But of a living soul there is no sign.
To his right a series of uneven steps held in place by cut lengths of railway sleeper evidently leads to the road. Up there, standing opposite, is the hotel – though he knows there is also a river-level access beyond the bridge – the establishment has a kind of pub attached – an old converted granary, in fact – where Against The Grain once were booed off stage. He seems in two minds – now the walkway becomes a raised shelf around the pier of the bridge. If only to gain some shelter from the downpour, he moves beneath the soaring arch. His shirt is plastered to him like a second skin. The sound of the weir intensifies, yet as he stands watching the river rush by a familiar Lakeland bird – a Dipper – arrows upstream, its metallic zzzit penetrating the wall of white-water noise from the weir.
Perhaps it is this birdcall that sharpens his senses, for suddenly he stiffens. There is another sound – high-pitched, irregular, and plaintive. What was it he said to Ronald Macdonald – a damsel in distress?
*
And perhaps curiously – given the circumstances – Skelgill tiptoes to the end of the studded metal section of walkway and rounds the sharp angle of the pier. Nobody – nothing, in fact. Immediately on his right, set back about fifteen feet, is the rear of the hotel, its basement that comes right down to river level. From here it rises seven floors, the upper ones overlooking the bridge itself and Belford Road. Skelgill walks on a few paces, his eyes narrowed as he listens. Then suddenly he swings about – the cry for help – for that is what it is – comes from behind and above him! Where the wall of the hotel meets that of the bridge, a narrow chimney has been formed, by accident or design. Open at the front, it is faced with stone on its other three sides. It is the sort of feature over which rock climbers drool. Except, near its top – perhaps seven or eight feet below the parapet of the bridge – is a figure who is clearly not a rock climber. Indeed, it is Julia Rubicon.
Though she is clad in the anonymous long black plastic rain cape supplied by the hotel, one look at her great mass of tangled hair tells Skelgill her identity. And then – again – comes the cry in confirmation. Her eyes are screwed tightly shut – as though she cannot bear to look upon her predicament – and her crimson nails are digging for all their worth into a jutting stone above her head. Her feet have the tiniest of footholds, off which they keep slipping, one as soon as she replaces the other. As a startled Skelgill takes in the situation, he might well wonder by what miracle she has not yet fallen.
‘Julia!’ He bellows with all of the air his lungs can muster. ‘I’m coming for you – hold on, lass!’
Rock climbing has never been Skelgill’s bag. A little cliquey for his liking – and illogical to be looking in at the mountain when the view is out – he has nonetheless acquired the basic skills as part of his Mountain Rescue training. So it is with no hesitation that he springs to the foot of the chimney and begins to ascend.
‘Hold on, lass – thirty seconds is all it takes.’
These words, spoken rather than shouted, seem to be more of an instruction to himself than to the terrified girl, and indeed he must be wary of panicking her – as flakes of stone and mortar shower down upon him – no helmet, of course – each time her foothold is lost. The chimney is relatively straightforward a climb, though generations’ worth of pigeon guano impedes his progress and threatens to make him slip – forcing him to take greater care than he would wish at each move.
Sensing his approach, Julia Rubicon seems to become more not less agitated. Perhaps there is something about the end coming into sight that allows her instincts to fail her – her guard is dropped and her consciousness recognises her extreme fatigue – and while, without Skelgill’s approach, she might have clung on for many minutes more, now there are only seconds of stamina in reserve. Her cries become whimpers, her tone helpless, as if the inevitable is upon her.
Skelgill is just a few feet away – and in no mood to hang about, acutely aware that a plummeting Julia Rubicon will take him with her. The last section of the chimney widens out, making further ascent more difficult – and he realises he is not going to be able to get alongside her. Instead he climbs as close as he can manage, and makes a bridge, lurching back across the chimney, so that he is braced directly beneath her. It is a strong stance, but not one from which he can easily escape. If he allows himself a considered thought at this moment, it must be that it is the soles of training shoes that are within touching distance, and not the stiletto heels of their last encounter.
‘Okay, lass – now let go.’
