‘So what, Guv – surely it’s still back to the drawing board?’
There is a substantial pause before Skelgill replies.
‘Back to school, Leyton.’
20. RETURN TO EDINBURGH
Monday, 3pm
‘Guv – I think this is potentially significant.’
DS Jones settles back in the passenger seat of Skelgill’s car. Two-handed she holds to her breast the report she has just read; she makes an expiration of breath, her lips pursed against the top edge of the pages, and the papers vibrate like the reeds of a wind instrument. Her gaze becomes clouded; rain is lashing down and the wipers fight a losing battle against the hammering onslaught that is bolstered by spray thrown up by a convoy of trucks that chokes the middle lane of the motorway. Having left DS Leyton to hold the fort at headquarters, departing forty minutes ago they have crossed the border. Signposts to Lockerbie are imprecise in the mist, and the landscape begins to assume a rolling character, hinting at more barren country to come. But they can see little of this – a blessing perhaps for DS Jones – for at least Skelgill cannot so easily be distracted by thoughts of fishing each time they cross some swollen beck or – now that they are in Scotland – swollen burn.
‘Reckon you’d better fill me in.’
The report – the headline of which DS Jones was about to impart to her colleagues when the lock of Lady Anne’s chamber jammed, prompting the about-turn that has them heading north – concerns a separate matter. A delving into Scarlett Liddell’s mobile phone account has unearthed some irregular activity.
‘The top line points are these.’ DS Jones remains in her semi-recumbent pose, and does not refer to the notes. She continues to stare ahead, as if hypnotised by the metronomic swish of the wipers. But her voice is clear and her phrases economical. ‘Scarlett Liddell had been contacting an unregistered number – a pay-as-you-go mobile. The calls date back three years – towards the end of the period that she worked in London – and the most recent was two weeks ago. Typically one call per week – usually on a Friday. The calls were of short duration – under a minute – often just a few seconds. There have been periods of several months when there were no calls. There was a particularly heavy cluster about a month ago. All of the calls were outbound from her mobile. The receiving handset and SIM card were purchased in a Tesco supermarket in Edinburgh a few days before the first call from Scarlett Liddell. The buyer paid cash – likewise for subsequent top-ups.’
‘Sounds like it’s her dealer.’
Although Skelgill is merely sarcastic DS Jones’s brow is furrowed, and patently his suggestion goes against the grain of her thinking. Besides, not only had Will Liddell dismissed any such notion, but also no alien substances had been found in his late wife’s bloodstream.
‘The majority of the calls were received in Edinburgh – but occasionally London – and the earlier calls were made from London. More specifically, the recipient was invariably either in the Covent Garden area – or what they call the East End of Edinburgh.’ She pauses for a moment. ‘We can probably request more accurate triangulation – but these locations correspond to the offices of Liddell Acorns.’
Skelgill gives a casual shrug that travels as a shudder down his arms to the steering wheel and causes a wobble in the vehicle’s trajectory.
‘Happen Will Liddell’s got another phone.’
But DS Jones has thought this through.
‘Guv – I could buy that – maybe while they were having a clandestine relationship – but why would it continue afterwards – for another two years?’ Skelgill does not respond, so she continues. ‘And I could buy that Will Liddell might have a private number – separate from his business line – but surely it would still be on the company account – and why these strange one-sided calls?’
‘So, what’s your theory?’
‘Unlike texts, phone calls leave no incriminating trail of words. I think she was arranging to meet. I think she was having an affair – with someone as keen to conceal it as she was. We know about the company policy on relationships. We know Will Liddell is regarded as controlling.’
In his professional life, at times like this, Skelgill’s natural recalcitrance is probably an asset, for it acts as a check on what he regards as the blinkered enthusiasm of others.
‘Aye, but she was having an affair in the first place – with Will Liddell. What you’re telling me – that would mean she was having two affairs.’
