Authors: Bruce Beckham
Skelgill
paddles watchfully beneath a lowering ceiling of cloud that might have been
hewn from Lakeland slate. Dawn is on hold, and even the birds are
subdued; save for a cackling mallard that breaks ranks, somewhere in the reeds,
finally getting last night’s joke. Otherwise only the occasional resonant
plop of a brown trout sipping an unlucky mayfly from the surface punctuates the
silence.
Periodically
Skelgill cranes over his shoulder, trying to discern his position from the
indistinct silhouette of Skiddaw in the east. After a few minutes more
– now satisfied – he draws in his dripping oars and allows the boat
to drift. Hand over hand, he weighs anchor, though in the windless valley
he could probably manage without. Bassenthwaite Lake lies mercury-flat in
its shallow basin; the air, heavy and humid, blankets the water.
Now that
Skelgill is becalmed, the midges that have trailed him from the hanger at Peel
Wyke move in – perhaps exacting revenge for their cousins displayed about
his office walls. He pulls down his
Tilley
hat and raises his
collar, scowling as he resists the Lilliputian torture. Swiftly he hooks
up a pair of slippery dead baits, and casts them out thirty degrees either side
of the stern. Setting down the second of the rods, he yields to the agony
– death by a thousand bites – and rubs fish scales into his hair
and ears as he vanquishes the invisible assassins.
Indeed, he
spends the next few minutes protecting himself from the no-see-ums. He fits
a beekeeper’s veil beneath his hat, and rummages for repellent in a tin of
tackle, rubbing it on the back of his hands. Then he casts about as if he
is trying to decide what to do next. At three-thirty a.m. it is still too
dark to employ a plug to good effect – and, anyway, his back is stiff
from bowling and he does not relish the awkward style that plugging
demands. Instead he opts for his trusty perch rod, rigged at the tip with
a small piece of bent-over lead (formerly part of a water pipe) and a size ten
hook on a dropper eighteen inches above. As a finishing touch he adds a
juicy wriggling brandling, and with a flick of his wrists he sends the whole
arrangement spinning a chain’s length to starboard. He waits half a
minute, and then begins a slow, deliberate retrieve. Almost immediately
there is a bump. Then a bump-bump. Then he strikes – and
– yes! – the fish is hooked.
On many a
drunken night he has argued angling’s corner: the greatest feeling on earth
– scoring a goal or hooking a fish (this is after certain other
experiences have been excluded by mutual agreement). Man’s primitive
emotions at play: the tribal battle versus the solitary hunt. Of course,
such a debate leads to inevitable stalemate, with neither party sufficiently
qualified to understand the other’s perspective. But for him – more
of a lone wolf than a pack dog – there is nothing to approach these
sublime split seconds of solitary anticipation and triumph. I did it.
And I did it my way.
The perch is
giving a good account of itself. A pound and a half, he would
guess. He plays it unfussily, then draws it unerringly into his waiting
landing net. He unhooks it carefully with pliers on a piece of old
carpet, and in the waxing light admires its tiger stripes and hump-backed
profile, the pike-scarred warrior that it is. He raises its jagged dorsal
fin, as always, remembering his father’s hissed warning upon his very first
catch – words that came too late; blood was already streaming from his
palm, tracking his lifeline. That small specimen was sent spinning in his
agony; now he weighs the fish carefully in one hand, gripped from below,
revising his guess upward to two pound (worth three in the pub later).
Then he leans over the bow and reverently feeds the creature back into the
meniscus, feeling its kick as it realises its freedom.
He wipes
his hands on his jacket and taps out a satisfied drumbeat on his thighs.
Maybe it’s going to be his day?
But this
view is soon tempered. On the very next cast he snags a sunken
obstacle. It had felt like a take and instinctively he struck –
driving the hook deeper. It is not an uncommon problem on Bass Lake; all
manner of debris flows down the Derwent and passes through its waters en route
to the sea. Patiently he hauls in the anchor, and by waggling one oar
manoeuvres the boat so that he can tug from the opposite direction. But
still the hook won’t come free. It is a matter of brute force or
bust. He increases the pressure, winding down until the tip of the rod
arcs into the water. Now, steadily he lifts, grimacing through barred
teeth. And then – it gives – not a snap, but a shift –
and slowly he is able to bring up his catch – it breaks the surface with
a hiss, glistening black and slimy – a long-sunken branch.
The
revelation recalls his dream – nightmare, in fact – from which he
was released by his alarm barely an hour ago. He was here on the lake
– playing a great fish – hanging on, rather. For he’d hooked
the fabled
Mameluke
(a childhood appropriation) – a blind Ice Age
monster, as old as the lake itself. It dived deeper than he knew the lake
to be, and threw his boat about at will. And yet, though he could win no
line, suddenly the creature began to tire, and its fearsome pull became an
immense dead weight. Inch by inch he reeled it in, but when it broke the
surface there was no fish – but a jet-black suit of armour like those
that guard the passage at Bewaldeth Hall. Foul water spouted from the
helmet – and the visor fell open, as if in an anguished gasp for
air. Inside was a staring skull – its jaw flapping – the rank
breath of stagnant death filled the air – it was the missing
husband, Groteneus!
