Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2

by Bruce Beckham

  DS Leyton retrieves his notebook from his overcoat and thumbs cumbersomely through pages of surprisingly neat printing.

  ‘Top line, Guv – I wouldn’t call it news – but since when did turkeys vote for Christmas?’

  DS Jones smirks, but Skelgill quashes her with a sharp glance. DS Leyton winces supportively and continues.

  ‘In a nutshell, Guv, it’s what we’ve already been told – most of Sunday we’ve only got their word for where they were. That’s apart from Perdita – who we know was missing between 12:30 and five o’clock – and Cassandra and Brutus – they’re sticking to their guns about bunking off to her bedroom for the afternoon. As things stand, Guv – creeping around in a great old place like that – any one of them could have sneaked off and done the murder.’

  DS Jones is rather apprehensively watching Skelgill. Preoccupied with the toastie, he appears not to be paying attention. As far as she knows, he has not yet apprised DS Leyton of all the facts. It is not unlike Skelgill to leave his subordinates in the dark. Some might say this is typical of his sheer bloody-mindedness, but Skelgill would argue that if you tell a person what to look for, they will find it – at the expense of a potentially more important clue. He will happily investigate any number of byways and seemingly obvious blind alleys, and yet resist arriving at a tangible destination. It is a method that suggests a lack of coherency in his thinking – but Skelgill is neither a great thinker nor a man who cares particularly how others regard him. Peremptorily, he contradicts DS Leyton.

  ‘Not Perdita, it couldn’t.’

  DS Leyton is no stranger to this situation. He also knows that Skelgill’s irritation could be entirely irrational, and may stem from anything ranging from the present lack of available fishing, to England’s ever-diminishing chances of winning a World Cup, in any sport. But nonetheless he struggles to find a suitable reply. It falls to DS Jones to break the impasse.

  ‘Guv – about the problem of timing – while I was waiting I called Dr Herdwick and explained your findings.’

  Skelgill pauses mid-bite.

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘He’s digging his heels in.’

  She retrieves her mobile phone and carefully manipulates the screen. She holds it so that Skelgill can see, but he gestures dismissively, meaning that she should read aloud.

  ‘He’s gone into quite a lot of detail, Guv. He repeats the caveats – but there’s this bit: “the progression of all key indicators, livor mortis, rigor mortis and algor mortis correspond to a prediction centred upon noon – an estimate to which a good degree of confidence can be attached since the examination took place within a few hours of death occurring.”’

  Skelgill looks unimpressed. He finishes the sandwich and swallows down some coffee. He wipes froth from his lips with each hand and then rubs his palms on his thighs. However, he does not offer a rejoinder, and after a short while DS Jones feels sufficiently empowered to mention what is something of an elephant in the room.

  ‘Could you have been mistaken about the clock, Guv?’

  Now Skelgill glares at her.

  ‘Have you got the logbook?’

  ‘In my bag.’ She reaches to pat an attaché case at her side.

  ‘Could you be mistaken about the entry?’

  Skelgill’s tone is harsh. Meanwhile DS Leyton is looking increasingly perplexed.

  ‘What is this, Guv? Am I missing something?’

  Skelgill folds his arms and assumes a rather weary pose.

  ‘Leyton – when I first went into the study the clock was stopped at 2pm. The pendulum was lying on the carpet. There was no way it could work. Then the study was locked for an hour before you arrived. But in that time the clock was changed to 12 noon.’ Skelgill gestures loosely at DS Jones. ‘Show him the book.’

  DS Jones extracts Declan’s timeworn journal carefully from her bag and lays it on the table. The relevant page is marked with a slip of paper. With the delicately manicured nail of a slender index finger she indicates the most recent entry.

  ‘He went bird-watching between eleven fifty-five and one thirty-five. And he had time to write up his notes.’

  DS Leyton shakes his head slowly and makes a ‘that’s-put-the-cat-among-the-pigeons’ face. Then he grins.

  ‘What about a ghost writer, Guv? They say the old place is haunted!’

  Skelgill scowls and sinks back into his chair. He gazes across at the display counter, as though he might be assessing what to eat next. He seems reluctant to be drawn by his irrepressible sergeant’s banter – but, while his tone remains bleak, perhaps he sees an opportunity to shed the ill temper that has possessed him since his arrival.