‘Actually, Guv – the longest period when the calls temporarily stopped corresponds to just before she left the company – when her relationship with Will Liddell became public knowledge. You could construe that she got herself hitched to him – and then reconnected with the other person. Someone from Edinburgh. Maybe someone who was at the Murder Mystery weekend.’
Skelgill makes a disparaging growl in his throat.
‘You’re talking Kevin Makepeace, obviously.’
Surprised by his direct prompt, DS Jones feels obliged to backtrack.
‘Well – it’s a fact that Derek Duff and Mike Luker are both regular visitors to the Liddell Acorns building in Edinburgh – several times a week for meetings. But the earlier calls made by Scarlett Liddell from London, and received in London – surely that rules them out? Whereas we know Kevin Makepeace travelled south for meetings with other marketing heads, and his various advertising agencies. And he gave her the job.’
Skelgill ruminates for a moment or two.
‘I take it we’ve tried ringing the number?’
‘It’s switched off – although not deactivated.’ She gives a little ironic laugh. ‘And no personal greeting.’
A silence descends – as they each ponder the possible implications – although while DS Jones thinks along lateral lines, Skelgill simply waits to see what happens. It is a method that he has refined through angling. There are times when trying too hard yields a blank day on the water; when sitting tight, drifting with the breeze, not allowing himself to be distracted by an intrusive stimulus is the best response. In his experience, fish – or at least bites – come along of their own volition, frequently in little clusters. The London bus phenomenon. And, now, the capital connection breaks the calm surface of their contemplation. It begins with the disembodied Cockney voice of DS Leyton, who calls DS Jones’s number; she engages speaker mode. He sounds animated.
‘Guvnor – that old biddy we went to see – Scarlett Liddell’s auntie – well, not auntie – but you know what I mean – you ate all her cakes?’
A scowling Skelgill glances to see that DS Jones is grinning – but he can only fleetingly take his eyes off the indistinct road ahead.
‘Get on with it, Leyton.’
‘Yeah, Guv – what it is – she found that address that Scarlett Liddell moved to in the West End – a mail redirection notice that she’d hung onto – the Post Office sends it to your old address to stop any Tom, Dick or Harry diverting your mail without you knowing?’
‘I’ll take your word for it, Leyton.’
‘Anyway, Guv – she phoned it through earlier – I’ve had the address checked. It’s a flat in Shelton Street – that’s just behind Long Acre – and not far from Bow Street.’
Skelgill does not need reminding that the London offices of Liddell Acorns are located in Bow Street. But this simply fits with the information they already possess – that Scarlett Liddell moved to an apartment close to her work. However, DS Leyton’s next revelation is one he does not anticipate.
‘Guv – London Borough of Camden’s got a landlord registration scheme. The owner – for the last nine years – has been a Mr K. Makepeace. Can’t be too many of them around.’
Into the silence that ensues DS Leyton enters some conjecture.
‘How about that, Guv – he must have been the mystery geezer that turned up that night at Beaconsfield – gave Scarlett Liddell a lift to his gaff? Helped her move in.’
Skelgill continues to stare ahead. A look approaching alarm has slowly gri
pped his features – as though he is being forced progressively to accept something he is not comfortable with. Again he snatches a glance at DS Jones – she makes a brief fanning motion with a hand in front of her face, as if to suggest this news is too hot too handle. DS Leyton pipes back up – that he has a DC trying to extract the historical council tax records so that they may confirm that Scarlett Liddell was indeed the occupant – but Skelgill appears sufficiently convinced – if inexplicably crestfallen. When he offers no rejoinder DS Jones intervenes by relating to their colleague the discussion of the ‘mystery mobile’ – and her suggestion of a relationship. DS Leyton is quick to respond.
‘Cor blimey – sounds to me like Makepeace was the middle rung of the ladder.’
Now Skelgill interjects.
‘What are you talking about, Leyton?’
‘Well – you know, Guv – everything we’ve heard about Scarlett Liddell – in a nutshell – it’s naked ambition. Like the old auntie told us – it ended up with her hooking her millionaire. Seems to me like she weren’t too fussed about who she had to trample over on the way. For starters there’s that sad case, Organ – so she moves on to Kevin Makepeace – chews him up – gets to Edinburgh – spits him out – on to the main course, Will Liddell.’
