Murder at the Meet

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘It looks like Maryport can wait, then, Guv?’

  Skelgill is turning DS Jones’s card round on his desk. He nods.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘What do you reckon it is, Guv? That’s a bit irregular of DS Jones.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Maybe that’s the both of us taking a leaf out of your book, Guv?’

  This remark finally elicits a meaningful response from Skelgill, albeit he looks up reproachfully.

  ‘Some things can’t be taught, Leyton.’

  In equal measure there is a mixture of the cryptic and the devious in his tone. As to the fact of the matter, on the whole DS Leyton is probably relieved about it.

  *

  In a bare windowless room they find Kendall Minto seemingly contentedly seated at a table with two empty chairs opposite him. As usual he is trendily dressed. He looks up with anticipation as the detectives enter, and is about to rise when Skelgill speaks.

  ‘Don’t get up.’

  Skelgill eschews any attempt at handshakes. He regards the young journalist critically; he seems no worse for his punch on the nose and Skelgill proffers no words of concern. The detectives take their seats; Skelgill folds his arms somewhat belligerently; DS Leyton’s manner appears a little more forgiving.

  Kendall Minto can see he should get to the point. He has been browsing on his phone, which lies on the desk in front of him. He makes a small hand gesture towards it.

  ‘I couldn’t use your Wi-Fi, could I? It’s asking for a password.’

  It looks like DS Leyton is ready to oblige when his move is quashed by a glare from Skelgill.

  ‘Ah – no matter – I’ll stick with my mobile provider. It might be a tad clunky.’

  He taps the fingers of both hands lightly on the surface of the table; Skelgill is thinking they are unaccustomed to manual labour. The reporter composes himself.

  ‘You may be aware – I’ve been writing a series of articles – about the Mary Wilson case – and Operation Double Helix?’

  DS Leyton nods amenably; but Skelgill gives the distinct impression that he disapproves of the act of trespass into their territorial waters; worse: that the young man is like a lamprey to a salmon. The journalist might reasonably argue that it is not parasitism that is at play, but symbiosis. Receiving no other response, he continues.

  ‘They’ve been serialised on our website – the Gazette – and of course that has a far wider reach than the printed newspaper. Global.’

  He casts about expectantly; perhaps it is a pause for dramatic effect.

  ‘I’ve been contacted by a fellow from Illinois – I’m talking the USA. He emailed yesterday – and I spoke with him late last night. I think you ought to hear what he has to say.’

  Now he regards Skelgill earnestly. Skelgill makes a contortion of his face that suggests Kendall Minto needs to explain more fully before his consent will be forthcoming.

  ‘His name is Tom Roland. I suppose he’s what you would call an expat. He says he was born in Windermere but moved with his family to The States aged ten. He must be in his fifties now. He runs a small-town catering business called The Cumbrian Kitchen – it appears to be a kind of café-takeaway specialising in provincial pastries, sweet and savoury. I’ve had a look at their website – it’s bona fide – there are photographs of him and his wife proudly displaying their wares.’

  DS Leyton cannot resist a quip.

  ‘Wonder if he sells Bowder Scones, Guv?’

  Kendall Minto appears unsure how to react, as if this is something he should take seriously, but Skelgill merely glowers and DS Leyton looks rather sheepish. The journalist regards him sympathetically; it is a small moment of affinity, perhaps. He picks up the thread of his proposition.

  ‘I could tell you myself – but I think it’s better if you hear it directly from the horse’s mouth. He’s agreed we may contact him. Okay?’

  He reaches to place a palm on his mobile and looks questioningly at Skelgill.

  ‘What time is it there?’

  ‘Inspector, they’re six hours behind – but it’s fine – he says he rises at five to bake – he’ll be expecting the call.’

  Skelgill now gives a grudging nod.

  Kendall Minto manipulates his black leather phone case to form it into a display stand and positions the handset at the end of the table for communal viewing. He taps away at the screen.

  ‘I’ll use the FaceTime app – you might need to lean in so he can see us all.’

  Skelgill glances at DS Leyton and they adjust their positions accordingly.