  ‘That’s it, Leyton – you’ve cracked it. I’ll email the Chief right now. It’s the O’More family curse. A poltergeist walloped Declan with his walking stick, and now it’s playing tricks on us by changing the clocks.’

  Sensing Skelgill’s brightening mood, his subordinates humour him with excessive laughter; he is obliged to accept the credit for his wit. And now DS Leyton takes the opportunity to impart another small snippet – one that perhaps will not entirely be to Skelgill’s satisfaction.

  ‘Talk of the walking stick, Guv. I spoke again to Thwaites – asked him if Declan was in the habit of leaving it anywhere else. He said not, but – you know what, Guv – he reckons it sinks in water – that sandalwood, it’s so dense. If some geezer did lob it in the lake, it would likely go under.’

  Skelgill is still scowling, but it is now more out of curiosity than annoyance.

  ‘Leyton – the lake’s half frozen – you’d need a good arm to scop it out beyond the ice.’

  DS Leyton makes an expression of agreement. He seems reassured that Skelgill has lapsed into the vernacular.

  ‘Maybe it’ll turn up soon as the snow melts, Guv – like you said.’

  ‘Aye – but it’s forecast sub-zero all week.’

  They all nod reflectively and there is a silence of a few moments. Then Skelgill turns to DS Jones, and addresses her in a more benevolent tone.

  ‘How did you get on?’

  DS Jones smiles patiently.

  ‘The Gilhooleys were interesting.’ Her face is suggestive of a small degree of martyrdom in undertaking the assignment. ‘They weren’t keen to let me in – not that it made much difference – the place was like a fridge – a little stone cottage that looks abandoned from the outside. It’s down a long track, at the north end of estate – I had to walk the last couple of hundred yards. They don’t have a car – they claim they got a lift to the funeral and have been snowed in since Friday afternoon. They’re both in their eighties and not what you’d describe as mobile. I’d wager there’s next to no chance of either of them breaking into Crummock Hall and committing murder. As soon as I mentioned the O’Mores the old man clammed up – but his wife started on – “Mark my words, lass, we’ll take what’s our right – see if we don’t.”’ DS Jones mimics the local Lorton accent with tek and reet and dunt.

  Skelgill looks at her quizzically.

  ‘What did she mean by that?’

  ‘They weren’t very cooperative, Guv. And not a little bit cracked. But when I went to see Foulsyke & Dodd I was able to get more details. The Gilhooleys are tenants on the Crummock Hall estate – they have been for generations. They just pay a peppercorn rent – it’s never been increased – that’s down to some agreement that was made back in bygone days.’

  ‘So they’re onto a good number.’

  ‘You would think so, Guv – at their age they can’t be making much off the land – but it looks like their livings costs are next to nothing. I suppose they get their pensions.’

  ‘What about Declan – what did they have to say about him?’

  DS Jones shakes her head resignedly.

  ‘Like I mentioned, Guv – beyond repeating the “rightly ours” mantra – they weren’t forthcoming. The land agents suggested they might mean the freehold of the property – but there’s no provision in law for tha
t – not where there’s a tenancy agreement in place. They’d have had more luck if they’d been squatting.’ DS Jones is absently twirling a strand of hair. Skelgill watches her closely. He may be thinking that it is no surprise that Brutus – and his infamous alter ego Owain Jagger – might want to kiss her. ‘They have no heir – the agents said that’s probably been eating at them for a long time – that the tenancy will eventually revert to the estate.’

  Skelgill nods – though his eyes are glazed, and it is a few seconds before he asks his next question.

  ‘What else from Foulsyke & Dodd?’

  Now DS Jones seems to have absorbed something of Skelgill’s abstraction. It is a moment before she releases the breath she has been holding, and inhales again in order to reply.

  ‘At the bottom line the estate is just about breaking even. The chap I saw – Foulsyke – described it as “rather feudal” – but he explained that’s the way Sir Sean had wanted it – the tenants know they’ve been getting a good deal, so they tug their forelocks and pay on time. He believes the income could be doubled if the land were farmed more intensively – they’d be able to justify higher rents. He did mention Declan in that context.’

