrowed and for a few moments he stands in pensive silence.  The
eager constable begins to look concerned – perhaps he has upset the plans
of this infamously enigmatic officer?

‘She
was in Keswick, you say?’

‘That’s
right, sir – the signal started up more or less exactly at the point of the
last trace on Tuesday night.’

Skelgill
is nodding to himself.

‘Good
job, Dodd.’

Now PC
Dodd – who is no fool – is looking at Skelgill with a certain
mixture of fascination and admiration.  He risks interrupting his
superior’s thoughts.

‘Sir?’

‘Aye?’

‘How
did you know – to come here, sir?’

Skelgill
manufactures a wry grin.

‘Let’s
say I got my own signal.’

PC
Dodd understands this is not to be questioned further.  He nods
obediently.  However, in the avoidance of doubt, Skelgill adds a rider.

‘But
if anyone asks – let’s say I received yours.’

‘I
understand, sir.’

Now Skelgill
revises his plan of taking the car – instead he strides across to the
milling group of police and farmers.  They have the recumbent coven
members lined against the rock wall – most are huddled in their cloaks, a
couple still hooded – but as Skelgill ranges along their line, like a witness
at an identity parade, he finds familiar faces, some glowering, others
frightened: Dr Wolfstein; Peter Henry Rick; the publican from the Langdale Arms
and the two portly sales reps he and DS Jones had seen there; Reginald Pope of
Pope
& Parish
land agents; then several he does not know, two of them
elderly females; and finally – still hooded, but distinctive for the
embroidered cloak – the
Magistra
.

Skelgill
stands motionless for a moment.  The person does not respond, but there is
perhaps the hint of a flinch, as if it is apparent what is coming.  He
reaches down and flips back the hood.

Mrs
Robinson.

“The
leader is always female, Inspector.”

‘Guv
– I just found the pies.’

‘It’s
a reet proper lock-in, marra.’

Skelgill
sounds buoyant; it must be adrenaline that refuses to abandon his bloodstream.

‘I’ve
turned a blind eye to enough of ’em, Guv – ’bout time I had one of my
own.’

DS
Leyton resumes his seat at the hearth.  Skelgill has kindled a crackling
blaze, and the aroma of wood smoke fills the air.  They have hauled close
a sofa – on which lounge he and DS Jones – and an easy chair for DS
Leyton.  The men have pints of ale standing upon a low oak table, but DS
Jones – who has been advised to avoid alcohol – nurses a mug of hot
chocolate and has her feet tucked beneath her.  The WPC has escorted Irina
Yanukovych to hospital for a check-up.  It is just after two a.m. and they
have the Langdale Arms at their disposal. 

‘Where
are they then?’

‘In
the oven, Guv – take half an hour – I thought it would be quicker
than microwaving them individually.’

‘How
many?’

‘About
a dozen, Guv.’

‘Nice
one, Leyton.’

DS
Leyton grins and raises his glass.

‘Cheers,
Guv.’

Skelgill
reciprocates, and smacks his lips after a long draught.

‘He
might be a crook – but he keeps a decent pint.’

‘Fancy
him being Polish, eh, Guv?  He covered that one up – what does it
say over the door – Graham Parker?’

‘Maybe
he covered it up too well.’

Skelgill’s
remark hints at some suspicion hitherto unshared.  DS Leyton shrugs and examines
the clarity of his best bitter against the flames of the fire.

‘He
had me fooled, Guv – then again, I struggle to tell a Brummie from a
Scouser – you northerners all sound the same to me.’

Skelgill
is about to reprimand his colleague for taking such a dire liberty with
England’s geography and dialects – but there is a sharp electronic alert
and DS Jones reaches for Skelgill’s phone.  The pub’s
Wi-Fi
is providing
access to real-time updates that are being posted by various teams of officers,
hurriedly mobilised in the wake of the arrests – for perhaps DS Jones’s
most significant revelation has been that other girls are likely being held at
locations throughout the county.  Now she scrolls through the latest news
as her colleagues look on.

‘This
is about him, Guv – the publican.’  She scans the contents of the
message.  ‘Real name Chechlacz.  Admits to being Yashin’s direct contact. 
Claims his family moved from Poland to Wolverhampton when he was a teenager. 
Spent twenty years working in the licensed trade in the West Midlands. 
Moved to Prague in 2010 – ran a nightclub there until about six months
ago.’

DS
Leyton holds out an upturned palm.

‘There
you go, Guv – that’s your Wolfstein connection – they must have had
some dodgy business going on in Prague.’