Skelgill says this softly, trying to convey a sense of calm. But Julian Rubicon and calm are on opposite continents, and her whimpers intensify and become mingled with hysterical pleas for salvation. Skelgill must now wonder what he can do. He needs the girl to let go of her handhold – she will slide down, her feet guided by his grip, and they will both be secure. But she cannot let go. She cannot take the leap of faith. Until her nails give way.
With a sudden rush her body drops – Skelgill is unprepared for the unscheduled fall – but with all his strength he braces through his feet, legs and hips, and at the same time wraps his arms around her. By good fortune her feet pass on either side of his thighs – soaked and slippery as she is, she would have been impossible to hold on to. He shudders with the impact – but his bridge holds firm – and they remain – two bodies, fifty feet up, jammed in the crevice, she straddling his hips, her cape and skirt rucked around her waist, her upper body pressed against him, her breasts against his rib cage, her hair splayed across his face. There could be worse ways to go.
And now she begins to cry. Great heaving sobs rack her body, she wraps her arms tightly round Skelgill’s neck, tears and saliva and mucous smear her face as she blubbers and splutters and tosses her mane of hair in a growing delirium, kissing him, sucking at his mouth and neck and eyes and ears, and all the time trying to utter some words that he cannot discern.
Skelgill pulls his head to one side. He knows they are not out of the woods yet. Taking a deep breath he calls out, as loudly as he can.
‘Cameron!’
It must take all of five seconds for the startled face of DS Findlay to appear over the parapet. And not too much more than that for him to disappear and dash to his car, parked only yards away, and retrieve from the boot a length of towrope. It snakes down the stonework and Skelgill grabs its loose end. He ties a bowline around Julia Rubicon’s waist and yells again. The rope tightens and the girl, reluctant at first to let go of him, begins to rise – she is not so heavy, and it appears that DS Findlay alone is able to haul her weight. Skelgill watches anxiously as she flails about, scrambling at the slippery stone walls, and finally disappearing over the parapet in a jumble of limbs and the flash of scarlet underwear.
As he relaxes to the extent that he may, he hears again her voice – more clearly now – and he can discern the words she was imploring him with.
‘She let go of me... she let go of me... she let go of me...’
Skelgill knows he has a few seconds to wait until the rope reappears. He is uncomfortable, but evidently decides not to try to change his stance, just to be on the safe side. He glances below – it’s curious how fifty feet up always looks like one hundred feet down. And then a movement catches his eye. Some distance off, padding along the walkway having presumably gained access via the car park of the pub adjacent to the hotel, is the unmistakable figure of Elspeth Goldsmith. Skelgill watches as she creeps cautiously, checking that no one is behind her, nor watching her from any window of the hotel. She approaches until she is almost beneath him, scanning the ground where the building and the bridge make an angle – and then – apparently not finding what she is seeking – she looks up. In an instant her features change from those of the sly hunter to that of the harried prey – with astonishment putting in a fleeting appearance between the two. There is a silent standoff as the two regard one another.
And then a second movement attracts Skelgill’s attention. Coming toward
s them at a jog, having taken the same route as Elspeth Goldsmith, is DS Jones. She notices the woman first and slows to a walk – but then she stops dead in her tracks when she spots Skelgill, incongruously wedged near the top of the chimney. His hair is plastered wildly across his brow; algal slime and guano coat his shirt and trousers, water drips from his craggy features. He raises an arm – and, like some menacing Tolkienesque necromancer about to call down a lightning strike, he points a crooked finger at Elspeth Goldsmith. Then, calmly, under the circumstances, he utters the words he has longed to hear himself say.
‘Arrest her.’
*
When Skelgill leaps down from the parapet and unties the rope from around his waist, he finds Julia Rubicon slumped against the bridge wall. Though bedraggled and undoubtedly in shock, she has recovered some degree of composure, and her eyes warm to his presence. As DS Findlay indicates he will go and assist DS Jones with her captive, Skelgill lowers himself down beside the shivering girl. She is huddled beneath a tartan blanket from DS Findlay’s car. Skelgill casts about – at the moment there are no pedestrians, the rain has seen to that – but they must look like a pair of unkempt beggars, hopeful that passing hotel guests might spare them a few coppers.