  ‘How?’ Skelgill uses the Scottish how, borrowed from just across the border, that really means why.

  ‘The traditional farming methods encourage wildlife – it suited Declan’s bird-watching hobby to keep it that way.’

  Skelgill nods pensively. He inhales slowly and sighs before he continues.

  ‘Did he put in his four penneth about the future?’

  ‘The agents are hoping the estate will remain in the family – Mr Foulsyke said he plans to call Martius with his recommendations.’

  Now Skelgill grimaces.

  ‘Aye – what – send in the contractors to rip up all the hedgerows and plough the meadows? That would be music to his ears.’

  Both Skelgill and DS Jones look troubled by this prospect. DS Leyton does his best to mirror their expressions of concern – but being of metropolitan stock his sentiments are less troubled by what seems an academic distinction – after all, surely a field is a field – and, actually, doesn’t it look more pleasing filled with a single neat crop rather than a jumble of weeds swarming with creepy crawlies? He decides to toss in his four penneth.

  ‘If it’s cash they’re after, why go round the houses? Surely they’ll just flog it and do one, Guv?’

  In the absence of anything left to eat, Skelgill gnaws tenaciously on a thumbnail.

  ‘By the look of it, Leyton – none of them’s exactly in queer street.’

  He pauses and there is another round of silence. It is plain to the trio that this is their next line of investigation: it does not take a Sherlock Holmes to deduce that the death of Declan has opened the door to a potential pecuniary windfall – albeit there could be a more complex motive at play.

  ‘I’d like to be a fly on the wall when they have their vote.’

  His eyes drift to the view through a skylight window – although his brooding expression suggests that the darkening sliver of horizon, marked by the distinctive summit of Grisedale Pike, is not where his thoughts lie – and that he is calculating just how he might become that fly.

  DS Jones makes a little jolt forwards – as if she too has been contemplating this matter and already has a plan in mind. But she refrains from offering a comment, and shakes her head in self-reproach. Her unnatural movement attracts Skelgill’s attention, and for a moment he regards her warily. Then he composes himself and clears his throat to speak.

  ‘In the meantime, we need to get them all checked out. Leyton – you take the twins. There’s no love lost between them. If there’s any closing of family ranks, it’s a chink in their armour. Just mention the gerbil.’ Skelgill lets out a rather schoolboy-like snigger. Then he smiles somewhat smarmily at DS Jones. ‘Jones – take Martius and Cassandra – start with their finances. I’ll take Mullarkey and the staff – plus Perdita since she’s planning to lodge at Grasmere. I’ve got a few local contacts I want to tap up, anyway. Kill two birds with one stone.’

  DS Leyton seems quite content with this arrangement, but once again DS Jones’s features reveal a degree of consternation – that Skelgill is orchestrating affairs with some ulterior purpose in mind. Her suspicions may be reinforced by his next, rather gratuitous remark.

  ‘Leyton – Brutus – another angle – he’s obviously gay – leaves him open to blackmail – you know what these showbiz types are like.’

  DS Leyton rolls his eyes – it is an unusual expression and one that suggests he is not entirely in accord with his superior; it is more a face of bafflement that Skelgill has crowbarred the notion into the briefing. But while DS Leyton holds his peace – and rather reluctantly nods in compliance – DS Jones is prompted to speak out.

  ‘Guv – I don’t think Brutus is gay.’ She sets her jaw determinedly in the face of Skelgill’s stare. ‘Don’t you mean Edgar?’

  Skelgill continues to glare at her.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘It’s Edgar that’s gay, Guv.’

  Skelgill remains mulish.

  ‘Who told you this?’

  DS Jones relaxes and gives a little sigh. The hint of a knowing smile teases the corners of her lips. Suddenly armed with feminine intuition, she senses her advantage. She glances at DS Leyton to see that he is watching her with interest.

  ‘Guv – I just know – it was really, well – obvious.’

  Skelgill inspects his palm as if he is recalling Edgar’s extended handshake. He looks defiantly from one to the other of his colleagues. Having unadvisedly raised this subject, it would appear he seeks an exit strategy. It arrives from an unexpected quarter. As his eyes dart erratically about the store they fall upon a shock of strawberry blonde hair bobbing beyond the rack of waterproofs he earlier used for cover. The shopper removes a garment from its hanger and holds it experimentally to catch the light. Swiftly, a sales assistant moves in for the kill.

