‘Owt else from the castle?’
DS Jones shakes her head.
‘Not from Mike Luker. He was very precise in repeating his original statement. That he and his wife were in their rooms between teatime and when he went to knock on Derek Duff’s door.’
Skelgill nods pensively. Now the servers bring the next course – a main course it seems, judging by the volume. He gestures with a fork.
‘You’d better eat something – I’ll shut up asking you questions a while.’
DS Jones grins good-naturedly.
*
‘Kevin Makepeace – one of the first things he told me, unprompted – was that when they married he agreed with Felicity Belvedere that she’d keep her maiden name – and subsequently they would use it for any offspring.’
Skelgill’s retort is somewhat left of field.
‘Saved the bairn from a name that’s part of a sentence.’
DS Jones looks like she is unsure whether to take seriously her superior’s remark.
‘He said it was because the Belvederes are a prominent Edinburgh family – and Felicity is the last of the line – her daughter excepted.’
Skelgill persists with his rather sceptical take on the matter.
‘Turned out to be a good decision – given they split up.’
DS Jones considers this proposition.
‘Yet Muriel Liddell didn’t revert to her maiden name, Guv.’
Having met Muriel Liddell, however, Skelgill is well placed to appreciate why she might have retained her husband’s name – although DS Jones now supplies him with a less Machiavellian motive.
‘I suppose when the children have an established surname at school – it’s not so unsettling – especially as they mainly live with their mother.’
‘True.’
‘But on your literal point, Guv – about Makepeace – I was kind of expecting a character to match.’
‘And he weren’t.’
‘He was quietly indignant. Actually the only one who behaved like he was being treated as a suspect.’
Skelgill harrumphs sarcastically.
‘Happen he were the only one being straight with you – they all must know we’ve got an open mind about Scarlett Liddell’s death.’
But DS Jones is perturbed.
‘Ordinarily, I’d agree, Guv – but I felt the belligerence was a bit of a put-on. And I wonder why.’
‘It’s the way some folk defend themselves – go on the attack.’
Perhaps she replays elements of her visit, for her soft hazel eyes seem to glaze over for a moment. ‘Yes – you’re probably right – telling me about the surname – it must bother him.’
‘His ex said Will Liddell might decide he’s surplus to requirements.’
DS Jones looks at Skelgill with interest.
‘Really? Remember what Will Liddell told us about Saturday night – that Kevin Makepeace had arrived at the library early so he could talk to him about some work issue? He must have been worried to bring it up on Will Liddell’s birthday weekend.’
Skelgill’s mind drifts to consider a parallel – the inadvisable idea of approaching the Chief at some official function – being the bearer of bad news – her eyes like lasers – the messenger about to be exterminated. He shudders involuntarily, and promptly resurrects their discourse.
‘What does he do?’
‘He’s in charge of the marketing department for a subsidiary that exports malt whiskies. They buy the product from obscure Scottish distilleries and package it for different countries. He says India has been a big growth area, and now they’re moving into Hong Kong and mainland China.’
Skelgill looks unimpressed at the mention of these far-flung empires.
‘What about London?’
DS Jones is quick to follow his train of thought.
‘You’re thinking of Scarlett Liddell?’ (Skelgill gives a small nod of confirmation.) ‘Of course – Kevin Makepeace moved to Edinburgh long before she joined the company in London – but, yes – he said his advertising and PR agencies are based in Soho – close to Will Liddell’s Covent Garden offices – they handle all of the company’s brands. So he travels down for regular meetings – and has done since he took the Edinburgh job.’
‘Did he have contact with her?’
DS Jones’s demeanour seems to sharpen – she leans closer to Skelgill. However, her manner is businesslike, and her tone matter-of-fact.
‘He said that he didn’t know her beforehand, or interview her – but that she was the recommended candidate for the Edinburgh vacancy – and after that he got good reports of her work. She was competent and industrious. But that only lasted for about nine months. She was internally headhunted for the French acquisition project, in Will Liddell’s corporate team.’
‘So what about the affair?’
‘He was pretty tight-lipped about that, Guv – which is understandable – I mean, given his position in relation to Will Liddell.’
Skelgill frowns – but she is right. If Kevin Makepeace’s hold on his job is tenuous, to expect him to be forthcoming about his employer is optimistic.
‘So what ‘Liddell’ did he say?’
DS Jones grins at her superior’s take on her earlier play on words.
‘As far as he was concerned it was a private matter. That people are entitled to have relationships.’
‘Not in that company.’ Skelgill’s tone is scathing. ‘Not according to Kevin Makepeace’s ex-wife. That’s why Scarlett Liddell was out of the door so quickly.’
Skelgill now relates what Felicity Belvedere told him about Will Liddell’s policy on what an HR department might describe as ‘intra-company interpersonal relationships’. DS Jones regards Skelgill through the fluttering veils of her long lashes. She is obliged to recalibrate her impressions of her meeting with Will Liddell in the light of this altered perspective.
‘I guess – provided it’s made clear when you join – at least you’d know where you stood.’
But Skelgill remains cynical.
