DS Leyton slaps his hands down upon the table in a small act of desperation.
‘I know, Guv – but what? We come here as a favour for Manchester – then the hospital calls us in over those thefts – and next thing all hell breaks loose. There’s got to be more to it. You’ve said it yourself about these coincidences.’
Skelgill folds his arms and slumps against the back of his plastic chair.
‘Leyton – if you drained all the water out of Bass Lake you’d be left with a load of mud and thousands of flapping fish. Just because roach would be sharing puddles with pike doesn’t make them best of pals.’
An expression of bewilderment crosses DS Leyton’s countenance. Whether it is frustration that his superior has now turned devil’s advocate, or that his analogy is patent nonsense and perhaps designed to confound, it is difficult to know which troubles him most. He reaches for his snack bar and cracks it open, under the covetous scrutiny of Skelgill. He eats a piece and washes it down with tea. The comforting sensation seems to settle him, and he turns a page of his notes.
‘We’ve not managed to get any further in identifying the last few members of staff that visited the dispensary – but they have now put together the sections of CCTV footage that show Meredith Bale and Dr Agnetha Walker leaving the premises.’
‘Aye?’
‘To be honest, Guv – I had a butcher’s before you got here – there’s nothing different to what Eric Blacklock first showed us. You can just see the pair of them walking like they’re arm in arm, along a series of corridors and using swipe-cards to get through the doors. There’s the red Volvo leaving the main gate from the staff car park – but that just looks completely normal. It must be that Meredith Bale had the doctor under her control one way or another – like we said before, Guv.’
‘What about Krille?’
‘There’s a distant shot of him climbing the rope ladder. You’d have to be eagle-eyed to spot him. You can’t make out any detail – like whether he’s got a rucksack or not. There was a nearer camera – but they’ve cut back on maintenance. The lens was covered in spiders’ webs and dead flies and all sorts of gunge. Apparently the lights attract insects so the spiders move in. Then birds and bats flock round and guano builds up. It was like trying to look through frosted glass.’
Skelgill shakes his head disparagingly. DS Leyton continues.
‘The psychologists’ reports show nothing in Harry Krille’s behaviour that suggested he was about to do a runner. His gardening plot was immaculate and right in the middle of its season. Seems he’s grown competition standard leeks. They say how well he’d been responding to the horticultural therapy. Completely caught everyone off guard, Guv.’
‘What about contact with Meredith Bale?’
DS Leyton rocks his head from side to side.
‘Nothing obvious. They’ve been in different wards since Meredith Bale was committed here. There were no activities that they shared – like the drama group or gardening. There’s been talks and film screenings that they’ve both attended – but there’s no socialising and they weren’t observed trying to make direct contact. Course, it don’t say they couldn’t get messages passed between ’em.’
DS Leyton drops the sheaf of papers and massages his scalp with the fingers of both hands, as though the effort of recounting these details has strained his faculties. Skelgill stares expectantly across the room, as if he anticipates their first interviewee to enter at any second.
‘Aye – but if they have – it means someone’s holding out on us, Leyton.’
*
‘How long have you been at Haresfell?’
Arthur Kerr’s gaze shifts from Skelgill, posing the question, to DS Leyton, and back. He runs a hand through his oily hair, dislodging a few strands from the frayed band that holds his ponytail in place.
‘Can’t say I’ve counted.’
‘Coming up four years, wasn’t it?’ Skelgill repeats the words Kerr himself had used at their meeting in the Hare’s Beck Foot Inn.
Arthur Kerr shrugs evasively. DS Leyton taps a finger on a pad that lies halfway between himself and Skelgill. The page is covered in notes scrawled in Skelgill’s spidery hand – a small concession to preparation that mainly consists of a list of items he needs to buy from a fishing tackle shop. But it appears at least that he has briefed his sergeant on DS Jones’s findings.
‘Says six here, Guv.’
From behind his round-lensed spectacles Arthur Kerr peers furtively at the upside-down notes, although it would seem unlikely that he could decipher Skelgill’s writing, even the right way around. Skelgill waits for a few moments, until he is certain Arthur Kerr is not going to reply.
