This qualification seems to be welcome to Skelgill. He recommences walking, albeit more circumspectly, his eyes picking out irregularities caused by tree roots that corrupt the fabric of the tarmac path before him.’
‘Is he lying?’
‘I don’t think so. I decided to challenge him with the pregnancy head on – no build up – and he just kind of folded – he’s blaming himself – saying that she wouldn’t have committed suicide if he’d believed her – but he thought she was bluffing and –’
Now Skelgill interrupts.
‘Hold on, hold on – what’s the full story – start at the beginning.’
DS Jones sounds like she is reorganising herself at a desk, perhaps finding the right place in what may be voluminous notes.
‘What we thought about the unregistered phone – we were right – it’s his – he bought it when they started seeing each other – when Scarlett Liddell was Scarlett Robertson – based in London. He was in the middle of his divorce proceedings – plus there was the issue about inter-staff relationships being prohibited. So it seems they were both happy to keep it under wraps. They had a simple system – she would call him to arrange to meet. No voice messages or texts. If she didn’t get through she tried again later. And he admits to owning the flat in Shelton Street – originally his bachelor pad. When he married Felicity Belvedere he moved in with her – she had a larger apartment in Hammersmith that was closer to where they both worked at the time. He rented his place out – when Scarlett Robertson came on the scene it just happened to be between tenancies, so he offered it to her.’
Skelgill, though listening intently, is also scowling. His tone is rather scathing.
‘Where does this lovebirds business fit with her marrying Will Liddell?’
A nervous laugh escapes DS Jones. To Skelgill it seems she harbours some sympathy – but for whom it is impossible to tell. That Kevin Makepeace lost out – or that Miss Robertson found it impossible to resist the allure of becoming Mrs Liddell?
‘He said her head was turned. So he thought it was all over between them. But after she’d left the company and married Will Liddell she started calling him again. She told him she realised she truly loved him. They picked up where they’d left off.’
‘Except by now she’s having her cake and eating it, too.’
‘She insisted the marriage had been a mistake – and she told him there was a more sinister reason why she couldn’t stay with Will Liddell.’
‘But not what it was?’
‘Not at the time – obviously he’s put two and two together since Will Liddell’s arrest.’
‘Did Will Liddell know anything of this – affair?’
‘Kevin Makepeace claims not, Guv. He says he wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in his job if he had.’
Skelgill’s pacing becomes rather ponderous, his head nodding with each footfall.
‘Remember Muriel Liddell told me it was a good time financially for Scarlett to have married Will Liddell. Kevin Makepeace would have known that, too.’
Skelgill hears a hissed intake of breath.
‘Guv – are you suggesting it was a conspiracy?’
‘Why not? Marry Will Liddell just as his wealth doubles – ship out with a tidy sum – settle down happily ever after as the new Mrs Makepeace.’
‘But, Guv – a plan like that – it would tilt the motive for murder back in favour of Will Liddell.’
‘Happen it might.’
There is a period of radio silence – but in this interval DS Jones replays Skelgill’s proposition and concludes it is not underpinned by any great sense of conviction.
‘Guv – on the evening of the Murder Mystery – Kevin Makepeace says he went to see Scarlett Liddell – he says he left his room before 7pm – he doesn’t know the exact time, maybe ten minutes to – he went down and through the empty library, and back up the ladies’ stair – like we thought someone might. She had been putting pressure on him during the previous week – she wanted him to confront Will Liddell – to tell him that he and Scarlett were in love. He couldn’t understand why it had suddenly come to a head as far as Scarlett was concerned – he tried to dissuade her from rushing into it. Of course – if he didn’t know about her condition, it’s understandable that he felt she was acting rashly. He says she became really insistent – and mentioned it several times during Saturday – that if he didn’t do it, she would. He tried to persuade her it would be catastrophic – to break the news over the weekend of Will Liddell’s birthday celebration. But at teatime she began drinking heavily – she threatened to announce it later in the library in front of everyone – saying what could Will Liddell do then? Kevin Makepeace said he’d be forced to deny it. Her response was to warn him that she’d do something even more drastic – something he’d regret for the rest of his life. He thought she was just posturing – what could she actually do? Except there was a kind of manic intent in her manner that scared him. So he went to her room to try to head her off.’
