Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2

by Bruce Beckham

  It is the old lady’s shriek of alarm that stops them in their tracks – thrown astride their crossbars they gape to see her grabbed at the wrist by a younger woman in a nurse’s outfit and hauled unceremoniously down the steps and across the lawn to collapse into a heap. Simultaneously two men rush out from behind the conifers. The first – decidedly stocky, with a mop of flopping dark hair – hurls himself at the door. There is an almighty crash and from within an agonised cry of surprise. The first man loses his balance but the second – taller and more agile – vaults his associate and disappears into the hallway. The human battering ram now scrambles to his feet and follows suit. While the two females begin to untangle themselves – the younger woman now tending to the older – a brief sequence of yells, grunts and thumps emanates from the house. A moment later the invaders emerge with another man held between them: he is short and wiry, with close-cropped grey hair and the grizzled stubble of several days going unshaven. He appears dazed; though his captors have his arms twisted in what might not be the most comfortable of positions. There is a distinctive swelling in the centre of his forehead, already beginning to turn blue.

  Awestruck, now the juvenile spectators are almost mown down by a marked police car that slithers to a halt in front of them. Three uniformed officers burst out, casting off their caps and abandoning the vehicle with its doors akimbo. They sprint up the path – it must be an action movie – and promptly relieve the arresting officers of their charge. They handcuff the felon, feed him unceremoniously into the back of the car, and speed away. The taller of the two plain-clothes men notices the boys; he marches rather menacingly towards them, digging into a trouser pocket as he does so. For a pistol? Have they witnessed an unlawful kidnapping? But when he holds out a bandaged hand it is to reveal a couple of two-pound coins.

  ‘There you go, marra – hop it and get some mint cake – something to tell your pals about, eh?’

  He grins at them and ruffles the hair of the nearest boy. Then he turns and jogs back up the steps of the front garden. Alice Wright-Fotheringham, apparently none the worse for her ordeal, sits upon the grass, reunited with her dog. It seems DS Leyton – who has disappeared inside the property – has freed the canines from confinement. The exuberant Justitia is plainly delighted to see her mistress. Her temporary stable companion, Cleopatra – gambolling generally about the lawn, having recognised there is some cause for celebration – now detects Skelgill’s approach and intercepts him with her trademark cannonball-to-the-midriff greeting, chopping him to his knees beside the retired judge. Skelgill wrestles his dog to the ground and addresses the dishevelled householder.

  ‘So you were Harry Krille’s unfinished business.’

  ‘I think he merely wanted to talk to me, Daniel. You were rather rough with him. He bore no grudge that I was his prosecuting counsel. And it seems he is a dog lover.’

  Skelgill flashes her a malevolent glance.

  ‘Just as well for him.’

  She frowns with mock censure.

  ‘Well, I suppose it was providential that you invited your colleagues along for that pot of Earl Grey. Shall we have tea?’

  She does not wait for an answer, but rises with a helping hand from DS Jones and marches indoors. The dogs bound ahead of her. Skelgill and DS Jones exchange helpless simpers, but do not protest (though DS Jones must first return her disguise). And thus, along with DS Leyton and their host – still clad in her nightclothes – they are soon seated around a coffee table in a pleasantly bright conservatory at the rear of the house. Skelgill needs little invitation to begin tucking into home-made treacle scones, thickly layered with brandy butter.

  The detectives are no doubt keen to hear Alice Wright-Fotheringham’s account of her uninvited guest – but with the Haresfell fugitives back in custody, and recognising that the elderly lady must be shaken by her ordeal (despite her pretensions to the contrary), they skirt diplomatically around the matter. But when Skelgill mentions that Dr Agnetha Walker has also been arrested, it is the retired judge herself who makes the running. Her shrewd pale-blue eyes narrow, and she gives him a portentous shake of an index finger.

  ‘You know, Daniel – when I heard of your little fishing arrangement – I was sorely tempted to warn you. And although my intuition has perhaps been borne out as correct, I felt at the time that I must adhere to my schooling that a person is innocent until proven guilty.’

  Skelgill stops eating. His sergeants stare at him in surprise.