‘Just means folk’ll keep it secret. Hang on to their jobs. Or in some cases put their jobs first. Then there’s trouble both ways.’
DS Jones looks momentarily discomfited by Skelgill’s fatalistic attitude. She purses her lips a little dejectedly, and takes a couple of slow silent breaths through her nostrils.
‘Anyway – it appears to have been handled pretty efficiently, Guv. I imagine if Scarlett Liddell was happy about the outcome, then leaving her job was no great skin off her nose. Maybe she wasn’t particularly career-minded.’
Now it seems to be Skelgill that is wrong-footed. He pushes himself back in his chair and casts about, and for a second looks like he might get up. Had they been in his office DS Jones would expect him to rise and stalk to the window to stare out, or turn broodingly to his map of the Lake District on the wall behind his desk. But after a short hiatus he reverts with a new question.
‘What’s he like – Kevin Makepeace?’
DS Jones appears torn over how she should couch her response.
‘Well – trendy haircut, tailored suit, polished shoes, expensive wristwatch – on the face of it, you might say good-looking.’
Skelgill scoffs.
‘You’ll be telling me next he invited you for dinner.’
DS Jones gives a small nervous laugh.
‘He is rather preening, Guv – he’s got professional photographs on his office wall – it looked like from an Iron Man event. And various action shots – abseiling, skiing, scuba-diving.’
Skelgill looks unimpressed by this act of vanity – but his response perhaps reveals some self-referencing on his part.
‘What should he have on his wall?’
DS Jones seems puzzled by her superior’s question.
‘Well – I suppose – true enough – Mike Luker had certificates of his qualifications – although in his field there’s a case for demonstrating professional competence to your clients. But – by contr
ast – in Will Liddell’s office it wasn’t about him – there were modern artworks – you know the Scottish painter, Bellany? Quite a collection.’
‘So – he can afford it – that’s what it tells you.’
DS Jones opens her palms in a gesture of mitigation.
‘At least it was in good taste – and the photographs on his desk were of his children.’
Skelgill has a swift rejoinder.
‘Don’t suppose his wife was in them?’
She shakes her head musingly.
‘I guess it wouldn’t have been particularly diplomatic – to display a picture of either Muriel or Scarlett Liddell.’
‘A rock and a hard place.’ Skelgill speaks rather bleakly – then he pauses. He is thinking of something Muriel Liddell said. ‘I reckon Muriel had Scarlett Liddell down as a gold-digger.’
DS Jones seems unwilling to agree.
‘I’m not sure Will Liddell would fall for something like that.’
Skelgill makes an admonishing growl.
‘That’s not what he’d be falling for – is it?’
‘Well – not exactly, but –’
Now Skelgill interrupts.
‘Attractive lass – spending time working together – the south of France – and Derek Duff’s more or less told you Will Liddell was unhappy in his marriage – we all know what that means. Chuck in the mid-life crisis. Bob’s your uncle.’
Skelgill puts down his cutlery and folds his arms, and looks away with apparent dissatisfaction. For her part, DS Jones seems conflicted, her expression pained yet sympathetic. She lowers her eyes – almost closing them, as if to access deeper sentiments.
‘Sure – I understand all that, Guv – but I think – I think that there was more to it – on both sides – Scarlett and Will Liddell – otherwise it would have just been an affair – a fling – and it would have fizzled out. He must have wanted it – and so must she.’
She looks up to see that Skelgill is regarding her minutely. She seems unnerved by his scrutiny and rather uncharacteristically turns in her seat to look for a waiter – and with a jerkily raised palm summons an alert young man.
‘I think I shall have that drink – what about you, Guv – another?’
Skelgill inhales with a hiss, preparatory to voicing an objection – his lager is not his first alcohol of the evening – but the determination in DS Jones’s voice tips the balance, and he yields.
‘Aye – go on, then – another bottle of Hobson’s.’
DS Jones squints at his empty bottle – which is certainly not labelled “Hobson’s” – but she realises he is making a joke about the limited choice of beer; she instructs the waiter accordingly. Alcohol is obviously a profitable line for the establishment, for no time is wasted in procuring a fresh lager, and a large glass of chardonnay for DS Jones. It seems with mutual relief that they clink their respective receptacles and each takes a drink, and they both settle back in their seats. When DS Jones resumes, she comes full circle to address what was Skelgill’s opening inquiry.
‘You said, what did Will Liddell ask me? And the answer is, not a great deal.’ She holds up her glass and swirls the pale liquid reflectively. ‘As far as the death of Scarlett Liddell is concerned, his attitude was that I was there to give him an update. He had no agenda of his own that I could detect.’
‘Reckon he’s got wind that we’re sniffing around his contacts?’
‘Oh, yes – he’s clearly aware of that. But I don’t think he’s expecting us to unearth anything practical as far as the weekend is concerned. I’d say his perspective is that he knows them all well enough – that he knows what happened in his and Scarlett Liddell’s suites – and therefore there can be nothing more to it.’
Skelgill nods reluctantly.
‘He must have asked about something.’