  ‘Hey up.’ Skelgill springs to his feet. ‘That’s not what she wants – can’t let them rip her off.’

  Without further explanation he strides away and thumps down the steps to the retail floor. The shopper is Perdita.

  11. CRUMMOCK WATER

  Tuesday 10.30am

  ‘So it was just above Low Ling Crag it went down?’

  ‘Aye, ower yonder.’

  Eric Rudd casts an arm like he might a fly, indicating to Skelgill the correct line of sight. While Skelgill is no stranger to Crummock Water, the venerable angler is a local legend, twice his age, and many times more wise. Nowadays the lake is separated from its rather more picturesque neighbour Buttermere by a half-mile-wide outwash plain of rich milk pastures (that may account for the latter’s name) – but once they were both part of a single massive glacial body of water, and Eric Rudd gives every impression that he might recall this epoch. Dog-legged Crummock Water is the source of the winding River Cocker, and both Crummock and Cocker are derived from the ancient Brythonic Celtic word for ‘crooked’. Such an adjective befits the hunchbacked Eric Rudd, and the taller Skelgill literally bows to address his gnarled figure.

  ‘That’s the deepest part of the lake?’

  ‘Aye, ’undred an’ forty foot, lad. Goes down sheer.’

  ‘They’d rowed a good way from Crummock Hall boathouse.’

  Eric Rudd shrugs.

  ‘Happen there were a northerly that day.’

  ‘How was the alarm raised?’

  ‘Hillwalker. Gadgee coming off Rannerdale Knotts. He heard shouts for help – could see they were shipping water.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  The old man growls throatily, and it brings on a hacking cough. He turns to one side and spits to clear the way for his reply.

  ‘No mobile phones then, lad. Ran as best he could towards Buttermere. But it’s a good mile t’first house. It were above half hour before we’d got a boat up there.’

  Skelg
ill nods pensively.

  ‘Too late.’

  ‘Aye, lad.’

  ‘What happened then, Eric?’

  ‘First off – there were talk that they’d swum – but we searched t’banks and there were no trace of ’em. Then some as said yon hillwalker must have invented t’story – attention seeking, like.’ He shakes his head and clears his throat once more. ‘But t’police checked with Crummock Hall – sure enough they were gone. Missing for a week.’

  Now the man stares out across the lake.

  ‘That’s what I remember, Eric. All the talk in the village school was how long before the water gave up the bodies.’

  ‘Aye – they allus come back up.’

  Now Skelgill allows himself a wry grin.

  ‘I can point you to a couple of cases where they didn’t, Eric.’

  The old man chuckles, rather wickedly. More than one of Cumbria’s lakes have a macabre history in this regard – and may be the repository for who knows how many weighted corpses, slipped over the gunwales down the centuries.

  ‘Aye – keep your hook off t’bottom if you don’t want a nasty shock.’

  Skelgill raises an eyebrow.

  ‘I’m surprised the boat sank, Eric.’

  Now the old man screws up his features; the low morning sunlight casts his complexion as a relief map of the district, his watery green eyes the lakes set deep in the shadowy dale.

  ‘Depends what ballast they had aboard, lad. Teks nobbut a split-shot to sink a float.’

  Skelgill nods, but his expression tells he is dissatisfied with this aspect. It seems unlikely the craft was wrought from anything like the same stuff as Declan’s fabled walking stick.

  ‘What would it have been, clinker built?’

  ‘Aye, oak most like.’

  ‘Think there’s owt left of it, Eric?’

  The fisherman shakes his head.

  ‘Nay, lad. She’ll be long gone. There’s all manner of worms down there.’

  Skelgill still looks unconvinced. He suspects there is some complex equation that combines temperature and oxygen concentration and salinity (or lack of) that determines the survival of submerged wood. But if he has in mind an expedition, he must know he would be whistling in the wind – for any such search would be dangerous, expensive and almost certainly futile – and verging on impossible to justify given his present lack of an hypothesis. That he has followed his nose down to the lower reaches of Crummock Water is no basis for action. He has a big nose.