  ‘What are you saying, Alice?’

  But there is something in his demeanour that suggests he already understands.

  ‘I heard word of her – Dr Walker – through a former colleague on the NHS Appointments Board. There was the unexpected death of her husband – he had no history whatsoever of coronary illness. I understand it caused a few raised eyebrows in some circles. Although of course nobody was willing to go beyond the rumour.’

  Skelgill stands up.

  ‘What is it, Guv?’ DS Leyton braces his elbows on the arms of his chair, ready to rise.

  ‘Dr Peter Pettigrew.’

  ‘But we’ve got everyone looking for him, Guv – like you ordered.’

  Skelgill regards his sergeant with some desperation.

  ‘What about the hospital – Carlisle – where his wife is?’

  ‘There’s an officer at the main entrance, Guv – round the clock.’

  ‘Aye – but he could get in through the staff channels. No one would bat an eyelid. He’s more senior than most of their top people.’

  Skelgill pats his pockets – but anticipating some rough and tumble, all three detectives have left their mobiles in DS Leyton’s car.

  ‘Alice – may I use your phone?’

  ‘Unfortunately my visitor tore off the cable.’

  Skelgill grimaces and makes a move for the door, pausing only to sweep up his remaining portion of treacle scone.

  27. THE LUNE

  ‘Think he would have done it, Guv?’

  Skelgill shrugs.

  ‘He must have had plenty of chances. I reckon he lost his bottle. Away from her influence.’

  DS Leyton shakes his head rather disbelievingly.

  ‘Still, Guv – just as well it occurred to you – else she might have been a goner – and now they’re saying she should make a full recovery.’

  Skelgill stoops for a flat pebble and sends it skimming across the surface of the river. The trio have returned to collect his car from its parking spot beside the Lune, a short distance from Hare’s Beck Foot. It is early evening, and the recent rains could be a distant memory as slanting rays of sunlight filter through leafy bankside alders and a blackbird makes up for lost time with a virtuoso performance, its rich fluty lazy song the quintessence of English summer. From the nearby inn Arthur Kerr and Eric Blacklock have been taken into custody to assist police with their inquiries. They may sing, too. It is the Pettigrews, however, to whom DS Leyton refers. Dr Peter Pettigrew – now under arrest – was apprehended at his wife’s hospital bedside; in his possession was an ampoule of epinephrine. Though he maintains his innocence, already through its batch number its origin has been traced to a Manchester hospital.

  ‘What Mrs Wright-Fotheringham said, Guv – about the death of Dr Agnetha Walker’s husband – what do you reckon?’

  Skelgill is staring grimly at the river, its surface shimmering mesmerically. He turns and regards DS Leyton through narrowed eyes.

  ‘I reckon it’s got to be looked into. Consider the sequence of events. She and Pettigrew meet on the panel for Meredith Bale’s case – that’s what, two years ago? They’re both away from home. On the quiet he’s a bit of a ladies’ man and she’s on a power trip. Let’s say they start an affair. Then it escalates – and they hatch a lovers’ plot.’

  ‘But what’s in it for them, Guv – why not just leave their spouses?’

  Skelgill again stares pensively over the Lune.

  ‘For one thing it might blow their careers – who knows wh
at kind of stink their former partners would kick up – they might have thought so, anyway. But I reckon there’s a lot more to it than that. Helen Pettigrew is a wealthy woman – and I bet her husband stands to inherit the lot. If so, Dr Agnetha Walker gets a rich and influential new husband – he gets a younger model. Plus.’

  DS Leyton is shaking his head.

  ‘He never struck me as the murdering kind, Guv. That he’d agree to a plot like that – a top consultant and all.’

  DS Jones is watching Skelgill closely. She realises he has something to add. But Skelgill replies to DS Leyton, his tone contrary.

  ‘Who says he did?’

  ‘What do you mean, Guv – that she was the driving force?’

