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

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 –