Murder at the Wake (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 7)

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘It’s one way of looking at it, Leyton.’

  16. FROZEN – Saturday 1pm

  Skelgill stamps his feet and rubs his hands together; he seems fogged by indecision, wreathed as he is by the clouds of his breath that hang in the air. He hovers beside his car outside the B&B at Buttermere. Like her siblings, Perdita has flown the nest – in her case, according to the landlady of his acquaintance, to return to Dublin. He digs his hands into his trouser pockets and slowly rotates on his heel, surveying the scene around him, a frozen landscape so still it could be a panoramic Christmas card. Through a gap in a belt of pines he has a view of Crummock Water, the shaded eastern fellside of Mellbreak rising beyond. Despite the clear skies the sun this time of year is no Sugar Ray, packing a punch too weak, steadily outpointed by the earthly elements. If the freeze continues for much longer the creeping ice might bridge the neck of water between Low Ling Crag and Hause Point – permitting him to walk out to the spot where the long-lost rowing boat decays 140 feet down. He stares broodingly; in ordinary circumstances this Saturday afternoon would most likely have found him upon his beloved Bass Lake, aboard his own craft, straining his sinews to winkle a winter pike out of its lair. But the weather – along with events at Crummock Hall – conspire to thwart him and he has not fished now for over a fortnight; his boat immobilised by pack ice at Peel Wyke harbour. Of course, the rivers on the whole keep flowing, for the ground water that produces them runs at a few degrees above freezing – but most species that he would covet are now out of season until the spring; he might have to lift down his cobwebbed beachcaster and head for the coast.

  Skelgill’s being stymied impacts not just upon his mood; it also affects his job. He is not a police officer that wants to pore over forensic reports and retire to ruminate clutching a pipe or sipping sirop de cassis, or to prop himself upon the crutch of the clichéd corporate incident room of gory photos and sensationalised press clippings assembled by a team of eager runners. Skelgill’s detective work is kinaesthetic in form – he must experience the evidence and evasion with his own five senses – and his method of problem solving enlists a mysterious sixth that he freely admits he neither comprehends nor commands – a subconscious synthesis of facts and intuition that probably has its workings nearer to his stomach than his brain. Gut feel, as his contemptuous critics might say. It finds its own way at those times when he is relieved of stress and hassle, yet occupied in some mildly repetitive deliberative mode. Angling often provides such conditions – thus at the moment he is doubly icebound. To solve the crime he must understand its nature – but he can’t answer this question until he can work out what it is. Like a cryptic crossword clue that seems unfathomable, gobbledegook, a riddle that all the staring at in the world will not help.

  He clambers into his car and sets off in rather pensive fashion. As he slows for the cattle grid at the end of the driveway he notices the waxwings have gone, though there are still berries upon the abandoned cotoneasters. He slots his mobile phone into its hands-free clip and raises an eyebrow that there is a signal. Presently the lane, the winding B5289 to Lorton and Cockermouth, converges with the eastern shore of Crummock Water, and in half a mile he pulls into a passing space beneath Rannerdale Knotts that gives him a view directly out over Hause Point. The signal is weaker now; he calls DS Leyton.

  ‘Alright, Guvnor?’

  ‘Leyton – what’s the latest – on the four you and Jones are covering?’

  ‘We’re just pulling a report together – for when you get back in?’

  His tone is hopeful and he expresses the statement as a question.

  ‘Who said I’m coming in?’

  ‘I just assumed –’

  ‘Get hold of Jones and call me back from my office. Stick me on loudspeaker.’

  ‘Straightaway, Guv?’

  ‘Make it twenty minutes – I need to do something.’

  ‘Wilco, Guv.’ DS Leyton hangs up with a sharp intake of breath that is indicative of a tough ask.

  Skelgill leaves his engine idling and cautiously rounds to the back of his car, treading in tyre ruts that scar the frozen surface. He hauls up the tailgate and drags his battered aluminium Kelly kettle clanking from beneath a pile of outdoor clothing. Then he puts it aside for a moment while he has second thoughts and pulls his orange cagoule around his jacket and dons his tartan trapper hat. He rummages in storage crates and with a grunt of satisfaction locates a dented Kendal mint cake tin decorated with a scuffed design of alpine scenery. Inside are little polythene pouches, and from these he extracts a couple of dog-eared tea bags, half a dozen sugar lumps, and a rough measure of powdered milk, which he inserts successively into the round spout of the kettle. This is not the conventional way to use the device – but then convention and Skelgill make an oxymoron. And now he carries the improvisation a stage further. He takes a couple of tentative strides into the virgin snow towards the lake and squats down to trap the tall cylinder between his knees. He begins to feed handfuls of snow into the spout – a tricky job since its diameter is no more than two inches. However, he succeeds to his satisfaction and returns to the vehicle. Vigorously he rubs his hands and curses the cold, and wrings and shakes them before he continues. Next he jams the pot-like firebase into the crunchy snow-ice, and settles the kettle upon it, pressing down until the arrangement seems to be stable. Then he begins tearing sheets of newspaper, the local advertiser, and twisting them into tight spills, which he drops into the hollow centre, or chimney, of the kettle. From the vehicle he produces a stainless steel Sigg bottle and a box of long cook’s matches. He pours a dose of methylated spirits into the flue, and follows it with a lighted match. There is a small explosion and concomitant swearing as Skelgill almost has his eyebrows singed, and immediately purple and then orange tongues of flame begin to lick out of the mouth of the chimney. He busies himself with making more paper spills, adding them one at a time to replenish the fuel supply. There begins a hissing – it is the compacted ice liquefying beneath the firebase, and Skelgill adjusts the balance. Snow being considerably less dense than water, when after a couple of minutes it melts it must fill only a tenth of the cylinder, and Skelgill gingerly feeds in additional handfuls, muttering oaths each time he burns himself. He maintains a rumbling boil with a steady supply of spills.