  ‘Think about it, Leyton. She’s got a reputation for getting what she wants. She’s got looks on her side – not to mention that she’s an expert in hypnosis. When she asks him into her parlour, he’s easy meat.’ Skelgill breaks off, a worried grimace momentarily tearing at his features. But he re-gathers his thoughts. ‘So she fixes her fangs into Pettigrew – one way or another – and starts to mess with his head. The affair gets serious – she’s working in Manchester and he’s regularly visiting – then her husband conveniently dies. Maybe that’s as much of a shock to Pettigrew as anyone. But before long she’s relocated to the Pettigrews’ flat in Didsbury – very handy for them both. Looks like he’s been handling the family properties with the rental agents – so there’s no need for anyone to know the new tenant’s also his lover. Next thing she’s moving in closer – there’s a proposal for her assignment at Haresfell. Everyone thinks it’s Pettigrew’s idea – but what if it’s hers? – now he can see her every day. She even gets friendly with the family. Then comes the last act – remove the final obstacle – the wife, Dr Helen Pettigrew. He sets up the drama therapy job – and, bingo, they’ve got her in their sights.’

  Skelgill steps away and scoops up a handful of pebbles and begins to throw them one by one into the water. It is as though he is relieving himself of the burden of the many pieces of a jigsaw that did not fit the pattern, and now he knows they are superfluous: red herrings sinking without trace into the Lune. DS Leyton claps his hands together almost joyously.

  ‘Cor blimey, Guv – it all makes sense now I can see it – but what put you onto them?’

  Skelgill turns to face his subordinates.

  ‘That first time we went to Haresfell – I got a glimpse of Dr Agnetha Walker – I didn’t know who she was – I thought she was a patient – in fact she was with Meredith Bale.’ He stares at the remaining stones in his right hand, and weighs them broodingly. ‘Maybe she was preparing her for the interview. And then when she came to Peel Wyke – I knew I recognised her – but I didn’t know why – I remember, straight away, like this tiny alarm bell – but then she kind of won me over.’

  DS Jones flashes a wary glance at Skelgill – it prompts him to revert to his stone throwing. DS Leyton, however, gives an abrupt laugh.

  ‘Maybe she hypnotised you, Guv!’

  There is something unnatural about Skelgill’s stance, and he keeps his back to his colleagues, eking out his ammunition. DS Jones, too, seems uneasy; she takes a tentative step towards him.

  ‘Do you think, Guv – her involvement in the fishing trip – there was more to it – remember the feedback from the auction – that she outbid everyone to get the prize?’

  Skelgill rotates slowly on his heel, his eyes downcast and his expression one that admits to suffering a reverse. It seems likely DS Jones has learned this detail from DI Alec Smart, whose motive for imparting the information would likely bear little relation to solving the case.

  ‘Aye – happen she saw the chance to get an inside track. That’s the brass neck of a psychopath. They knew we were starting to investigate Meredith Bale – and they knew what they were planning. Looks like she even rented the cottage at Bassenthwaite to keep herself on the spot. Let’s take up fishing and get into bed with the local cops.’

  Skelgill’s cheeks suddenly begin to colour, and again he walks away, down to the water’s edge. It must irk him as the realisation grows that here was his very own Mata Hari, subtly inquiring as to the progress of his investigations, seeding his perception of Meredith Bale as dangerous and scheming and secretly triumphant, and being craftily evasive whenever his own questions might expose the conspiracy. And, to do so, she brazenly employed her full armoury of resources.

  There is a lull in the conversation – it seems all three officers need a moment to absorb the impressions that swim thick and fast into their respective streams of consciousness. DS Leyton is the first to speak.

  ‘Guv – what made them think they’d get away with it?’

  Skelgill regards his sergeant with a rather blank expression.

  ‘Look, Leyton – my head’s spinning, too. But if I were to put it in a nutshell, they – or she – intended to kill Dr Helen Pettigrew and frame Meredith Bale as the culprit.’

  ‘But, Guv – she’d deny it – surely that would be too risky?’

  ‘Not risky when she’s dead, Leyton.’

  DS Leyton looks even more perplexed.

  ‘But why did Meredith Bale have the gun at the cottage, Guv?’

  Skelgill shrugs.