Skelgill seems momentarily defeated by such blatant logic. His rudderless craft has become sucked into turbulent waters. With a hint of desperation in his voice, he contrives to cast an anchor.
‘Leyton – these calls have been going on right up until the last few weeks. How does that fit with your theory of her dumping Kevin Makepeace – if it even were him? Like I’ve just said to Jones – what if it’s Will Liddell’s spare mobile?’
DS Leyton is evidently a little flummoxed by his superior’s somewhat agitated retort – via the loudspeaker curious hemmings and hawings come down the line – like the sound of a baffled pupil determined to convey to his schoolmaster it is just a matter of time before his brain clunks ponderously into gear.
‘Oh, sh--!’
But it is DS Jones – and there is nothing ponderous about her reaction. Indeed she appends her exclamation with an uncharacteristic profanity – it is an oath of self-reproach. But on rarity value alone it wins the attention of her colleagues. She flicks urgently through her notes.
‘Guv – what you just said – about the calls continuing until recently.’
‘Aye?’
She finds the page she seeks. Her eyes dart about the columns of figures. She tentatively places a manicured index finger on the paper as though she feels for some invisible embossing.
‘This cluster – about four weeks ago – calls that were made from Scarlett Liddell’s mobile and received in Edinburgh.’ Now she turns to look directly at Skelgill. ‘It’s just struck me – Will Liddell was in Shanghai. He was there for a month – covering that whole period.’
Skelgill pulls his face into a grimace. ‘So – they weren’t to him, then.’ But if he continues to play devil’s advocate, he no longer sounds convincing.
In the background DS Leyton clears his throat – perhaps a reminder that he is still there – and keen to hear what his colleague has to say. He senses there is more; and he is right. She takes a deep breath.
‘But, Guv – it’s not that – it’s not the phone calls –’
‘What is it then?’
‘While Will Liddell was in China, six thousand miles away – Scarlett Liddell didn’t just make an unusually high number of phone calls.’ DS Jones licks her lips as though her mouth has become dry. ‘Guv – think of the timings – she also got pregnant.’
*
‘You not eating, Guv?’
Skelgill sniffs morosely. He has ordered just a mug of tea. DS Jones has opted for water.
‘Thought I’d better save myself – In case we end up in that Laldhi joint again tonight. It’s a waste not to finish a banquet when it’s paid for.’
DS Jones grins. It is not often her boss eschews a snack – and not least that they are seated inside a busy Moffat café that she has heard him laud for its bacon rolls; if she recalls correctly, “The best this side of The Horn” (which had turned out to be a roadhouse located alongside the River Tay). Their present location is just thirty miles north of the English border – the halfway point of their two-hour journey – and that Skelgill has stopped at all is in some respects a surprise – but DS Jones has detected an air of fretfulness about him since their conference call with DS Leyton. True enough, the steamed-up car was becoming claustrophobic – but his caged demeanour she has witnessed before, when evidence piles up and the facts don’t fit his feelings – more than once he has climbed out of his office window, protesting the need for fresh air. But the café stuffy with the cloying aroma of roasted coffee beans mingled with sundry cooking smells is not exactly the great outdoors.
