‘You say she moved to London, madam?’ (The woman nods, still dabbing at her nose.) ‘What was that about?’
‘Well – it was quite understandable – nothing to do with any problems here, you see, officer? She got the chance of an apartment close to her work – what with the long hours – it made sense, I suppose.’
‘Did she happen to leave an address?’
At this the elderly lady looks a little distressed; she wrings the tissue between plump fingers.
‘I don’t believe she did, my dear – she began to tell me the address – but – that’s right – she didn’t know the postcode – and she was going to let me know – and then it must have slipped her mind – and then when she moved again I suppose it didn’t matter.’
Skelgill is nodding sympathetically.
‘We’re trying to understand why Scarlett might have committed suicide.’ (Now the woman does appear to be holding back tears. She inhales and exhales more heavily.) ‘How did she seem to you, madam – her personality – her behaviour – whether she had any troubles – whether there was anything that gave you cause for concern – in her private life?’
It is question that invites an admission of prying; however the woman remains phlegmatic in this respect.
‘She was charming, well mannered. She often must have been tired – and she always made an effort to be polite.’ But now Mrs Ivybridge plies Skelgill with what might be considered a conspiratorial look. ‘Of course – I heard her giving someone a dressing down over the telephone now and again – but that’s the way it goes in business – a doggy-dog world, my George always used to say to Winston when he pushed him out of his armchair.’ She gazes rather forlornly at the chair in which DS Leyton sits, his forearms resting upon his ample thighs; he seems discomfited. ‘They’re very clever at getting their own way, dogs, aren’t they?’
Her anecdote strikes Skelgill as ambiguous, and he wonders just who pushed whom out of the preferred seat; however, he resists the urge to invite a potentially long-winded clarification.
‘Did she have any close friends that you were aware of – a boyfriend, for instance?’
The woman shakes her head quite decisively, though her reply is more oblique.
‘Of course, modern youngsters have their mobile phones – there’s no need for a fellow to telephone the house or knock on the door with a red rose – you wouldn’t know what your children were getting up to, would you? I shouldn’t like to be a parent nowadays.’
Skelgill’s expression becomes rather pained.
‘It’s not cheap living in London – the flat she moved to – would that have been shared with somebody?’
The woman regards him rather blankly; she blinks several times.
‘I’m sure she told me she would be living on her own – she liked to have things the way she wanted them – I don’t think she would have been keen on a flatmate – besides, she was happy with her own company.’
The mournful expression returns, and with it the suggestion that perhaps in her time here Scarlett Liddell did not socialise as much as her ‘aunt’ would have liked. Skelgill is pondering this subject when she volunteers a piece of information.
‘There was a gent – came to collect her.’
‘Aye?’ Skelgill tries to make his inquiry sound casual.
‘She said he was a colleague, helping her out – I suppose a taxi driver would have abandoned her in London on the kerb with her bags – they’re very rude these days – in too much of a hurry – what do they call themselves, Hoover drivers?’
‘Do you happen to know who it was – what he looked like?’
She shakes her head.
‘If Scarlett mentioned a name I don’t remember it, I’m afraid, my dear.’ Now she glances at the bay window, its latticed panes lined by net curtains. ‘It was evening, you see – it was dark outside – and what with the hedge – and Scarlett having her suitcases ready in the porch.’
Skelgill ponders for a moment.
‘Did she keep in touch with you – after she moved to Edinburgh?’
The woman makes a fussy movement with the fingers of both hands upon her lap.
‘Oh – she was very busy – I know that – there was her work – and then all those wedding arrangements and a big new house to look after – and I didn’t expect to go to the wedding – like I say – George and I – we weren’t her real uncle and auntie – that’s just what she used to call us – besides they only had a handful of guests – it was held on her new husband’s boat, in the Virginal Islands, I believe – her mother put a little note about it in the next Christmas card.’