  ‘To make sure her fingerprints were all over it – that’s my guess. If she were under some influence, she’d probably cart the gun around without questioning why. Remember – Dr Agnetha Walker had the cartridges in her back pocket. I don’t doubt she can handle a gun as well as she does a fishing rod. Pretending to be tied up was a last ditch smokescreen.’

  DS Leyton begins to shake his head in wonderment. Skelgill continues to elaborate.

  ‘But I reckon the flood saved Meredith Bale – they were cut off at the cottage – they couldn’t get out to drive to wherever it was they planned to kill her. Nor could Dr Peter Pettigrew get in to Sadgill – if that were part of the plan. But they obviously couldn’t do it there – they’d attract attention to him as the owner. They’d tell her they were going to rendezvous with Harry Krille.’ Skelgill takes a deep breath and sighs as he exhales. ‘Course – that wasn’t the only fly in the ointment. Dr Helen Pettigrew surviving the attack meant they had to resort to plan B – to kill her with the adrenaline and make it look like natural causes. So that delayed them, too.’

  ‘Handy gaff to keep an unlicensed gun tucked away, Guv – I bet the regular local bobby never gets near the place.’

  ‘If he even knows it exists.’ Skelgill darts a glance at the river, for a salmon has breached with a sizeable splash. ‘Perfect to hide out – they probably had Meredith Bale believing they were waiting for Harry Krille to arrive cross country. Then when he never showed they’d have the excuse to go and meet him. Next thing – find a quiet spot miles from there – roadside scuffle as the “hostage” tries to escape – the gun goes off – the police roll up – Meredith’s lying in a layby with her brains blown out – no need for anyone to mention the cottage.’

  Now DS Leyton is looking a little troubled.

  ‘Why would Meredith Bale go along with all this, Guv? Surely she couldn’t have hypnotised her that well?’

  Skelgill shrugs.

  ‘Who knows, Leyton – it’s a powerful tool – especially when what’s on offer is your heart’s desire.’ He affects an imploring voice. ‘Hey, Meredith, Harry wants to marry you – we’ll spring you both from Haresfell – we’ll give you cash, our passports – you’ll be safely out of the country before anyone knows about it.’

  ‘So Harry Krille escapes and she believes it?’

  Skelgill grins ruefully.

  ‘You’ve got it, Leyton.’

  ‘So his escape was a put-up job?’

  Skelgill nods.

  ‘It was Dr Peter Pettigrew that relaxed his conditions – the gardening, reduced supervision – and the failing security just played into their hands. Permission to roam outside – nice view of the fells. Talk about letting the dog see the rabbit.’

/>   ‘So there never was any plan for Bale and Krille to meet up?’

  ‘Leyton, I doubt if Harry Krille knew the first thing about it.’

  ‘Struth, Guv – and his escape soaked up a load of resources – took our eyes off the ball. Not to mention we already had our hands full with the death of Frank Wamphray.’ DS Leyton scowls, screwing up his face in a puzzled manner. ‘What do you reckon about that, Guv? I had Arthur Kerr down as the prime suspect – and maybe Briony Boss behind it.’

  Now Skelgill smiles benevolently.

  ‘Aye, I trod that road myself, Leyton. But I think we know what happened – probably not so far off what we deduced in the first place. Poor old Frank’s chucking all sorts of mud at the wall – sooner or later something’s going to stick. Dr Peter Pettigrew and Dr Agnetha Walker were getting close to executing their plan and got the wind up. Remember – Frank Wamphray was in the drama group, too. He might easily have put Helen Pettigrew on her guard – that was a chance they couldn’t take. So they switched his medication for the contaminated vial. Engineered it so he was sick with eating too much chocolate. Events took care of themselves. Suspicion falls on Meredith Bale – it’s her MO, even though it seems impossible she could have done it. Failing that, there’s a ready-made scapegoat in the shape of Arthur Kerr – who could have been doing someone else’s dirty work in return for a nice little payday.’

  ‘He seems to have his finger in a lot of pies, Guv.’

  ‘He’s made it his business, Leyton – all the way to the top.’

  ‘Do you include the Director in that, Guv?’

  After a moment Skelgill nods, but he remains taciturn.