Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘About Declan, Guv.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘It occurred to me that we’ve got a kind of diary – a slice of life at least – I was looking at his nature log – first thing this morning.’ Skelgill is scowling doubtfully, but DS Jones presses on, undeterred. She holds up her copy of the coroner’s inquest report. ‘In here it states that when the police contacted Crummock Hall to check if Edward Regulus and Shauna O’More were missing it was 1pm.’ She pauses for dramatic effect – though Skelgill remains disinterested. ‘According to his logbook, on the afternoon of the drowning Declan went bird-watching between two o’clock and four. From the entry you wouldn’t know it wasn’t just an ordinary day. And – incidentally – the coroner’s report also notes that he did not give evidence at the inquest because he was too ill to attend.’

  These revelations certainly have the effect of stunning DS Jones’s colleagues into a silence. Skelgill seems reluctant to show any particular reaction – but DS Leyton’s broad fleshy features become twisted into a mask of consternation. It is he that speaks first.

  ‘Cor blimey – that’s bang out of order.’ He rattles his sheaf of papers. ‘This says Sir Sean mobilised all the staff and led them down to the lake – they were frantic, searching the banks in the area the boat was last sighted. And old Declan goes bird-spotting!’

  Now the two sergeants turn to Skelgill to await his pronouncement. He gnaws rather distractedly at a thumbnail.

  ‘We’ve heard he was a recluse.’ He spits a sliver, real or imaginary. ‘All Declan knew was they were missing, not dead.’

  This appears to be the sum of what Skelgill has to say on the matter – it is typical that he refuses to be drawn; like a patrolling pike eschewing a juicy bait, he acknowledges its presence but mistrusts the particular swim in which it dangles, conditioned by the scars of some narrow scrape of old. Yet DS Jones – who could be excused for trying to curry favour – has a point that is both apposite and thought provoking; DS Leyton might have procured the elusive coroner’s report, but it is she that has made something of it. Could Declan have been complicit in ‘The Accident’ – and might such a possibility provide a connection to his untimely death?

  However, their conference is about to be turned topsy-turvy: Skelgill’s office door opens uninvited, and the mustelid-like features of DI Alec Smart become insinuated in the crack. He sidles in like a grinning cartoon character with the power to slip through improbably small gaps, taking care not to besmirch the designer suit that clothes his angular frame.

  Skelgill’s expression blackens, and he looks like he is about to berate DI Smart in no uncertain terms for his unwelcome entrance – but the interloper is quickest to the draw.

  ‘Tasty line for you, Cock – no strings attached.’ He addresses Skelgill directly, his nasal Mancunian drawl imbuing his words with a guileful undertone. ‘Chief forwarded me your initial report on your little celebrity difficulty.’

  Skelgill folds his arms and sinks against the back of his chair, his knotted brows a wall of dark distrust. That DI Smart has invoked the rank of their senior officer – and painted the case as problematic – succeeds in putting him on the defensive. Now DI Smart gains in confidence, and takes a couple of casual steps into the centre of the floor.

  ‘Not exactly your bag, eh, Skel? City slickers and celebs and not a country bumpkin to be seen.’

  Skelgill seems tongue-tied and can only glower more fervently. DI Smart preens, brushing at the lapels of his merino jacket and inspecting the shine on his outrageously pointed footwear.

  ‘She knows it’s right up my street – soon sort it with the right team under me.’

  Head still bowed, his salacious grin widens and he flashes a sidelong glance at DS Jones. She squirms uncomfortably beneath his eviscerating scrutiny – and not least his blatant and somewhat lewd double-entendre. Today she wears more comfortable attire for desk-based work – indeed she has arrived in Skelgill’s office in what might be a trendy Aran sweater, perhaps anticipating her superior’s habit of keeping open the windows, whatever the weather. However, her lithe lower limbs are sheathed in her trademark stretch jeans, and it is this feature of her anatomy that attracts DI Smart’s flagrantly roving eye. Now he winks at her – and tugs at his tie and casts about as though he is looking for a mirror in which to admire himself.

  ‘Chance for someone to get their glad rags on – jaunt to London I reckon, rub shoulders with the glitterati.’