Now he
shudders, and leans to reach the branch, as though he is grasping the wrist of
a shipwreck survivor. The hook gleams, bereft of its worm – perhaps
a crafty perch saw its opportunity – and he frees it with a sharp
tug. Then he releases the branch to sink to its resting place.
He lays
down the rod; his momentum has been stilled – and he should really
re-cast the dead-baits to keep them from becoming tangled. Instead he
wipes his hands on his jacket and hauls his rucksack from the bow. A cup
of tea will revive his enthusiasm.
He
unfastens the top strap and pulls open the drawstring with both hands.
But even in the dim light of dawn he can see that his flask is not there.
In disbelief he delves into the bag’s depths – but no – just the
usual random stuff – and his sandwiches. But no tea. Of
course, he has his
Kelly Kettle
– but that will mean going ashore
– he can’t set a fire in a wooden-hulled boat. He pulls off his hat
and veil and scratches his head. Then he stares across the water at the
grey mist that is beginning to coat the surface. He nods. He knows
where he left his flask. He can picture it now – standing upon the
dishwasher, where he had searched for his insulated mug.
The
dishwasher
.
His
grey-green eyes glaze over.
Five
minutes later and he is rowing for the shore.
‘Guv
– you seem to have glitter in your hair.’
‘Scales.’
‘Pardon,
Guv?’
‘It’ll be
fish scales. I was on Bass Lake this morning.’
‘This
morning? But it’s only eight now.’
‘Aye, well
– I made an early start.’
DS Jones
nods, she stares at the road ahead, her eyes widening. Skelgill had
called her at six-thirty, giving her an hour to get ready. Now they glide
down the on-slip from the Penrith junction of the M6, Skelgill accelerating
into the sparse Saturday morning traffic. He has a theory, which he is
not yet ready to share.
‘Do you
know who it is, Guv?’
Skelgill
makes her wait a good ten seconds for his reply.
‘Aye, I
think so.’
‘Why don’t
you want me to know?’
‘In case
I’m wrong – I need you to be objective.’
‘So why are
we going to Edinburgh at twice the speed limit?’
‘Gut feel.’
‘But about
what, Guv?’
Now
Skelgill shakes his head.
‘If I’m
right, Jones – someone’s in danger.’
‘Who.’
‘I’m not
sure.’
‘What about
evidence, Guv?’
‘It’s in my
head.’ He compresses his lips and narrows his eyes. Both hands grip
the steering wheel, his arms straight out in front. ‘At the moment.’
DS Jones is
silent for a minute or so.
‘So, what
are we doing, Guv?’
‘Joining
the party.’
‘The
GT&A
gathering?’
‘Aye.’
She is perplexed.
‘How,
Guv? What will we do?’
‘We’ll
cross that bridge when we reach it.’ He grins wryly. ‘If I’m right,
Jones – tonight the curry’s on me.’
As they skim
above the Esk at Metal Bridge Skelgill, out of habit, cranes to check the tide
and glean a tantalising glimpse of the distant Solway. Another minute or
so and they cross the border, sweeping past Gretna, shrouded in its memories.
‘Here it
comes, Guv.’
DS Jones refers
to the plump drops of rain that begin to spatter the windscreen, exploding like
Chinese water bomblets. The warm front has made its landfall, and is rapidly
overhauling their flight to the Scottish capital.
*
‘You
brought the weather, Danny.’ DS Findlay’s greeting is of his regular
sardonic genre. ‘Usually it comes fae Glasgae.’
‘You’ll be
calling me Jonah, next – and that’s all we need.’
‘I’d better
drive then.’
This brief
conversation has been conducted through car windows, and now Skelgill and DS
Jones scramble to keep dry, as they make a dash for DS Findlay’s vehicle.
They have rendezvoused at a sprawling shopping centre beside the city bypass.
Families are already arriving; ill equipped for the weather they march huddled
and hunched in their hoodies for the entrance. Small boys break away to
stamp in puddles, and then have their ears clipped before they dodge into the
mall where they can skylark and shoplift unsupervised.
‘You guys
nae got any waterproofs?’
‘I’m hoping
we shan’t need them, Cam.’
DS Findlay
nods.
‘Aye, well
– we can park right outside their hotel – it’s down in the New Town,
Great King Street.’
DS Findlay’s
chosen route takes them first through a new business park of burgeoning brick
and glass structures, the developers’ contribution to the green belt.
Next come housing estates of unkempt privet hedges and rendered post-war tenements.
Parked cars are thin on the ground, and those present reflect the air of
austerity that pervades the district.
Soon they join
the main Glasgow road, turning east for Edinburgh city centre. At
Roseburn, a narrow canyon of traditional Victorian tenements with small shops
at ground level, Skelgill asks DS Findlay to pull over. DS Jones gazes
through the rain-streaked glass – there is a nail bar, a
Greggs
, a
sauna. As Skelgill clambers out she might wonder if he intends to make a
purchase –
Greggs,
most likely? But he dashes back some
fifty or so yards to the bridge, and leans over the parapet. Beneath, the
Water of Leith is beginning to run swift and dark. He returns, apparently
unperturbed by the wetting of his shirt.