‘And what happened?’
‘Ah – that’s the thing, Guv. He got no answer. He knocked multiple times – waited seven or eight minutes – in case she was in the bathroom or dressing room and hadn’t heard him. Eventually he tried the door – and it was locked. Probably it had locked itself when Scarlett Liddell went up after tea. He said he couldn’t do much else – she may have been through in Will Liddell’s suite – breaking the news. When the gong sounded at 7pm he gave up – he didn’t want to be caught on the wrong stair by one of the other guests. He said he was shaking – he went straight for the drinks – and downed one, just like Tom Montagu-Browne described.’ DS Jones pauses reflectively. ‘You know – he may not have trusted Scarlett Liddell to see it through – it’s one thing to tell Will Liddell – but another altogether to leave him. Or maybe he was getting cold feet – he might have preferred to carry on with the clandestine affair. Despite the outward bravado I think he’s a bit of a coward at heart. He admitted he was terrified when Will Liddell marched into the library – and so he launched into the account of the whisky labelling problem – though he quickly realised Will Liddell couldn’t yet have known anything – and then others began to arrive and it defused the situation – except he says he was still on tenterhooks in case Scarlett carried out her threat of a public announcement. Then came Suzy Duff’s dramatic intervention – and it suddenly hit him – her suicide is what he would regret. Although of course, with hindsight, we know that may not be what she meant.’
Skelgill does not seem inclined to differentiate.
‘Why didn’t he come clean?’
‘He claims he was planning to – when he’d composed himself – but then he got wind from the others – Derek Duff and Mike Luker – that the police were treating it as possible foul play – and he realised that he’d be the prime suspect. He says once he’d not spoken out in the first place, he felt he had no choice but to keep quiet – and that in any event he’d done nothing wrong. He knocked on her door and went away.’
Skelgill’s brows are knitted. This excuse of protested innocence has a familiar ring to it.
‘So who does he think did it?’
‘He looked genuinely shocked when I asked him that, Guv. He said surely it was suicide? When I pressed him – the only scenario he could come up with was if Scarlett had told Will Liddell – and that he killed her in a jealous rage. But he felt it implausible – what kind of psychopath would murder his wife and then behave normally towards her lover, just minutes apart?’
Skelgill looks like he can think of what kind – but he has a more salient question.
‘What did he have to say about the pregnancy?’
‘He was totally bewildered – she’d promised him she was using contraception. He’s genuinely distressed about that, Guv. He was really quite emotional. And I think today’s interview is the first time he’s been able to express his feelings for Scarlett to another person.’
Skelgill makes a cynical growl in
his throat.
‘Bear in mind he’s had going on a fortnight to rehearse his excuses.’
DS Jones inhales – although she hesitates as if carefully to select her words.
‘Look, Guv – I thought he was our best bet for a murderer. Now I find myself believing him.’
Her tone is apprehensive – and therefore Skelgill’s reaction must be unexpected.
‘Fine. Get it written up.’
‘Oh – sure – I will, Guv.’ The surprise is evident in her voice. ‘I’ll, er – tell Kevin Makepeace he can go, shall I?’
‘Aye.’
‘Er – what are you doing, Guv?’
‘I’m about to relate a mystery to his ex-wife.’
*
Just as Skelgill is poised to press the button to request access to Felicity Belvedere’s Ravelston apartment, his phone rings – or, rather, the Lambeth Walk, that most ubiquitous of jingles chimes out in the affluent Edinburgh suburb.
‘Leyton.’