  His intimation is plain to his fellow officers – and quite likely he has made a play to the Chief to take over Skelgill’s case. That he is not gleefully bearing news of a proclamation to this effect, however, suggests any such attempt has been rebuffed – for the time being, at least. Skelgill might not be best versed in regard to high society, but he does have local provenance on his side – and perhaps this is recognised by the powers that be. Skelgill must detect that the balance of power still rests in his favour, and at last contrives a rejoinder of sorts.

  ‘Aye, well – happen the right team’s in place already, Smart.’

  DI Smart shrugs indifferently, but in a way that at once openly admits defeat and suggests that any such victory of Skelgill’s will prove to be in vain. He digs his hands into his pockets and whistles a couple of bars. It is clear that any meaning is lost on Skelgill – but DS Jones patently identifies what is the theme tune of Empty Hollow, in which ‘Owain Jagger’ of course stars. Unnoticed by her two male colleagues, whose eyes are upon DI Smart, her cheeks redden.

  ‘Like I was saying, Skel – got a little line for you. Your report states that the four O’Mores that live down south have returned to London.’ Now he pointedly looks at DS Jones, who is compelled to shy away and examine her notes. ‘But your posh soap star Brutus was spotted incognito in a local hostelry yesterday.’

  ‘Which hostelry?’ The pressure cooker that is Skelgill’s pent-up ire has him hissing this question before he can contain himself.

  Now DI Smart comes over rather coy.

  ‘Couldn’t tell you for sure, Skel. My pretty little source doesn’t want to compromise herself.’ He edges away until he stands in the doorway; now that he has dropped his bombshell he wants to stand back and admire the results. ‘Trust me – I’ll let you know if I get any more – always happy to help, Cock.’

  He winks again – this time at the angry-looking Skelgill – but as he turns to depart he leers at DS Jones and taps the side of his nose, palpably compounding her discomfort. With a click of his heels he is gone, leaving the door open and only the sound of his footsteps diminishing down the corridor. True to form, he has bested Skelgill in the verbal exchange; rather like a rogue hyena that inveigles himself into a rival clan to plunder their resources, disorient the males and impregnate the females, he retreats cackling before the incumbents can muster a counter-attack and drive him off. DS Leyton, who has been ignored throughout the whole episode, reaches from his seat and slaps shut the door. Skelgill thumps a fist down upon his desk, causing the tray to rattle and his mug to jump alarmingly.

  ‘Divvy.’

  Naturally he employs a somewhat more graphic version of this Cumbrian slight, with a clutch of Anglo-Saxon adjectives thrown in for good measure. His belated retort is meant to restore his wounded pride in the eyes of his tribe. His colleagues have their eyes lowered sheepishly, and there is an awkward silence before DS Leyton eventually moves himself to speak.

  ‘I meant to warn you DI Smart was sniffing around, Guv – he was going about yesterday afternoon like a cat with the cream.’ He rubs the top of his head rather absently. ‘Think he’s right, Guv – that Brutus didn’t go back to London?’

  Skelgill gapes at his sergeant – disapproving of his disloyalty in attaching credence to DI Alec Smart’s teasing morsel. However, his expression becomes somewhat introspective; he pauses to examine his rough-skinned fisherman’s hands, tilting his palms to reflect the light, in the pose that an angler displays his catch for a souvenir photograph. He gl
ances briefly at DS Jones, as though he seeks her confirmation. There is a residual blush around her sculpted cheekbones and trepidation in her dark eyes. She looks like she wishes he would not question her – and in the event this comes to pass. Skelgill intertwines all but his index fingers and makes a little church, or maybe a pistol.

  ‘He mentioned staying in the area – I didn’t take him seriously. Thwaites confirmed that the three of them left together last night by taxi – Cassandra, Edgar and Brutus. But that doesn’t prove he took the train with the others.’ Now Skelgill turns to DS Leyton. ‘I’ll leave it with you.’

  DS Leyton shifts somewhat uncomfortably in his seat, but his reply is accommodating.

  ‘I’m onto it, Guvnor.’

  Now DS Jones clears her throat, and uncrosses her legs and leans forwards. Her movement attracts the attention of her colleagues.

  ‘Guv – I have a friend – I shared a flat with her at Uni – she stayed in London and went into journalism. I spoke with her yesterday – she’s a junior features editor on Celebz.’