‘So you were at Broadmoor at the same time as Briony Boss?’
Now Arthur Kerr’s wily countenance becomes creased by suspicion. Skelgill has highlighted a blemish in his account of himself, yet has chosen not to explore the motive for any such deception.
‘What if I were?’
‘How would you describe your relationship with her?’
‘What’s this got to do with anything?’
‘Just answer the question please, Mr Kerr.’
Arthur Kerr squints accusingly at Skelgill; he could be feeling double-crossed, no longer treated as clandestine confidante, on first name terms.
‘She were miles above my rank, man – just like she is now.’
Skelgill stares for a moment at his page of notes, apparently cross-referencing the point.
‘That wasn’t always the case.’
Arthur Kerr vacillates, as if he is trying to work out what the police might know.
‘Mebbes not – but I never had nowt to do with her – whatever she says.’
DS Leyton glances sharply at Skelgill – for in Arthur Kerr’s denial there seems to be a contradiction of sorts. But Skelgill seems not to notice.
‘Why did you leave Broadmoor, Mr Kerr?’
‘To get back to me roots – to me old ma.’ His reply comes without pause for thought, and smacks of being well rehearsed.
‘You call this close to home?’
‘Aye – Broadmoor’s in Berkshire.’
Skelgill flashes him a scathing look – that of course he knows this simple geographical fact.
‘Sunderland’s still the best part of a two-hundred-mile round trip – you can hardly drop in on spec for Sunday lunch.’
Arthur Kerr shrugs.
‘It’s more within striking distance.’
‘When did you last visit?’
Now it is apparent that Arthur Kerr does not have a ready answer; he glances nervously about as though he might glean a date from some stimulus in his surroundings.
‘It weren’t long ago.’
But Skelgill seems uninterested in this response.
‘So the move wasn’t due to problems in your job?’
‘There’s problems in any job – you must know that, man.’
Skelgill’s features harden visibly.
‘Aye, I’m looking at one now.’
Arthur Kerr, behind his hard-faced façade, seems inwardly to start – a clear sign that tells he is unnerved. He does not reply.
‘What role did Briony Boss play in your transfer?’
‘Like I say – she were way above my level – happen she signed off some papers – reference, that sort of thing.’
‘What did you think when she was appointed as Director of Haresfell?’
‘It’s not for me to think about – I just do me job.’
‘To the best of your ability.’
Arthur Kerr shrugs – but, while he appears uncertain whether Skelgill is being sarcastic, it cannot have escaped his thinking that so far Skelgill has not mentioned their meeting – and in particular his recriminations cast against the establishment under the loosening influence of mild-and-bitter. Perhaps this realisation gives him a modicum of confidence.
‘What else would I do?’
Skelgill again leans to scrutinise his notes.
He runs a finger down the near-illegible list that includes entries that might spell out words such as zinger, jig head and Arlesey bomb – and something perhaps called Gink?
‘I believe Frank Wamphray’s not the first of your patients to die suddenly?’
Now Arthur Kerr folds his arms and furrows his brow. His prominent jaw juts forwards and his mean lips compress into a narrow horizontal strip.
‘That were nowt to do with me, man.’
He stares defiantly, looking from Skelgill to DS Leyton, as if he is challenging them to prove his guilt. But when neither offers a rejoinder, he is prompted to enter a statement in his defence.
‘The clue’s in the title, Broadmoor Hospital – just like Haresfell Hospital – patients die all the time, man.’
Skelgill’s expression remains obdurate.
‘There’s a difference between natural causes and negligence, Mr Kerr.’
‘You’ve got nowt on me – I’ve never done owt like that. If you’ve found something, it’s the organ grinder you want to look out for – not the monkey.’
The watching detectives may have conspired to appear unimpressed, but neither can entirely conceal some degree of intrigue – for in Arthur Kerr’s words there is surely a suggestion of underlying knowledge, if not an oblique admission of complicity. Skelgill homes in upon this point.