Skelgill notices DS Leyton surreptitiously checking his watch, and shifting impatiently in his seat. While there have been some minor additions to their insight – it seems the relationship was conducted at arm’s length, very much landlady and tenant; little intimate knowledge was shared – and it is an account that ends abruptly over two years ago. However, Beaconsfield has proved to be only a minor diversion from the route suggested by Andrew Organ – and constitutes the kind of refuelling stop Skelgill would have insisted upon anyway. He eats the remainder of the homemade cake from his plate, and swallows the last of his tea. The woman correctly interprets his actions as those of ‘wrapping up’ the interview – though she contrives to look disappointed when he refuses her exhortations to sample her Victoria sponge. (DS Leyton looks relieved.) At the end of a beamed hallway the woman rather struggles with the great blackened oak front door – and DS Leyton darts forward to assist. Skelgill, perhaps chastened by his colleague’s show of chivalry, thanks her for her hospitality, and commiserates with her for her loss. Though she continues to look sad, she becomes distracted, and speaks musingly, as if to herself.
‘You know – when she was a little girl – she used to think we were very rich – I don’t know why – perhaps it just seemed a big house to her then.’ She gazes wistfully at the detectives as they wait off balance, straining to set off down the curving path. ‘She always said, Auntie Cammie, when I grow up I’m going to marry a millionaire. Such a shame how it turned out for poor dear Scarlett.’
*
‘I’m cream-crackered, Guv. That’ll be the thick end of six-hundred miles round trip by the time we’re done.’
‘Aye – we’ll stop for a mash in a bit, Leyton. What’s the next services?’
In the dark interior of the car, part-illuminated by light from oncoming vehicles that throng the opposite carriageway, DS Leyton’s shoulders can be seen to sag. He shifts position to check details on the dashboard – clock and odometer.
‘Sandwich.’
‘Come again?’
‘Sorry, Guv – I mean Sandbach – don’t know what I was thinking.’ What he was thinking – optimistically so – is that they could grab a sandwich from the petrol forecourt and keep moving, but ‘mash’ – a pot of tea in Cumbrian parlance – in Skelgill’s own vernacular generally comes with some version of all-day breakfast. Skelgill regards sausage, egg and beans as 24-hour staples; meanwhile the long-suffering sergeant’s wife is waiting with dinner in the oven. He makes a sound of private exasperation, and then tries to cover it up with conversation. ‘We must be in Cheshire. Sandwich is down in Kent, ain’t it.’
‘Aye, happen it is.’
‘Mind you, Guv – Sandbach sounds like it’s something to do with a sarnie – cross between a sandwich and a roll – batch is what they call a roll round the Midlands, if I recall.’
Skelgill is silent. It is hard to say if he is engaged with this idea – or simply thinking about food. DS Leyton adds a rider.
‘Then there’s Tebay, Guv.’
‘It’s a bit far, Leyton – we’d be nearly home.’
‘Naw – I meant it’s a good name for a services, ain’t it? Sounds like it’s what you get. Tea bay. Like pit stop.’ He gives a strangled chuckle. ‘Like they called it that on purpose.’
‘It’s named after the village, Leyton. Hamlet, anyhow.’
DS Leyton po
nders for a few moments.
‘Hamlet, Guv – that would be a good ’un an’ all – sounds like it’s short for ham omelette.’
Skelgill makes an unfairly scornful sound in his throat.
‘Well let’s make sure we don’t stop at one called Grubgone.’
A collective silence descends. All northbound lanes of the motorway are dense with traffic to the point of saturation. The M6 between Birmingham and Manchester is not for the faint-hearted, the mere thought of a journey has motorists in their thousands reaching for tranquillisers. Not that DS Leyton is daunted, he cut his driving teeth on London’s mean streets – but, on a Friday evening, the scope for epic delays is never more than a slight lapse of concentration away; “are we there yet?” becomes infinitely futile. However, although they are barely averaging 45 mph, at least they are moving, and it is in this respect that DS Leyton comments.
‘The M40 route turned out alright, Guv. That Organ character knows his motorways.’
Skelgill is still brooding over something – or perhaps now this new suggestion – and his sergeant continues.
‘Mind you, Guv – when you think about it – a bit of coincidence – that it was the way to Beaconsfield. Double handy for us as it turned out – once you decided we should see the old biddy.’