Skelgill
is nodding, though he holds his peace.  Now DS Leyton addresses DS Jones.

‘So,
if he’s the middleman – Chechlacz – how come he didn’t meet you at
the station?’

She shakes
her head.

‘I
don’t know – I suppose he had to be at work here – with it being
evening.’

DS
Leyton nods equably.

‘What
did the Rick geezer say to you?’

‘He
said, “Come this way” a few times – but otherwise not a lot – and remember
I was pretending not to speak English – so there was virtually no
conversation.’

‘And
you weren’t worried – when you got off the bus and into his motor?’

Again
she shakes her head.

‘I
knew DI Smart’s team would be right behind.’

DS
Leyton flashes an alarmed glance at Skelgill, who is staring doggedly into the
flames.  It is evident that DS Jones does not yet know the full story. 
She follows her fellow sergeant’s gaze and looks inquiringly at Skelgill. 
After a moment he folds his arms and turns to speak to her.

‘The
numskulls tailed the bus towards Cockermouth.’

It
takes DS Jones a second or two to process the implications of this detail.

‘But
you were
tracking
me.’

Skelgill
remains silent, and though he nods it falls to DS Leyton to elucidate.

‘As
far as Keswick, girl – then the signal stopped.’

Now DS
Jones sucks in her cheeks, emphasising her prominent cheekbones.  She
gives a vexed shake of the head.

‘She
tricked me – I saw no reason to be cautious – the guy dropped me
off right outside the B&B – she was waiting at the door – she
didn’t look a threat and I was excited – that they’d taken me to the
place that Pavlenko had disappeared from – I knew I was onto something. 
She showed me to what was to be my room – there’s a complete bedsit in
the basement – she said she’d bring me some tea – but, the next thing,
I realised I was locked in.’

‘I
said to the Guvnor, you vanished into thin air – didn’t I, Guv?’

Skelgill
nods reluctantly.

‘But
you knew I was there –
didn’t you
?’

What
begins as a confident assertion ends on a note of rising apprehension.  DS
Leyton remains discomfited, while Skelgill appears torn about this
matter.  But DS Jones has a supplementary question.

‘But I
saw you, Guv – about midnight?’

Now it
is Skelgill’s turn to look alarmed.

‘What
do you mean?’

‘There’s
a narrow skylight high up on the wall of the room – I saw you poking
about outside the guest house – you did something with a gnome – I
wondered if you were hiding a camera.’

Skelgill
is genuinely shaken – to think he was just feet away from her!  He
shifts uncomfortably in his seat.  It takes him a few moments to respond
– as if he is harbouring second thoughts about relating the details of
her disappearance.

‘Thing
is Jones – you were effectively underground – the transmitter
couldn’t get through – neither from that cellar – nor the caves at
Blackbeck.’

At
this juncture DS Jones would seem entitled to express dissatisfaction with the
performance of the insurance policy that was supposed to have underwritten her
risky escapade.  However, with the dawning realisation that they had lost track
of her comes another revelation.

‘Guv
– when you appeared in the cave – I’d only been there maybe ten or fifteen
minutes.’

She evidently
feels no requirement to iterate in full the implications of her observation,
but – like PC Dodd an hour or so ago – she has deduced that
Skelgill was somehow ahead of the game.  DS Leyton, of course, has an even
sharper perspective – having been directed earlier still by Skelgill to
mobilise what local troops Arthur Hope could muster.

Skelgill
continues to sit with folded arms.  Now he manufactures an expression patently
designed to reassure his colleagues that whatever it was he did was above
board.

‘I
worked it out – with a bit of help.’

‘What
kind of help, Guv?’

DS
Leyton is intrigued, but Skelgill only taps his temple with an index
finger.  His manner is rather condescending, in that it might imply he believes
such an approach could be a novelty to his subordinate.  However, he
deigns to elaborate.

‘I was
considering, why would Wolfstein choose to settle in the Lakes?  Then it
suddenly struck me – that he could have gone to school round here.  On
Bass Lake, these sixth-formers came sculling past me – one of them was a German
– though you wouldn’t have known it.  I got George to check the
Oakthwaite files – and sure enough Wolfstein was there – in the
Seventies.’

Skelgill
is again staring into the fire.  From either side of him, sergeants Leyton
and Jones trade glances – although if there is a message implicit in their
exchange it is difficult to discern, other than it suggests a certain recurring
bafflement at their superior’s methods.  In the meantime, he continues.