‘It’s been said that Frank Wamphray was deliberately poisoned.’
Arthur Kerr does not reply at first – but then he realises he is expected to do so.
‘It don’t make sense – he were harmless – always inventing stuff.’
Skelgill affects a casual shrug.
‘They say there’s no smoke without fire.’
‘Aye – but what’s the fire all about?’
‘You tell me, Mr Kerr.’ Skelgill’s demand must be rhetorical, for he barely pauses. ‘Certain malpractices, perhaps – or plans that were afoot.’
Now Arthur Kerr is shaking his head.
‘You’re talking murder, man. Who’d gan an’ do something like that?’
‘That’s what we’re asking you, Mr Kerr.’ Now Skelgill grimaces, baring his teeth in a rather alarming fashion. ‘Perhaps someone who knew of a reliable monkey?’
Behind his spectacles, the whites of Arthur Kerr’s dark eyes widen, a hunted simian that has reached the end of its branch. There is silence that extends to some ten or more seconds before Skelgill speaks again.
‘Who do you know in the Manchester area, Mr Kerr?’
And now Skelgill’s sudden change of tack further disorientates Arthur Kerr. He wipes his upper lip with the fingers of one hand.
‘Never go there – can’t stand the place – it’s one big traffic jam.’
Much as Skelgill might wish to concur it cannot escape his notice that Arthur Kerr plainly knows enough of the city to share such an opinion. Skelgill picks up his mug and swills the dregs around before swallowing them. He makes a face like the tea is stewed.
‘I thought it might be your kind of scene.’
Arthur Kerr darts a suspicious look at DS Leyton – he seems to be checking for some prior collusion between the detectives. But the sergeant remains stoical and so he reverts his anxious gaze to Skelgill. He shakes his head, unwilling to offer any detail.
‘No?’ Skelgill gnaws tenaciously at a thumbnail and then inspects his handiwork. ‘Don’t worry – we’ve got someone looking into all that.’
Again there is nothing forthcoming from Arthur Kerr. Skelgill glances cursorily at the notes, and then at DS Leyton – who readies himself to speak – but Skelgill turns abruptly back to Arthur Kerr.
‘That’ll do for now, Mr Kerr. Have a think about what we’ve said – if something springs to mind, you know where to find us.’
Arthur Kerr is plainly surprised, but he has sufficient wits about him to rise immediately and back away towards the door.
‘I’m on a half-day – from one o’clock.’
‘Then we’ll know where to find you.’
Arthur Kerr swallows and turns and leaves the room. DS Leyton slumps back in his seat, looking a little disappointed at being deprived the opportunity of posing his question.
‘He was a lot more cagey, Guv.’
‘Aye – now it’s on the record, Leyton – he’s not so cocksure.’
‘Reckon he’s holding something back, Guv?’
‘I don’t reckon.’
Skelgill stares at his sergeant – but his expression promises no enlightenment, and accordingly DS Leyton puffs out his cheeks and shakes his head ruefully.
‘Trouble is, Guv – he’s canny enough to know if we had something on him we’d already have nicked him for it.’
Skelgill nods grimly. Then he consults his wristwatch. Head of Security Eric Blacklock ought by now to be on standby for the next interview. But Skelgill pulls his jacket from the back of his chair and slings it over a shoulder.
‘Leyton – you take Blacklock – I’m going to speak to Briony Boss – while there’s a few things fresh in my mind.’
23. BRIONY BOSS
‘Would you like a drink, Inspector?’
Skelgill glances uneasily at the glass that Briony Boss has placed on the coffee table in the informal seating area of her office. She appears to notice his concern and adds a rider.
‘My PA will bring a cappuccino from the coffee bar, perhaps?’
Skelgill looks for a moment as though he is tempted – but perhaps the idea of the interruption, coming with uncertain timing, deters him.
‘No – thanks – I’ve had my fill this morning.’