  In just a few seconds the screen responds and the florid face of an apparently rotund middle-aged man wearing a white catering hat and smock fills the picture. They have interrupted him munching a mouthful of food. He wipes rubbery lips leaving a smudge of flour on the end of his bulbous nose.

  ‘Hey, Kendo – how’s it going?’

  DS Leyton is unable to suppress a smirk. But Kendall Minto remains unperturbed.

  ‘Tom, hi – I’m with two British police officers – Detective Inspector Skelgill and Detective Sergeant Leyton. Cumbria Constabulary.’

  ‘Hey. Honour to speak to you, gentlemen.’ His accent sounds entirely American.

  The detectives mutter greetings accordingly. The journalist, however, is keen to keep things moving.

  ‘Tom – I can see you’re up to your eyes in pies – but if you could repeat to the officers what you told me?’

  ‘You bet. Just a minute.’ The man’s image disappears from the screen and is replaced by a shot of a bright ceiling light – he must have put his handset down. They hear his voice. ‘Hey – Jessie – take over mixing these patties will you, honey? What? Sure they’re good – curry and cheese! Hey – don’t knock it till you try it.’

  Skelgill frowns. Curry-and-cheese patties? He knows exactly where he can buy them!

  The face reappears and it seems the man sits down and props his handset up. He leans closer. Skelgill thinks he sees something of the Lakeland farmer in his broad honest face.

  ‘Okay. As I was telling young Kendo there, it will be eleven years ago, come November. Jessie and I took a fact-finding vacation. We’d had the Kitchen running for a couple of years and we wanted to shake up our menu. So we toured two weeks around the Lake District – a busman’s holiday, right?’ He chuckles, as though nonetheless remembering it fondly. ‘We must have blitzed a hundred eateries, from bakers to bars – testing all the local pastries. Hah – I landed at Willard twenty pounds heavier than I took off – and that wasn’t the mint cake in my luggage! Sure – it was a bit sneaky – we’d act the dumb Yanks, just being curious about the eccentric British diet – and we’d pinch their recipes! But – hey – we’re not in competition across the pond!’

  Perhaps he realises he is beginning to digress. He raises a finger as if to admonish himself.

  ‘So this one evening – for information, it was actually the day after Bonfire Night, because Jessie pointed out we’d missed a fireworks display that was advertised – we dined in a little olde worlde pub in Grasmere – I don’t recall its name – but it had a well or something out front.’

  ‘The Bell?’ Skelgill is quick to interject. ‘That’s got the village pump.’

  ‘I believe you might be right, sir. That name strikes a chord. It had a traditional four-ale bar and live music in one corner – an older guy on a guitar and younger woman vocalist. It was jazz – right up our street, so we stuck around. We were lodging in a B&B in the village – just walking distance. The night went on and the drink flowed – it became what my grandpa used to call a “stoppy back” – know what I mean?’

  ‘A lock-in, aye.’ Again it is Skelgill that replies.

  ‘Thank you, officer.’ Tom Roland clears his throat. ‘At this point I should mention we knew nothing of your Mary Wilson case – we have enough home-grown homicides to keep the media busy, 24/7. Anyway – it was only yesterday – I was checking out the Westmorland Gazette website – they somet
imes feature traditional recipes – and I came across young Kendo’s article.’

  Kendall Minto turns to the detectives.

  ‘It was a piece to coincide with the funeral – it was written respectfully – but I hoped it might jog a memory – by highlighting the unsatisfactory outcome of the DNA screening programme.’

  ‘Well, it sure jogged mine!’

  This is Tom Roland who speaks again. He seems to know he is reaching the crux of his evidence. They see him remove his hat and mop his brow with a length of paper towel.

  ‘Sorry, boys – if you can’t stand the heat, eh?’ He regroups. ‘So it must have been around midnight – the musicians had finished but there was still a lively crowd. I went up to ask if they’d serve a nightcap – Jessie here likes her Drambuie – who doesn’t, huh? Close to where I stood the guitarist and some other guy were perched on barstools, lining up shots – and that’s when I overheard it, right, Kendo?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Yeah – the musician, he said to the other guy – and he spoke with an American accent, though I’d swear he was a local, but it made my ears prick up – and his words as near as I recall were: “About ten years ago I took a DNA test for this cat – because he’d already submitted one to get a buddy off a traffic violation – so I did the cat a favour, right? Else they’d both have been charged – obstruction of justice.”’

