Murder by Magic by Bruce Beckham Read Free Book Online Page A

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.

5. NEEDLES & HAYSTACKS
     
    ‘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