‘Well – yes – in relation to making funeral arrangements.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘As we’d agreed, Guv – that the Coroner is waiting for the results of some final tests – but we’re hoping a death certificate can be issued by the end of the week. He seemed to accept that.’
Skelgill nods slowly.
‘The sixty-four thousand dollar question, then – does he know she was pregnant?’
‘I feel certain he doesn’t know, Guv.’
Skelgill rather distractedly rubs the stubble on his chin, as if he has an itch on his palm.
‘He couldn’t very well come out with it now – after not mentioning it before. What about his famous compartmentalising?’
DS Jones shakes her head ruefully – it is an admission that she cannot truly be certain.
‘He did inquire whether we found anything helpful on her mobile phone – that was the only thing that made me wonder if he was thinking along those lines. But then he said although she had some contacts from her time in London – he wasn’t aware of any close friends. I told him we have someone looking into it – but there is nothing to report as yet.’
Skelgill stretches and suppresses a yawn. He glances at his wristwatch and then his eyes survey the dishes that they (mainly he) have emptied. He shifts restlessly in his seat. When he does not speak immediately, DS Jones leans back and folds her hands upon her lap. She tilts her head inquiringly.
‘What about you, Guv – how did you get on?’
Skelgill looks suddenly wide-eyed, as though he has just woken and is startled by the light. It takes him a moment to contrive a response.
‘I never realised posh bairns were so tough.’
DS Jones seems amused by his unorthodox answer.
‘What makes you say that?’
Skelgill shrugs.
‘I met Muriel Liddell at the school, right?’ (DS Jones nods; she is aware of his itinerary – most of it, at least.) ‘These girls all coming out at home time – smart, well behaved – wouldn’t say boo to a goose. Next minute they’re beating the living daylights out of each other on the hockey pitch. Taking no prisoners.’
He looks at her as if he has supplied a significant insight. DS Jones waits a moment before she replies.
‘It’s in the genes, Guv.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve been thinking myself – these parents – and Will Liddell is probably the best example – quite often come from ordinary backgrounds. But they’ve all got something about them. Maybe a special natural aptitude – like Derek Duff had for football – maybe just ambition and the ability to work really hard. Whatever it is – they’ve fought their way up into senior roles – good salaries – so they can afford to send their kids to private school. We shouldn’t be surprised if the next generation inherits the same drive and tenacity.’
Skelgill is listening to his sergeant somewhat quizzically – yet she simply reiterates what Muriel Liddell told him quite bluntly a few hours earlier. In his mind’s eye he replays the devastating counter-attack – the Liddell girl and her teammate combining with ruthless efficiency to rip through the opposition. And – moments later – the penetrating pale blue eyes of the Duff girl when Muriel Liddell called to her – before she fleetingly lowered her guard and grinned self-consciously.
‘They’re no pushover, Guv.’
‘Come again?’ Her assertion stirs him from his reflections.
‘The group we’re dealing with – they’re a smart crowd.’
Skelgill now makes a contrary face.
‘Is Derek Duff smart? I thought brains didn’t go with being a footballer. They get in the way of instinct.’
DS Jones gives a light shrug of her shoulders.
‘Streetwise – certainly, Guv. He hides it behind a boyish innocence. And he did get to uni in the first place – even if he never went back.’
Skelgill remains disconcerted. Was he, in fact, out of his depth with the women he has interviewed today? Were they looking down their noses at him? Not Suzy Duff – surely – but the others – well, perhaps. Suddenly he surprises himself with a little outburst.
&n
bsp; ‘I had a chat with the Head of Sport.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘Apparently Will Liddell was a regular spectator. He’d get there early and stay in his car – the school’s parking area overlooks the hockey pitches. He’d be doing some work on his laptop. There’s a group of dads that stand together. He didn’t mix with them.’
‘What about Muriel Liddell – she obviously goes, too?’
‘It sounds like they kept their distance. That’s probably why he’d wait in his car until the match started – get the lie of the land. Catriona said sometimes she’d see him talking with one of the other mums.’
‘Catriona, Guv?’
‘What?’
‘You said Catriona.’
Skelgill looks momentarily nonplussed.
‘Aye – the coach – Miss Brodie’s her name.’
DS Jones grins benignly. She notices little patches of blush on Skelgill’s cheekbones – and her expression becomes just a hint interrogative. He reaches for his lager – there is not much left and he tilts the bottle to drain it. He wipes his lips, and then his brow.
‘That chilli’s getting to me.’
DS Jones nods accommodatingly.
‘I think I avoided the worst of it.’
Skelgill remains agitated. He shifts in his seat and puts his palms upon his midriff.
‘Tell you what, Jones – I’m stuffed. Why don’t we skip the pudding and get a proper drink?’
‘Sure. I noticed from the bus there’s a new wine bar near that pub DS Findlay took us to – at Roseburn? That’s on our way back – we could even walk from here.’
For a moment Skelgill’s unease turns to alarm.
‘Maybe the pub, eh, lass?’
13. LOGANLEA
Wednesday, 6.30am
Murder Mystery Weekend Page 12