  Skelgill regards her cynically – but it is a look she recognises that he employs when he is concealing a deficit in his knowledge. For some reason she pauses, as if to put him to the test – but now DS Leyton chips in.

  ‘Celebz – the missus gets that delivered – she’s a right old sucker for gossip – likes to know who’s knocking up who.’

  In fact he uses a rather more crude expression, but his artless manner causes DS Jones to giggle rather than take offence. Skelgill, however, is dismayed that there can be a whole industry devoted to the promulgation of celebrity couplings, and – worse – an audience with an insatiable appetite for such inane trivia. DS Jones hurries on with her story.

  ‘My contact is sending links for various articles – some not published – they’ve got masses on “Owain Jagger”’ (she makes the parentheses around Brutus O’More’s stage name with her fingertips) ‘but also references to Cassandra – and Martius – where he’s appeared at VIP charity dinners, that sort of thing. She’s also on good terms with one of their top reporters – it struck me that if we wanted some questions asked it might be a way to get under the radar.’

  Skelgill is now regarding her broodingly – but DS Leyton seems enthused by this notion.

  ‘Right enough, girl – people clam up the second you say you’re a copper – but if they think they’re going to be in a magazine or on the telly there’s no stopping ’em.’

  Now Skelgill is quick to interject.

  ‘Aye – you’d know all about that, Leyton.’

  Skelgill refers, of course, to DS Leyton’s own minor aberration in this regard, with the camera crew outside Crummock Hall. His sergeant squirms with what might be both intentional and comic irony – for the paradox proves his point. Skelgill disregards his protest and addresses DS Jones.

  ‘See what comes of it – pass anything about Brutus to Leyton.’ DS Jones begins to remonstrate, but Skelgill speaks over her. ‘You didn’t mention Perdita.’

  DS Jones takes a moment to reply.

  ‘I asked about her, Guv – but it seems she keeps to herself in Dublin. Celebz is restricted to the London scene. I could try again – see if they’ve got an Irish correspondent?’

  Now Skelgill folds his arms and hunches his shoulders as though he is suddenly feeling the cold.

  ‘She’s the least of our worries, Jones.’

  14. THE SECOND FUNERAL

  Friday 11am

  Skelgill acknowledges Perdita as she passes. None of the rest of the family party has noticed him, despite their entrance to St James’ Buttermere being an altogether less choreographed affair than a week ago. Their attire lacks the formal precision displayed for Sir Sean’s funeral – most have opted for the practical expedient of warm overcoats and sensible boots, perhaps a mutually agreed decision to dumb down. (However Skelgill recognises Brutus’s rather effeminately styled fur, worn for his TV interview in which DS Leyton infamously appeared as ‘Columbo’.) Nor is there the packed congregation of starched-shirt dignitaries representing the various trusts and charities of which Sir Sean was a benefactor, nor dutiful tenant farmers from the estate, nor star-struck locals hoping for another glimpse of their gentry in absentia. Perhaps it is that the funeral has not been announced, or perhaps it is the weather – or perhaps it is just superstition, mutterings in the village over carefully nursed pints and elbow-smoothed shop counters, and between shepherds conferring upon their crooks across snow-capped stone walls. Although on reflection Skelgill might imagine that murder is a reason folk would come. He counts just seven other attendees, whom he knows as elderly locals – two batty – who have scant connection to Declan that he can think of, but probably little else to do on a frozen snowy Friday morn in December. There is no trace of the Gilhooleys.

  Perdita flashes him a wry grin – though before he caught her eye she appeared troubled, and the smile fades as she proceeds up the narrow nave in company with her siblings; they walk in single file in descending age order – a long-standing habit of theirs, perhaps? Behind them comes the small coterie of estate staff, led by Thwaites; Skelgill notes they move with a little more alacrity than before, when Declan, assisted by a combination of Thwaites on one side and his walking stick on the other, determined the speed of the procession and in fact rendered a pace with an appropriate degree of solemnity. Finally, like a loyal sheepdog that hangs back to nip any strays, the lawyer Fergal Mullarkey brings up the rear of the cortege.