‘Remember,
Leyton – you told us that Blackbeck Castle – at about the same time
– had been used by some kind of New Age sect?’  (DS Leyton nods in
confirmation.)  ‘I thought – what if that was when this black magic
business started – if he’d been involved as a young man – then the
coven kept going and he stayed in touch?  One day he inherits the family fortune
– it coincides with him needing to get out of Prague – the castle
comes on the market and his old acquaintance Reginald Pope is on hand to sort
him out a good deal.’

DS
Leyton looks substantially satisfied with this explanation.

‘I
always said there was something dodgy about Blackbeck, Guv.’

Skelgill
rewards his sergeant with a generous tip of the head.

‘Old Ticker
– he must have got wind of what they were up to – creeping about
the woods – seeing stuff he shouldn’t have.’

‘Such
as them doing away with Pavlenko, Guv?’

Skelgill
nods, his features grim.

‘Even
if they only suspected, Leyton – that Ticker knew – he had to follow
suit.’

DS
Leyton shakes his head with a certain reluctant admiration.

‘They
did a good job of making it look like an accident, Guv.’

‘Aye,
well – he was superstitious – he was easy meat.’

Skelgill
glances across towards the bar – the press article about William Thymer remains
pinned to the noticeboard.  He frowns – perhaps considering the
possibility that he and DS Jones inadvertently drew the publican’s attention to
the old tramp.  Although their interest had been entirely casual, to someone
cognisant of Leonid Pavlenko’s fate it might have appeared quite the opposite.

DS
Jones is contemplatively swirling the last of her milky drink around her mug.

‘That medical
report, Guv – about the exceptional level of CRH hormone in his
bloodstream.’  (Her colleagues each turn to regard her with a look of curiosity.) 
‘We were inclined to put it down to depression – and write off the death as
suicide – but the autopsy stated it could also be caused by a sudden
trauma.’

Skelgill
has first hand knowledge of how such an experience might play out.  The
involuntary contraction of his features has DS Leyton is watching him
anxiously.

‘Reckon
they just put the fear of God into him, Guv?’

Skelgill
emits a short, mildly hysterical laugh,

‘I
wouldn’t put it quite like that, Leyton.’

DS
Leyton takes a couple of gulps of beer, as though he is in sudden need of
fortification.

‘Guv
– you don’t think there’s anything in this black magic malarkey –
do you?’

In DS
Leyton’s question there is a certain naivety that suggests if his boss answers
in the affirmative he is quite willing to go along with this greater
authority.  Skelgill’s reply, after some consideration, is however somewhat
ambiguous.

‘I do
recall a time when I believed in the Tooth Fairy – and sure enough it
worked – a shilling in the morning.’

Skelgill
tosses off the last of his ale and rises and strides across to the bar. 
He pulls himself a fresh measure – rather inexpertly, it must be said,
too much brawn and too little patience, yielding a good third of a pint of
froth.  From beneath the counter he fishes out a clean glass and dispenses
another, making a better job of it.  Then he carries both back to the
table.  To DS Leyton’s evident surprise, Skelgill presents him with the more
professional of the brace.

‘Oh
– right, cheers, Guv...’

Skelgill
senses his sergeant’s hesitation.

‘What’s
up?’

‘Well,
Guv – I was just thinking – about driving back.’

Still
standing, Skelgill spreads out his arms to indicate their surroundings.

‘Leyton
– it’s past two in the morning – this is an inn with rooms –
we’ve nicked all the guests – who’s going anywhere on a night like this?’

DS
Leyton appears a little flustered, but nonetheless he makes a kind of compliant
nodding gesture with the whole upper half of his body.

‘Right,
Guv – I suppose I’d better drop the missus a text – in case she
wakes up and wonders where I am.’

Skelgill
shrugs and slides between the furniture to resume his seat, as DS Leyton bends
forwards with a grunt to retrieve his phone from his back pocket.  DS
Jones meanwhile is distracted by a new alert.

‘Wow
– listen to this, Guv – they’ve found Eva – the Polish
barmaid –
and
her replacement – both of them were locked in
a strong-room in Jed Tarr’s cottage.’

DS
Leyton lets out an exclamation of disapproval.  He glowers fiercely, as if
he now considers he went too easy on the man.  DS Jones continues.

‘Except
it describes them both as Ukrainian nationals.’  She lifts a hand in the
direction of the bar.  ‘Remember, Guv – when I said that second girl
had answered me in Ukrainian?’