As DS Findlay strides purposefully away down the access road that leads to the back of the hotel, his phone pressed to his ear as he summons back-up, Skelgill turns to look at Julia Rubicon. And now, for the second time in as many minutes, she pitches across and hugs him, burying her head against his shoulder. And again she sobs – though this time the emotion is more controlled, and after a minute or so she is able to speak more coherently.
‘She let go of me – she said she’d hold on while I leaned out and counted the flags on the crest – and then she let go.’
Skelgill is nodding.
‘I know what happened.’ His tone is soothing. ‘You’re safe now, lass.’
There is more silence. Despite the rain she seems content to rest in his protective care. Skelgill inhales – and then he speaks quietly, a statement rather than a question.
‘You took Krista Morocco’s underwear and hid it in Ivan Tregilgis’s bed.’
She pulls her head away – a look of anguish in her eyes. Her words come in short gasps.
‘I’m so sorry – I’m so sorry – I never meant Miriam to kill Ivan – I just wanted her to know Ivan had a lover – so that I could be with him – oh, God – the last time I saw him – we fought – I’ll never be able to say sorry – never.’
She buries her head once more, now it seems in shame at what she has done. But Skelgill lifts her gently away from him, so that she is forced to meet his eyes.
‘Julia – Miriam didn’t kill Ivan. What you did – it was just a coincidence – it had no bearing whatsoever on his death.’ Skelgill reaches out and brushes hair from her face. ‘And – take it from me – he loved you.’
*
During the next few minutes there is a pronounced change of scene. When one moment there is just Skelgill and Julia Rubicon in their little bubble, the next it seems the entire world converges upon Belford Bridge. As emergency vehicles arrive with their usual lack of decorum, DS Jones and DS Findlay appear from behind the hotel, a protesting Elspeth Goldsmith chattering twenty to the dozen between them. (Skelgill catches a fragment to the effect of, “I warned Julia not to lean out, but she wouldn’t listen.”) The sound of sirens brings porters and guests spilling from the hotel lobby, and – from the direction of the centre of town – along the pavement wanders a bedraggled-looking Dermott Goldsmith and his treasure hunt partner, a bemused though intrigued Melanie Stark.
Perhaps the first item of note is DS Jones’s expression of alarm when she sees her boss with his arms wrapped around Julia Rubicon – but the appearance of a pair of paramedics to help the casualty into a waiting ambulance seems to take the sting out of this unwelcome vision. Next, the volume of Elspeth Goldsmith’s complaints increases appreciably, as she is fed with some difficulty into a waiting police car. Seeing his wife manhandled in this manner, Dermott Goldsmith strides up to confront Skelgill.
‘Inspector – what the heck do you think you are doing?’
Skelgill returns Dermott Goldsmith’s bluster with a glare of mountainous proportions.
‘What I’m doing, Mr Goldsmith, is arresting your wife.’
‘What!’ Dermott Goldsmith’s face turns white with anger. ‘This is outrageous. I’m calling our lawyer at once.’
‘I suggest you do, Mr Goldsmith – as a common thief and liar, I can tell you you’re going to need one.’
Skelgill turns his back on the ugly little man. He walks – with the semblance of a limp – to where DS Jones stands beside the car that holds Elspeth Goldsmith.
‘Jones – go with her – watch her like a hawk.’
DS Jones nods.
‘Guv – what’s the charge?’
Skelgill looks a little surprised by the question.
‘Attempted murder of Julia Rubicon. Murder of Ivan Tregilgis.’
*
When Skelgill and DS Findlay arrive at police headquarters about ten minutes later, they are barely inside the building before a commotion attracts their attention. The noise seems to be coming from the ladies’ toilets. It could be rival hockey teams having a bit of a shindig. Just then a constable comes running from the nearby desk to say that their colleague went in with the suspect, who had asked to use the facilities.