  Now the organ heaves into life and Skelgill starts. His ‘regular’ pew beside Wainwright’s window is at the very back of the small church and the two-centuries-old instrument with its dark carved oak surround and gilt-painted pipes is crammed into the corner directly behind him. The tune is Crimond and its haunting melody envelops him – almost literally – and perhaps together with the un-sung words of the Shepherd’s Psalm transports him to a mystical Arcadia. After a short while, however, his gaze begins to wander – for one marvellous contemporary feature of this most modest place of worship is its collection of intricately stitched hassocks that hang neatly on the back of the pews, a humbling labour of love that captures in its meticulous detail characteristic aspects of the locality, along with associated Christian imagery, each and every one sewn with magnificently understated grace. Skelgill notes a nativity scene; and three angels like paper-chain dollies; a stunning facsimile of the arched stained glass windows of Mary and Martha; there is the church itself, viewed from a little higher up the lane to Newlands Hause, with Blea Crag for a backdrop; a remarkably lifelike Herdwick tup and another portrait of a noble Blackface of uncertain gender (since both sexes are horned); for his part – for his own hassock – Skelgill has a snowy upland landscape that he can’t identify, but it holds his attention for he realises it features a team of four or five roped figures marching through the snow, bearing a stretcher in their midst: the mountain rescue. He grins ruefully – perhaps it is the coincidence (he had not noticed this hassock on his visit a week ago), or it could be their standard-issue outfits of smart red cagoules, black over-trousers and white helmets – if only!

  Subconsciously he reaches for his trapper hat that rests on the bench beside him, and begins to turn it over in his hands, like a worshipper with rosaries – but his musing is abruptly interrupted when at the end of the short pew there suddenly appears a man, who regards him inquisitively and slides into the seat. In return Skelgill engages in surreptitious sidelong surveillance. The fellow is a little breathless, as if he might have jogged up the hill from the village. Youngish – certainly younger than he, maybe around the thirty mark – there are, however, aspects of his appearance that cry out “middle-age” – indeed middle age in a bygone era. He is below average height, and slight of frame; his brown hair is neatly trimmed and side-parted, and thoroughly combed into place. There is a military moustache – of the handlebar type – and small dark eyes set among regular and not unpleasant features. Beneath an oversized greatcoat (out of
which he now struggles) is a traditional ensemble of navy blazer, black trousers and brogues, and a white shirt buttoned at the collar and worn with a hastily knotted old school tie. All in all, it is the impression of a pukka chap one might meet by invitation for lunch at his Pall Mall club.

  He catches Skelgill looking at him, and nods politely and makes a grimace of apology, though this would appear to be in relation to his lateness rather than any invasion of Skelgill’s personal space (which may be a reasonable complaint of Skelgill’s, given there are so many unoccupied pews from which to choose). Skelgill responds with a rather cursory nod of his own and edges a couple of inches closer to the window, which is indeed suggestive that he would rather have the stall to himself.

  While the service for the recently departed Declan follows a similar pattern to that of his identical twin only a week earlier, it is by necessity a more brief affair, not least for the lack of any real substance that the family have been able to provide for the eulogy. The vicar does his best to make a decent fist of the task, but it proves thin on facts and heavy on hyperbole, clichés and platitudes. Indeed phrases such as “greatly missed” and “dearly beloved” contrive to combine all three figures of speech. Certainly Skelgill’s attention wavers, and one by one he repeatedly scrutinises the family party, as though he is occupying himself with a peculiar game of eeny, meeny, miny, mo.

  Not that there is a great deal to see. Unlike his perspiring neighbour they are hunched in their coats – the church is little warmer than the freezing outdoors – and if Skelgill were performing a comparison he is restricted to the backs of their heads, as they are ranged across the first two rows of pews. There is Martius, fair, with his Sandhurst officer’s cut, and beside him Cassandra, the closest match in colour, her shoulder-length hair tinted with bronze and gold. Then the contrasting identical twins, Brutus with his full head of dark, wavy locks, casual yet no doubt skilfully coiffured, Edgar mousy and utilitarian short back and sides. Next and most striking is Perdita’s unruly abundance of strawberry blonde ringlets, which from time to time she draws back from her face. Behind the family are the servants – Fergal Mullarkey perhaps excepted from this class definition, he instantly recognisable by his bald crown ringed by its band of ginger – and Thwaites with his lank grey hair combed and plastered in place with macassar or some other such oil.