‘Happen Organ was trying to tell us something.’
Skelgill says this cynically – as though he does not mean it – and certainly that he does not intend to sound like he is pinning some hopes on a rather tenuous coincidence. But they have little to go on – and DS Leyton is sufficiently quick-witted to see the implied connection.
‘You mean he was the mystery geezer – that picked up Scarlett Liddell when she moved into town?’
Skelgill pulls a series of faces, like he might have bitten into a lemon.
‘Reading between the lines, Leyton – she had him wrapped round her little finger.’
Unwittingly mirroring his boss, DS Leyton also contorts his features; they look sculpted, heavy and craggy in the flickering half-light.
‘Mind you, Guv – he was the boffin type – they often come across a bit jumpy.’
‘Jumpy – he was waiting for us to drop a bombshell, Leyton. He kept staring at that picture on his desk. That’s why I got up to take a deek.’
Now a rising note creeps into DS Leyton’s voice. ‘It wasn’t Scarlett Liddell, Guv?’
Skelgill, however, bridles at the suggestion.
‘No, Leyton – you donnat. It was his wife and kids.’
‘Oh, right, Guv.’ DS Leyton makes a mumbling sound of acquiescence. ‘Right enough – she could probably have taken her pick, Guv – like you said to that Leonora girl, there must be plenty of fanciable young lads – why would she have a dalliance with a queer-looking old cove like Organ?’
In the gloom, Skelgill’s countenance is conflicted. It is a few moments before he responds.
‘What’s the Chief’s favourite word – a matter of expediency?’
DS Leyton also takes a while to consider his next contribution.
‘You saying Scarlett Liddell found a way of jumping the queue, Guv – when it came to getting promoted?’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time in human history, Leyton.’ But Skelgill, as is his capricious wont, now seems uncomfortable with such a prurient line of thinking. A yawn comes upon him and he stretches awkwardly in the limited passenger accommodation. ‘What’s to say they didn’t just ship her off to Scotland – dressed it up as a promotion.’
‘What – to get shot of her, Guv?’
Skelgill shrugs.
‘She might have been effective, but that doesn’t equal popular. It’s all very well having a superstar – but if they play the prima donna and pee-off the rest of your team, what use is that? High-flyer or not, she was still a small cog in a big wheel.’
DS Leyton nods. He bites his lower lip, and his eyes dart about his mirrors as he manoeuvres from one lane to another – and then he curses as the traffic in the lane they have left suddenly picks up speed.
‘I suppose the one thing that don’t fit is her moving out of London, Guv. I mean – I know Edinburgh’s technically their head office – and no disrespect to the Jocks, like – but if you want to get on, London’s where it’s at.’
Skelgill makes a disparaging exclamation.
‘That’s why you moved out, Leyton.’
DS Leyton squints more intensely into the oncoming lights. His features take on a determined cast.
‘Like I’ve said before, Guv – we done it for the kids. Where would you rather have your nippers knock about – the Lake District – or Lakeside? It’s a no-brainer.’
Skelgill, too, gazes ahead, eyes narrowed. It is less than a no-brainer; it requires no neural activity whatsoever on his part to reach this conclusion; he is hard-wired to know it, and as such it is one aspect of his relationship with DS Leyton in which there is unanimity. Thus deprived of any opportunity for recalcitrance, he sinks into a brown period. It is therefore DS Leyton, evidently continuing to mull over the scenario, who chimes up after a while.
‘Mind you, Guv – I suppose you can’t say it didn’t work out for her in the end – she only went and married the owner – married her millionaire.’
‘Aye – just the wrong kind of millionaire.’