Without further ado, the two men abandon protocol and enter the hallowed ground. Immediately, the sight of DS Jones and Elspeth Goldsmith wrestling violently on the tiled floor confronts them. The latter’s underwear hangs around her ankles, while the former appears to be trying to prise open her adversary’s mouth. Elspeth Goldsmith snorts and squeals through flared nostrils, heaving her bulk in an effort to throw off the lighter woman. But what DS Jones lacks in pounds she makes up for in spirit, and – evidently losing patience with the catfight – she lands a cracking short right to Elspeth Goldsmith’s nose. This seems to do the trick, for there is a sufficient hiatus for the sergeant to cry out.
‘Guv – in her mouth – there’s a note!’
Understanding, Skelgill intervenes, prising open Elspeth Goldsmith’s jaws and – indeed – extracting a thick wad of slightly soggy paper.
Now DS Findlay joins the fray, and between them they subdue Elspeth Goldsmith sufficiently, until reinforcements arrive with handcuffs and take her away, blubbering snot and blood and screaming obscenities. Skelgill is carefully unpicking the note.
‘What is it, Guv? I realised she was going to flush it down the loo – then when I stopped her she tried to swallow it.’
‘Bingo.’
Skelgill holds out the creased paper for his colleagues to see.
‘What is it, man?’
DS Findlay can read the neatly typed words – but he can’t make immediate sense of their meaning. Skelgill enlightens him.
‘What it is, Cam – is a suicide note – from Julia Rubicon – confessing to Ivan Tregilgis’s murder.’
DS Findlay purses his lips, beginning to understand Elspeth Goldsmith’s Machiavellian plan.
DS Jones shakes her head in amazement.
‘How neat is that, Guv?’
Skelgill nods slowly.
‘She was on her way to plant it when you caught up with her, behind the hotel – except there was nobody there.’
DS Findlay chuckles.
‘Aye – no body there.’
42. ROSEBURN
‘Thing is, Cam – they all had the opportunity – and almost as many seemed to have a motive – the only thing left was to work out how the crime was committed.’
DS Findlay raises his pint in a gesture of congratulations.
‘And how did you do that, Danny?’
Skelgill shakes his head ruefully.
‘By leaving my flask on my dishwasher.’
DS Findlay grins over the rim of the glass.
‘Explain that one to me.�
�
It is five p.m. on Saturday and they are convened in DS Findlay’s local bar – back at Roseburn as it happens, just a stone’s throw from the Water of Leith. Skelgill and DS Findlay have cask ales, while DS Jones – for the time being, is sticking to mineral water. Skelgill cradles his glass as though he is warming (or cooling) the palms of his hands. He glances at DS Jones.
‘Remember when we had a cup of tea on the first morning with the batty Dutchwoman?’
DS Jones nods.
‘Before she poured, the cups were hot – I like that, I like drinks to be properly hot – and I noticed. And do you know why they were hot?’
He receives blank looks.
‘The dishwasher was still on. Remember – I’d just been poking about in the kitchen?’ (DS Jones nods to confirm.) ‘And I heard the dishwasher working.’
He pauses now to take a drink of his IPA – a considerable draught, and he smacks his lips approvingly.
‘The dishwasher was on at half-four in the morning. The kitchen staff left at eleven.’
The two sergeants are both listening intently.
‘The longest cycle on that dishwasher is two hours and twenty minutes. I know, because I checked the specification of the make and model.’
DS Jones’s eyes have widened.
‘The knife, Guv.’
Skelgill nods slowly
‘The knife that killed Ivan Tregilgis.’ He has another gulp of beer. ‘When Elspeth Goldsmith went into the kitchen, it wasn’t to feed her face – it was to return the knife she’d just used for the murder – to put it on the hottest, most effective cleaning cycle known to dishwasher engineers the world over.’
‘The cheesecake was just her cover, Guv?’
Skelgill nods.
‘If anyone saw her – who would be surprised? Melanie Stark didn’t bat an eyelid when she brought her a plate of cheesecake at three-fifteen in the morning. Next thing, Miriam discovers the murder – and Elspeth shoots along to make sure she gets plenty of Ivan Tregilgis’s blood on her person by supposedly comforting Miriam.’
Murder in Adland (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 1) Page 24