The Director smiles sympathetically. For her part, she is certainly more self-possessed than during their last encounter in this office on Friday evening. The casual onlooker would not guess she is captain of a ship that navigates its present troubled waters – or indeed from her appearance that she is captain of any such entity – although pressed for an answer the same might suggest editor of a women’s fashion magazine. She has eschewed her regulation charcoal pencil skirt and white blouse, and instead has chosen an ensemble that comprises a sleeveless black cocktail dress with a plunging neckline, sheer stockings and matching heels. Her make up is freshly applied, once again generous around the dark eyes, and her long glossy raven locks spill onto the pale skin of her half-exposed shoulders.
Already seated, Skelgill allows his gaze to follow her movements as she settles languidly opposite him. He too seems unhurried, despite his abrupt decision to abandon DS Leyton. He twists out of his jacket and drapes it over one arm of the sofa.
‘Inspector, no news, I take it – of Harry Krille or Meredith Bale?’ (With a rueful grimace Skelgill begins to shake his head.) ‘And you will have heard that there has been no improvement in Helen Pettigrew’s condition? She has not regained consciousness.’
Now Skelgill nods.
‘Aye – we got a report early doors.’
Briony Boss arranges her limbs more comfortably, and then casts a searching glance towards the windows.
‘Of course – it is Dr Walker’s safety I fear for – along with anyone else upon whom they may have preyed.’
Skelgill frowns a little.
‘That assumes they’ve teamed up. There’s no evidence for that. If anything it looks like Krille might be at large in the countryside.’
Briony Boss is still gazing beyond Skelgill. Her tone becomes somewhat wistful.
‘If only she had taken her planned half day – the Friday staff meeting had been cancelled earlier in the week – she has paid a high price for her diligence.’
The furrows in Skelgill’s brow deepen – but any rejoinder he may be shaping is overtaken by the Director’s supplementary question.
‘And how are your investigations within our four walls progressing?’
It takes Skelgill a second or two to set aside the point he would make – and then he contrives an expression that speaks of his regret to be the bearer of unpalatable intelligence.
‘There seems to be
a bit of an undercurrent – that the senior management are out of touch with the day-to-day running of the place – I’m alright Jack, you might say.’
A flicker of her eyelids betrays Briony Boss’s alarm – for in Skelgill’s pithy analysis is bundled a whole gamut of charges. In response, she homes in upon one aspect of these, which is perhaps revealing in its choice.
‘But, Inspector – look at me – I live modestly – in accommodation provided on the site – I work longer hours than almost any other employee – and I do not get paid overtime.’
Skelgill holds up his palms in a conciliatory gesture – as if to say he appreciates this, of course, but that perceptions are as much reality as the truth.
‘Aye, well – maybe it’s because you’ve got the likes of Dr Pettigrew with his Jag and his big house and his bairns at private school – you know what folk can be like.’
Briony Boss might well be relieved that Skelgill has shifted the onus onto her colleague, so it seems rather paradoxical that she offers an explanation in his defence.
‘Peter Pettigrew is well remunerated, that much is true – and he derives additional income from his consultancy services in Manchester, and his court work – but what you refer to is another matter.’
‘Aye?’
‘Certainly, Inspector – does the name Bulkington mean anything to you?’
‘The glass makers that went bust?’
‘That is correct. But Helen Bulkington inherited a sizeable fortune before that event. And then she married and became Helen Pettigrew.’
‘I see.’ Skelgill purses his lips. ‘So it’s not my taxes paying for the Jag after all?’
‘Nor mine, Inspector.’
Now Skelgill could almost be disappointed that there is a legitimate explanation.
‘Makes you wonder why she wanted a job here – I mean to say – why she wanted a job at all.’
Briony Boss appears a little surprised by his comment.
‘I suppose we all need to find fulfilment in our waking hours.’
Skelgill is looking directly at her, but an unblinking countenance hints that his thoughts are elsewhere. It would not take a highly qualified psychologist to predict that an image of a lake, a boat, a rod and a pike is quite likely at their forefront. Still, he wrestles his mind away from the prospect, and re-sharpens his focus.
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2 Page 47