17. BASSENTHWAITE LAKE
Saturday, 7.10am
Still picking particles of London from his nostrils, Skelgill sits watchfully in his boat. While is has been light for well over an hour, only now does the sun penetrate his position. He is tucked beneath old crack willows at the shallow southern reaches of Bassenthwaite Lake. Skiddaw, like a slumbering brindled bear yet to wake from winter hibernation, lies brawny and robust, seeming to breathe as the sun’s heat upon its steaming flanks causes rising air to play tricks with the transmission of shimmering light. Skelgill feels reassuringly Lilliputian by comparison. A light breeze, a welcome south-westerly, creates a ripple on the water surface and keeps Skelgill honest, the corduroy collar raised of his trusty threadbare Barbour. All about him birds, largely invisible, make their presence known. The blackbirds were at their dawn chorus when he awoke before first light, their lazy morning melody percolating through his open window and pre-empting his alarm; still some of their ilk persist, now joined by a whole spring cacophony that comprises the likes of stock dove, coal tit, robin, nuthatch, chaffinch, wren and mistle thrush. From the reedbeds to his right emanates the irregular cackle of mallards indulging in some horseplay, and the occasional plaintive kirruk of a solitary moorhen.
His thoughts drift back to his last visit when, floating not far from here, he experienced for the first time the paradox of Scarlett Liddell. Something of her capricious nature was displayed even in that fleeting pass. Engaging while he was the novelty of the moment; dropping him abruptly as soon as he had served her whim. What did Andrew Organ say – mostly ones and fives? Never a three.
Except a carrion crow craws three times, energetically – in this season a sound that triggers alarm, a warning ingrained into his psyche, since boyhood days tagging along at the heels of shepherds out on the windswept fells. He looks shoreward for vulnerable lambs. In the direction of Greenmire Castle there is rough pasture and a grazing flock – but it is a human figure that catches his eye, immediately incongruous, an awkward movement at the end of the rickety wooden landing stage. Skelgill squints. It is Thomas Montagu-Browne, and he appears to be fly casting, badly.
Skelgill watches for a minute or so; then he winds in his own line and takes up his oars. The breeze is with him; two minutes more finds him backing alongside the pier. Thomas Montagu-Browne, a seemingly permanent startled expression etched into his features, has stopped ‘fishing’ and leant his rod against the handrail. He understands however that Skelgill is about to toss the painter to him, and makes a satisfactory catch.
Skelgill heaves himself onto the splintered boards by the heels of his leathery hands, and performs a half-roll and springs lightly to his f
eet.
‘Morning, Tom.’
‘Good m-morning, Inspector.’
‘Were you trying to get rid of the midges?’
‘P-pardon, Inspector? There are n-no midges.’
The man looks slightly terrified.
‘I saw you casting.’ Skelgill gestures at the fishing rig. ‘That’s a half-decent new rod – but you’ll get nowhere thrashing an imaginary cuddy.’
It seems to dawn on Thomas Montagu-Browne – perhaps Skelgill’s informal greeting has sunk in, and his focus upon angling, and now a rather artful grin – that perhaps the policeman is not about to accuse him of some criminal misdemeanour – and in fact harbours a genuine interest in what he has been doing.
‘Oh – oh – L-Lavinia wants to offer fly fishing as p-part of our package – that I should be some kind of g-ghillie? Also that we provide a free experience to local youth groups – scouts – g-girl g-guides. She’s advertising an Open Day.’
Skelgill has not interviewed Thomas Montagu-Browne – that task fell previously to DS Leyton – so he is not sure if the man’s stutter is habitual or simply borne out of nerves. He recalls the aforementioned Lavinia’s warning – that her half-brother was unintentionally ill mannered. He detects none of that – but perhaps he has the jump on the man in the ‘bluff Northerner’ stakes.
Skelgill reaches to pick up the rod. He inspects the arrangement – a nylon leader is correctly attached via a braided loop to the heavy fly line – he suspects the tackle shop of setting this up; it looks a professional job, secured with a spot of super glue. Sensibly, for practice purposes, no hooks have been tied on. Skelgill digs into his pocket and pulls out a large rusted steel washer. Deftly he secures it to the leader and draws in the line by hand until it is stopped by the rod tip ring.
‘Why do we cast, Tom?’
Without waiting for an answer, left-handed Skelgill flicks the rod and sends the line shooting across the water. The washer disappears with a splash, maybe twenty yards from their position. Thomas Montagu-Browne watches, blinking.
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