  There is a silence. Perhaps thinking his revelation has fallen flat, Tom Roland is prompted to speak again.

  ‘That’s about the length of it, officers. How does that sound, Kendo? Same dope as yesterday?’

  Kendall Minto is nodding – but he is staring at the dumfounded detectives.

  For his part, Skelgill is experiencing one of those psychedelic moments when reality and fantasy become one – a giddiness when a hormone responsible for euphoria floods the arteries and rushes to discombobulate the brain. The image that flashes into his mind’s eye concerns the first time he caught a fish – sea-angling with a static line; his father had put his hand in his pocket to pay for him to go out in a pleasure boat from Whitehaven – a seven-year-old boy with a crowd of holidaymaking adults. Nothing was doing for ages. Then, maybe the twentieth time he lifted the gear – it felt no different because of the heavy lump of lead tied to the end – but there, an explosion of vitality, glistening in the morning sunshine a flapping zebra-striped mackerel in metallic blue and silver, glinting like the world’s most precious gem drawn from the blue depths; a moment beyond his wildest dreams.

  ‘Mr Roland – did the musician identify the man that he claims he impersonated?’

  The baker is quick to respond.

  ‘No, sir. You can imagine – I’ve been racking my brains since my first conversation with Kendo. But that’s all I heard him say. At the time I had no idea it was of such potential significance – it just sounded like two drunken guys swapping misdemeanours. You see – before the guitarist spoke, the other guy had bragged that his wife took points on her licence for his speeding violations. My liqueurs were served and I paid and took them back to our table. I mentioned it to Jessie – she remembers – but we’d had quite a few ourselves and I guess we just let it pass and got onto other things. Next day I reckon we’d both forgotten – we had hangovers to deal with – and at breakfast we resumed our mission collecting recipes!’

  Skelgill is nodding, his features taut.

  ‘How about the musician – or his female partner – do you recall their names – or the name of their act?’

  Tom Roland lets out a disappointed sigh. ‘No, sir – it just said “Live Music” on a board outside the pub. Of course – it may have stated the name of their duo, but I guess it wouldn’t have meant much to us. But I was thinking – a bit of gumshoe work? It struck me as the sort of joint where the locals prop up the bar for decades. Maybe it’s still the same innkeeper?’

  Skelgill is nodding. Of course these thoughts have already several times traversed his mind and no doubt that of his colleague. He is itching to move on this lead. But he has a couple more key questions.

  ‘The guitarist and the singer. Are you able to give any description?’

  ‘He was – I would say, in his early sixties. I don’t remember too much – not pretty, maybe creepy, even. Long thinning hair in a ponytail – mean face – with teeth – I remember that, snaggled and sticking out. Kind of thing we Yanks notice – except I’m a bit of a fraud on that front!’ He pauses, but his audience does not interrupt. ‘The female – she was more like forty. Too good looking for the guy, really. Thin and dark, long hair – she sort of hid behind it. Sultry. They didn’t seem all that connected. I think she bailed on him as it got late.’

  Skelgill offers a suggestion.

  ‘Could they have been father and daughter?’

  ‘That wouldn’t be my guess, officer.’

  Now DS Leyton suddenly chips in. He leans closer to the handset.

  ‘Mr Roland – DS Leyton here, sir. Can you remember what they played?’

  ‘Officer – that’s a good point. Like I said – Jessie and me, we both appreciate a bit of jazz. As Time Goes By. Autumn Leaves. Makin’ Whoopee. Popular numbers, of course. Oh – and – what’s that? – yeah, Jessie here’s saying Ain’t Misbehavin’ – that’s less common, if you know what I mean?’

  Skelgill glances doubtingly at DS Leyton; but his deputy, in noting down these titles seems to be miming along with a tune that he evidently hears inside his gently bobbing head. Skelgill, meanwhile, treats the man’s question as rhetorical and intervenes decisively.

  ‘Listen, Mr Roland – we may need to take a formal statement from you – but, if you’ll excuse us – we should put some wheels into motion. We appreciate your time – you’re obviously a busy man.’