‘What was
it, Guv?’
‘Just
wanted a look at the river.’
DS Findlay
gives him a questioning glance, but asks no questions.
‘Looks like
it’s rising, Cam.’
‘The only
flood plain’s back at Murrayfield – after that it cuts through a gorge
– it comes up quick, Danny – all this tarmac, all these rooftops
– there’s nowhere else fae the water to go.’
Skelgill
nods pensively.
Another
five minutes and they are rumbling across the rain-washed cobbles of the New
Town. As the intensity of the downpour grows, water begins literally to
wash in waves down the hill towards the river at Stockbridge. The drains
are simply overwhelmed by the volume, and themselves become boiling springs
that add to the flow tide. DS Findlay casts an arm to his left.
‘Guy who
discovered chloroform lived just along there. Simpson.’
‘You make
it sound like you knew him, Cam.’
DS Findlay
chuckles.
‘And Robert
Louis Stevenson used to play in these gardens as a boy.’
Skelgill
grins.
‘You should
get a Saturday job, Cam – tour guide.’
Indeed, at this
moment a tourist bus struggles up the hill on the opposite side of the
road. The open top deck is bereft of passengers, while a few huddled
figures crouch in the steamy shadows beneath.
‘Here we
are.’
DS Findlay
pulls up outside the hotel where the Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates crowd
are staying. The building forms part of an attractive Georgian terrace
that runs the entire length of the street – perhaps half a mile in all,
and is mirrored by identical buildings opposite.
‘Know
anything about the place?’
‘Can’t say
I do, Danny.’
DS Jones
leans forward between the seats.
‘Guv
– I read about it – it’s owned by a celebrity chef, from Berlin
– it’s one of these trendy boutique hotels.’
‘That
figures.’
DS Findlay
switches off the engine. He has double-parked, and this is his private
car – he will have to keep a sharp eye out for meanies – there is
no respite on a Saturday for motorists.
‘Do they
ken you’re coming, Danny?’
Skelgill
shakes his head.
‘Didn’t
want to give them a head start.’
*
But head
start they have got.
From reception
they are conducted to meet the manager – a young German-sounding man of
barely above college age. He wears short-cropped blonde hair, a
collarless black jacket above a black t-shirt and jeans, and invisible-framed
spectacles in the latest mode. His cobalt-blue eyes dwell over-long on DS
Jones – for Skelgill’s liking, at least – and he seats himself
opposite her rather than Skelgill. His room is a minimalistic affair
where two stark black leather sofas mirror each another across a low glass
coffee table. Upon this rests the only apparent concession to the
traditional office, a slim black laptop.
‘The
Goldsmith party – they have left to go on their treasure hunt, Inspector.’
Skelgill
looks alarmed. He checks his watch – it is only just after ten-thirty.
He had banked on a far more leisurely itinerary.
‘What time
did they go?’
‘I believe
you have just missed the last of them.’ He pulls a tiny mobile device
from inside his jacket and presses a pre-set number. ‘Trudi – you
organised the printing of the Goldsmith admin? Ja – could you
please bring a copy – for the police.’
DS Jones
glances at Skelgill. He nods in acknowledgement. It has not escaped their
notice that Tregilgis has been dropped from both references made to the company
name.
Trudi
arrives in a matter of seconds. Slim, suntanned and sporting the same
peroxide-and-black colour scheme as her superior officer, she also exudes the
same Teutonic efficiency. She hands her boss a sheaf of papers; he passes
them on to Skelgill. Evidently these details were emailed through last
night and she has printed and collated them. They comprise a series of
treasure hunt questions, and a separate sheet that details the teams (each
comprising two people) and their starting times. They departed at
three-minute intervals, starting at ten o’clock – the last of them
leaving just a few minutes ago.
It emerges
also that Trudi acted as ‘neutral’ starter, and that she has their mobile
phones safely in her possession – to prevent any enterprising cheating en
route.
Skelgill
peruses the running order. It begins:
10:00hrs
Team 1 – Goldsmith/Rubicon
10:03hrs
Team 2 – Goldsmith/Stark
10:06hrs
Team 3 – Tregilgis/Morocco
And so on,
continuing up to Team 10, which departed at 10:27hrs.
Skelgill’s
features darken as he stares at the combination of names before him.
*
‘Cameron!’
Skelgill
sounds a little breathless as he bangs his way into the car – he and DS
Jones have sprinted from the manager’s office – much to the Germans’
surprise – and that of DS Jones, who at least left them with a nonplussed
gesture of farewell.
‘Get your
tour-guide hat on.’
‘Aye, right
– what’s the story?’
‘They’ve
gone – we need to find them.’
‘What do
they look like?’
‘They’re
all wearing black rain ponchos – standard issue from the hotel.’
‘Which
way?’
‘You tell
us, Cam.’