  After about five minutes he decides his snow tea is ready, and hauls the kettle off its base and carefully pours the precious brew into a chipped enamel mug. He kicks over the firebase and tosses the kettle into deeper snow and leaves them to cool. He slams shut the tailgate and carries his mug round to enter on the passenger side. He delves into the glove box and seems surprised to find half a packet of chocolate digestives. Now that the car is closed up, the interior quickly heats. He winds back the seat and looks over the semi-frozen expanse of Crummock Water to his left. He works his way steadily through the biscuits, slowly becoming immersed in the warming sensation of the hot sweet tea and velvety dunked melted chocolate. It is not exactly fishing, but he seems happier than he has been for some time. In the manner of an addict getting his fix, there is some mesmerising experience, and perhaps he is imagining himself at Whitehaven West Pier casting with optimism into the Irish Sea.

  Indeed some revelation seems to come to him, for his gaze, for several minutes glazed, abruptly sharpens and there is a strange light in his grey-green eyes: no longer the hunted, but the hunter. Gut feel fuelled by his snack, perhaps? He gulps the last of his tea – grimacing a little as he swallows the soft slugs of biscuit base that lurk in the dregs – and with a sudden purpose clambers across into the driver’s seat and sets off. He is whistling Danny Boy.

  There follows, however, a momentary setback in his new-found momentum – literally so, for he curses and slithers to a halt after only twenty yards and reverses, wheels spinning furiously to find their grip in the packed snow: he jumps out and retrieves his Kelly kettle and its base. He sets off again, and when his phone bursts into life he looks entirely perplexed.

&nbs
p; ‘That’s us, Guv?’

  ‘What is?’

  DS Leyton senses some incongruity in Skelgill’s manner.

  ‘Twenty minutes, Guv – you said to give it.’

  ‘Aye.’

  This “aye” infers that Skelgill has already forgotten about the call, and that he has better things to do. DS Leyton, meanwhile, is obliged to play for time.

  ‘DS Jones is just powdering her nose, Guv – she won’t be two ticks.’ He makes a rather curious humming sound that might be a soccer chant. ‘You watching the game tonight, Guv?’

  ‘Which game?’

  ‘World Cup qualifier – they’re saying England could win it this time round.’

  ‘Aye – and I’ll do a morris dance on the Chief’s desk waving St George’s cross hankies and wearing three lions grotts.’

  DS Leyton chuckles. Skelgill employs the local slang for underpants.

  ‘Never know, Guv – she might join you. Maybe she’s got an outfit of her own.’

  ‘You can’t dance in cast iron, Leyton.’

  DS Leyton is about to reply but Skelgill hears a door closing and instead DS Jones’s slightly breathless voice comes on the line.

  ‘Sorry, Guv – DI Smart just asked me to run a computer analysis for him.’

  ‘You told him where to shove it, I hope.’

  ‘In a manner of speaking, Guv.’

  Skelgill huffs.

  ‘I’m on the move – the signal could drop anytime.’

  There is a short silence and it could be deduced that the two sergeants glance uncertainly at one another. DS Leyton strikes up.

  ‘I’ll go first, Guv.’ He clears his throat in the rather formal way of one preparing to deliver a valediction. ‘Starting with Edgar – and this business with the writ. My pal Billy down in the Economic Crime Directorate, he’s had a butcher’s at the documents filed with the court. It don’t look like there was anything criminal – just unprofessional – negligence, know what I mean?’ (Skelgill grunts, sounding displeased.) ‘Like you thought, Guv – he’s got director’s liability insurance but they’re contesting the cover – so he’s between a rock and a hard place. What Billy reckons is that, even if the insurance pays up, he’s gonna lose the case. So that’ll be his reputation down the Swanee. His best bet is to settle out of court and make it go away – no bad PR, like. For that, he’d need a couple of mil in readies.’

  Skelgill is silent – but that probably indicates he is mulling over what DS Leyton has said. DS Leyton assumes he should continue.

  ‘Moving on to Brutus, Guv.’ There is now a longer pause and Skelgill can hear a rustling of papers, which might lead him to suspect his subordinates are conferring over some point. ‘Just finding the page, Guv. Here we go. Thing is – with him being this celebrity – Owain Jagger – it’s knowing where to start.’ He coughs again, more affectedly this time. ‘About what you mentioned, Guv – I went through the paparazzi shots of him. First off, I would say he’s usually got a dolly bird on his arm.’ (Another pause; perhaps for an apologetic glance at his colleague.) ‘But given we’re looking for a financial angle – there was one thing that struck me.’