  ‘Inspector Skeldale – it’s been a pleasure. For real.’

  *

  ‘Reckon he’s reliable, Guv? He ain’t too hot with names – he just called you Skeldale and he’s rechristened Minto as Kendo!’

  Skelgill, having rather peremptorily – even a little cruelly, DS Leyton felt – dismissed the said journalist from their presence with only a modicum of grudging thanks and no hint of a promise to keep him in the loop, has been brooding for a good minute while DS Leyton amended and made additions to his notes. As an aside, DS Leyton had judged Kendall Minto to be surprisingly chipper.

  ‘What about the jazz stuff – was that accurate?’

  DS Leyton scans the page he holds open with spread fingers.

  ‘Yeah – pretty much, Guv. Sounds like he knows what he’s talking about.’

  Skelgill exhales heavily; his thoughts have been on something of a rollercoaster ride.

  ‘Let’s hope this Tom Roland’s like your missus’s old man, Leyton – got a better long-term memory than short.’

  DS Leyton nods pensively. Then he is overcome by a burst of enthusiasm. He pats his notebook energetically.

  ‘This is flippin’ gold dust, Guv.’ There follow a couple more superlatives, of Anglo-Saxon extraction. ‘Only a faked DNA test. The Chief will self-combust!’

  Skelgill’s expression suggests he does not quite share his sergeant’s exuberance.

  ‘Don’t count your chickens, Leyton – we could still end up looking for a needle in a haystack.’

  Despite the gratuitously conflated idioms, DS Leyton manages to keep his thoughts on track.

  ‘But if the worst comes to the worst, it’s only five hundred blokes, Guv. At least we know their names. And re-testing, it’s much quicker these days. We’re sure to find the blood sample that was substituted.’

  Skelgill remains circumspect.

  ‘But how many of them are no longer in the area – emigrated, even – or dead? It only takes two to be missing to stop us from identifying the cheat. I’ll bet you a good quarter of them are gone, one way or another.’

  ‘There’s always relatives, Guv.’

  But this argument is more tenuous, and DS Leyton’s tone lacks conviction. And Skelgill s
till has some cold water to pour on matters.

  ‘And don’t forget – finding a DNA match alone won’t solve the case. What does it actually prove – a connection between a person and a key fob? Any defence barrister worth their salt would rip us to shreds.’

  But DS Leyton digs in his heels.

  ‘It proves a fraud, Guv. Who would perpetrate that kind of scam? Why else but to avoid detection – they all knew what the tests were for. Whoever it is, that story about covering for a mate that he’s spun to the musician – what a load of cock and bull! They weren’t DNA testing drivers back then. You’d be unlucky if they smelt your breath for gin.’

  Skelgill, who is listening more closely than he reveals, cannot argue with this logic. Rather irritably he stands up and reaches for his jacket.

  ‘It might be cock and bull, Leyton, but it sounds like the guitarist fell for it. We need to find him – he’s the shortcut to the suspect. Come on – you can drive. George is probably still guddling about in the back of my motor.’

  DS Leyton looks happy to oblige.

  ‘How long to Grasmere, Guv? About forty minutes, ain’t it?’

  ‘Forty-five if we pick up some bait – I’ve got a taste for a pattie or two.’

  17. ALL THAT JAZZ

  Tuesday early afternoon, Grasmere

  ‘Looks like a half-decent boozer, Guv.’

  Skelgill, squinting through the rain-splashed windshield, nods pensively. Despite the hostelry’s ostensible ‘olde worlde’ appeal (as Tom Roland put it) he has never been more than an occasional patron. On reflection, the vicinity is short of the kind of climbs or runs that he prefers – and Grasmere is not a lake that he has ever favoured for fishing; despite its hefty pike the chatter of walkers tripping around its modest three-and-a-half mile perimeter is too invasive for his liking. That said, its picturesque backdrop is one of breathtaking beauty. The inn, too, nestled in the heart of the toponymous settlement of Grasmere has its bucolic charm; slate built like much of the village it is draped in tangled bottle-green ivy. Skelgill is unsure if it has escaped the clutches of one of the pub chains – mock hand-bashed chalkboards advertise ‘Real Ales’, ‘Bar Meals’ and ‘Live Music’.