Skelgill backs off from the communal doorway, as if wary that eavesdroppers might hear him through the building’s intercom.
‘Ah – Guv – gotcha – bit of interesting news from forensics – and the techie boffins – on that phone of Scarlett Liddell’s. Thought you’d want to know straight away.’
‘Aye.’
DS Leyton evidently detects sufficient encouragement in Skelgill’s monosyllable, for he launches into his explanation.
‘First off, Guv, forensics. There’s three sets of prints on the handset – you might have expected more, really – the way people pass their phones around these days. Scarlett Liddell’s, obviously – and Will Liddell’s we know about – and then another set – probably female – delicate, like – and deposited with a residue of some type of hand cream. And they’re some of the most recent, kind of on top of the others, if you know what I mean?’ (Skelgill grunts an acknowledgement. He has squatted upon a low wall and is staring at foraging ants.) ‘Meanwhile IT have been liaising with the phone company – it seems Scarlett Liddell – or at least someone using her phone – tried to send a text at a quarter to seven on the Saturday night – and the intended recipient was that mystery number.’
‘Makepeace’s private number, Leyton. He’s just admitted it to Jones.’
‘Cor blimey – well, there you go, Guv.’ DS Leyton makes a confirmatory double-clicking sound with his tongue against the roof of his mouth. ‘Thing is, though – the text never got through – the file was too big, like maybe it was a photo she was trying to send – and what with the weak signal inside the castle walls – the network only barely picked up the attempt to connect.’
‘It doesn’t come as a surprise, Leyton – given what Jones has just found out.’
‘No, Guv – but maybe more of a surprise – there’s no trace of the text or a photo on the phone itself. They’ve been deleted.’
Unseen by his colleague, Skelgill is grinning, though it is with a certain severity. When he does not respond, his sergeant offers a prompt.
‘What do you reckon, Guv?’
‘I reckon you’ve just added a little twist to my tale, Leyton.’
*
‘Ms Belvedere – I shan’t beat about the bush.’ Skelgill immediately contradicts his words by not continuing. He licks his lips, and it is apparent that his mouth is dry. It is hard to judge if it is simply because, now faced with what he has to say, he finds it unpalatable, or alternatively because he wants to create some psychological pressure. Either way, it takes a few seconds in order for him to resume. He is flexing what appears to be a Kirby grip between the index finger and thumb of his left hand. ‘This is a moment to put pride or embarrassment to one side. If you can give me the answer I’m expecting – you and your daughter can get on with your life. This conversation will be entirely off the record. I have a question – and then a – a little – story. I’d be obliged for your opinion as to whether it’s far-fetched.’
Felicity Belvedere regards him keenly with her bright blue eyes. Her naturally downturned mouth perhaps exaggerates the impression that she knows what is coming. Silently, she nods once.
‘The question concerns yourself – and Mr Will Liddell.’
*
‘Mrs Luker – I shan’t beat about the bush.’
22. OPEN DAY
Saturday morning, 11 days later
With practised aplomb and not needing to look over his shoulder, Skelgill pulls his craft – presently referred to as plain “lass” when she does not quite behave, but once (he has now confirmed from faded lettering at the stern) the more illustrious Covenant – out from the narrow neck of Peel Wyke anchorage and into the main body of Bassenthwaite Lake. With his right-hand oar he backs down to turn the prow towards Greenmire Castle.
‘How long will it take us to get there, Guv?’
‘You complaining? You’re welcome to row.’
DS Jones grins amiably.
‘I’ll give it a go – just say when.’