Certainly Skelgill is disquieted. Just as DS Jones’s news of the calls became temporarily subsumed at Greenmire Castle by the discovery of the faulty lock, so did his own line of inquiry – more permanently. But a doubt continues to dog him. Yet he cannot dispute the new understanding that points to Kevin Makepeace as some key actor in the drama of the Murder Mystery weekend. While there is not yet proof that the mobile phone belongs to him, there can be no doubt about the Covent Garden flat that Scarlett Liddell – then Scarlett Robertson – had temporarily occupied. And of the interview with Thomas Montagu-Browne, Skelgill’s sergeants were quick to remind him that – while the butler was no reader of emotions – his account of Kevin Makepeace arriving solo in the library, downing a cocktail and taking another, was surely pertinent. And not forgetting that, on the fateful evening, while the Duffs on the first floor and the Lukers on the second had kept open their adjoining dressing room doors, on the third floor Felicity Belvedere and her ex-husband Kevin Makepeace had not. If Kevin Makepeace had wished to leave his room unnoticed, he could have done so. He could have descended the gentlemen’s stair, crossed through the empty library, and ascended to Scarlett Liddell’s suite via the ladies’ stair. Adding weight to such conjecture is one simple fact – omitted at the time, but now confirmed by a retrospective telephone call to Thomas Montagu-Browne. While the other members of the house party entered the library from the tower doors that corresponded to their respective sides of the building, Kevin Makepeace had entered from the ladies’ stair.
Skelgill, however, has insisted that the rampant speculation that threatened to take hold of their debate be held in check. The corollary of DS Jones’s startling deduction about Scarlett Liddell’s embryonic pregnancy is the question of paternity. But this is a matter of fact – and one that can be established – subject to the correct and sensitive protocol. If necessary. His reticence has puzzled his subordinates – and his vehemence in this regard he does not fully comprehend himself. Does his unrest have its roots in that the idea was not his? The issue of the timing of Will Liddell’s trip abroad had eluded them all in the first instance – albeit in hindsight it is glaringly obvious. But with the subject off limits, DS Jones seems to struggle to find common ground for discussion, and something of an awkward silence settles between the pair. In fact it is Skelgill that now resurrects the conversation, but only to the extent that he outlines his thinking about their next steps.
‘Tomorrow – you see Makepeace.’
‘On my own, Guv?’
Skelgill’s expression becomes somewhat pained. They have contacted DS Cameron Findlay in order to set up on their behalf the interview. Skelgill considers for a moment that the experienced Scots officer could sit in – however, he dismisses the idea on the grounds of unfamiliarity with the case. Besides, if anyone, it should be him, but he feels an aversion that is hard to put into words.
‘You’ve interviewed him once.’
‘But not under caution, Guv. As it was, he was bolshie, remember?’
‘Aye – but he was also trying to impress you – so you’re halfway there.’
DS Jones looks doubtful about this suggestion.
<
br /> ‘Do I ask him outright?’
They both understand that she refers to Scarlett Liddell’s pregnancy.
‘See which way the wind blows.’
That Skelgill will rarely plan an interview – the occasional secret signal between colleagues excepted – is of no great comfort, and the cliché a piece of rather empty advice.
‘I feel it’s more likely that he won’t have known about it.’
‘Whatever.’ Skelgill shrugs indifferently. ‘When he finds out – he’s smart enough to realise it’s not going to be difficult to identify the father.’
DS Jones nods reflectively. If this is an ace they hold up their sleeve, then she wants to deploy it to best effect – but what is the desired outcome? Some kind of confession from Kevin Makepeace? But to show their cards risks handing over the advantage – and simply providing their opponent with the means to mount a defence. If there were a clandestine relationship, then only one person is alive to write its history. And circumstantial evidence alone will not prove that Kevin Makepeace was involved in the death of Scarlett Liddell any more than her husband – or any of the other members of the party, come to that. Perhaps she must resign herself to ‘seeing which way the wind blows’.
‘What about you, Guv? What will you do?’
It takes a while for Skelgill to answer. When he does, it is with another from his repertoire of slippery clichés.
‘I’ll sleep on it.’
21. IUNCTA SORORIBUS
Tuesday, 6.15am
‘Gibbons, Inspector?’
Skelgill takes a seat on the bench above the stone wall, below which the elderly man, David Balfour performs his Tai Chi before the great vista of Edinburgh, the city’s spires and stacks wreathed in a smoky mist that recalls its epithet Auld Reekie. The newly risen sun picks out the distant Bass Rock, and Skelgill is reminded that he has not checked his boat for evidence of its erstwhile epithet, Covenant. For this is the man that might well say, “Ah kent yer faither.”
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