Skelgill grimaces as he hauls hard on the oars to get up to speed, his slightly superior expression suggesting that only he would have the strength to do the job – though simultaneously his gaze falls upon his colleague, as she trails the fingertips of one hand experimentally in the cool water. She is a relatively slender young woman, but her bare arms, subtly sculpted, reveal a hidden musculature – and he has glimpsed her in the gym, on the rowing machine – what she lacks in pure bulk she would probably make up in her naturally precise technique. That she is attired accordingly – close fitting Lycra sportswear that seems de rigueur these days, sport or not, for those females that can carry it off – owes something to the arrival of a ridge of high pressure stretching two thousand miles from the Azores to Iceland, that has brought summer temperatures to spring the length and breadth of the British Isles. For his part Skelgill is looking overdressed and already a little hot, an authentic if shambolic fisherman – though he has not any rods at the ready – indeed no tackle at all in his boat – only a crate containing his Kelly kettle, and the wherewithal for a rustic picnic of Cumberland sausage sandwiches.
‘We’ll be there in ten minutes – when we’re done you can row back with the wind to Scar Ness – there’s a nice shingle bank – we’ll land for a mash.’
DS Jones grins in a way that is appreciative of his incorrigible adventurism. Why visit the comfortable refreshments tent when you can sit on a rock and brew tea with lake water fired by driftwood?
‘Sure.’
She settles, seemingly happy and relaxed. They look like a couple – day-trippers on an outing – and if any local were to recognise them as police officers – they would assume they were off duty. In body, this would be a correct assumption – but in mind police officers are never really off duty – especially detectives such as these. And not least that they are now passing into waters where Skelgill is reminded of their most recent case.
‘It was round about here that I saw Scarlett Liddell.’
It takes DS Jones a moment to register the context.
‘Really, Guv – what actually happened?’
‘They just passed me – about fifty yards off. She called out. That was it. I noticed Will Liddell didn’t approve.’
Now DS Jones’s memory is jogged.
‘Did you see the Scottish police tweeted about the case this morning?’
Skelgill pauses mid-stroke to ply her with an old-fashioned look.
DS Jones chuckles and waves an apologetic hand.
‘Will Liddell has pleaded guilty to three specimen charges of sexual assault.’
Skelgill remains still – his expression momentarily frozen.
‘He’s playing the system.’
‘He could get fourteen years, Guv.’
‘That’ll do for starters.’
Now his features contract to indicate that the figure would be insufficient in his view. He resumes rowing, the splash and swish more frequent than before. However, DS Jones’s voice comes lightly.
&
nbsp; ‘What was she like, Guv?’
Skelgill seems to be wondering himself.
‘She noticed me. The others didn’t.’
His answer is abrupt, punctuated by a deep breath.
DS Jones nods. She too pauses reflectively.
‘I’m glad about the Coroner’s verdict, Guv. Death by misadventure. If there’s such a thing – it must be much less painful for the family. I think Kevin Makepeace’s testimony made all the difference at the inquest.’
Skelgill momentarily bares his teeth – it could just be the effort of rowing – although there is a hint of disapproval – but now he tempers this by making a kind of nod in his subordinate’s direction, as if to convey his recognition of her role in this regard. Now he becomes a little more expansive, speaking in short bursts between inspiration and expiration.
‘We were looking too hard. I should have admitted – to myself – it was a mare’s nest – from the beginning. Suicide – dressed up as murder – hah!’
Going by DS Jones’s expression this latter phrase sounds a little alarm bell – however her first response is to allay his self-reproach.
‘But, Guv – the death had occurred – there was nothing we could have done about that – and if we hadn’t have investigated it the way we did – who knows – Will Liddell might still be at large. Think of the potential misery we’ve put an end to.’
Skelgill ponders her assessment.
‘But in one case – you might call that a silver lining.’
He does not appear inclined to elaborate. He has been circumspect about his informal visits on what had proved to be the concluding day of the investigation, first to Suzy Duff at St Salvator’s, and thence to the school’s ‘Old Girls’ – Felicity Belvedere and Belinda Luker – and finally to Muriel Liddell. DS Jones has been obliged to read between the lines – for she is more than sufficiently perceptive to sense that, if Skelgill has withheld information, it may just be to protect her from the horns of some dilemma, caught between morality and the law.
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