  ‘What, Leyton?’ Skelgill is becoming impatient.

  ‘You know I’ve got family connections – turf accountancy?’

  ‘Your uncle’s a bookie, Leyton.’

  ‘Correct, Guv. So I’m tuned-in to the old gee-gees – and I noticed a good number of photos of Brutus at race meets. Now, your Ascot, your Epsom – you’d expect that – they’re on the nobs’ social calendar and he’d get corporate hospitality – plus they’re handy for Town – but he’s also been to the likes of Newmarket for the Guineas – that’s out in Suffolk – and he was at the St Ledger – fair enough, it’s one of the Classics – but that’s Doncaster, Guv – thick end of two hundred miles from London. And there’s others out in the sticks, not always big meets – Market Rasen, Wincanton.’

  ‘So what are you saying, Leyton?’

  ‘On the q.t. – I spoke with my connections – the word is, he’s more than an interested spectator. He bets big – cash on the course. It’s not like online gambling. There’s no records kept, no questions asked – but given a couple of days I can probably find out if he’s on a streak. Winning – or losing, more like.’

  Skelgill is silent for an inordinate period. Perhaps he is recalling what seemed at the time a throwaway remark during their interview with Cassandra: “Oh, I’m not the gambler in the family.” After a minute he responds.

  ‘Okay – follow it up. Look – I need to shift. Jones – just give me the summary.’

  There is a squeal as she edges her chair closer to the telephone.

  ‘Sure, Guv. Firstly, Martius. I’ve also tried to follow any lines that might have commercial implications. Regarding the offshore investments linked to Edgar’s clients, I’ve still got a DC working on that – the Virgin Islands’ tax haven status means the normal channels of enquiry are almost impenetrable – so we’re working with Interpol’s money-laundering unit to see if they can shed any light on it. However, their initial view is that Regulus & Co merchant bank is unlikely to have lost out in the transaction. They merely received and transmitted the funds. More significant might be what happened in the financial crash – or after it, rather. I came across a report that Regulus & Co had – if not exactly failed – performed poorly in the IMF stress tests. Subsequently there was a press release from the bank itself – stating that Regulus & Co had significantly increased its liquidity from a number of private sources. Again it’s hard to scratch beneath the surface – but I realised there’s the public register of property ownership. I checked for Martius’s home in Surrey – it’s the ancestral Regulus family estate – there suddenly appeared at the same time a mortgage of five million pounds.’

  In the background DS Leyton whistles.

  ‘Jeez, Guv – how the other half lives, eh?’

  ‘Make it half per cent, Leyton.’

  There is a pause while they each consider this revelation.

  ‘That’s all for Martius at the moment, Guv.’ Skelgill neither comments nor commends her, so she continues. ‘As for Cassandra – wow – there was more than I expected. She’s romped through three high-profile marriages in ten years – and probably done pretty well for herself along the way. But this party-planning outfit of hers seems a bit odd. It’s a limited company – she’s registered as the sole director and shareholder – and her accounts haven’t been filed for the last two years. She stages spectacular events that attract pages of coverage – but I just wonder if she’s been making a loss to win business. I found an article where a competitor was complaining about unfair practices – they’d lost out on a big tender for a fashion awards after-party. Looking at her lifestyle, she’s obviously high maintenance – there’s a lot trips abroad – French Riviera, Milan, New York, the Caribbean – including the British Virgin Islands. And then about two months ago a gossip column reported that she’d given up the lease on her own flat in Knightsbridge and moved into a penthouse apartment overlooking Hyde Park – it belongs to a financier. The piece was pretty thick with innuendo – he’s a non-dom and only spends a month a year in the country – he’s twice her age, and the journalist used the expression sugar daddy more than once.’

  Skelgill grimaces. He has remained silent during DS Jones’s exposition, and has in fact turned into the entrance to the long winding driveway of Crummock Hall, halting the car, knowing he will probably lose the signal if he presses on beneath the towering bulk of Grasmoor. Perhaps the manoeuvre has distracted him, or more profoundly that his subordinates’ words have provided genuine food for thought – however, he squints anxiously ahead, suggesting his first priority is to motor on. His sergeants can be heard exchanging muffled whispers, before DS Leyton comes back on the line a little wheezily, close to the microphone.

  ‘Can you hear us, Guv?’

  ‘No need to shout, Leyton.’

  ‘Sorry, Guv.’ DS Leyton’s
voice wavers. ‘Couple of other things – just quickly?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘You asked me to check out that bookseller down Charing Cross Road?’ Skelgill does not reply in the affirmative, so DS Leyton keeps going. ‘Seems all above board – but I was just trying the name Vellum, doing an internet search together with Regulus-O’More – and this photo came up from an old school yearbook. Stone the crows – there’s Edgar with the Toby Vellum geezer that you met! Edgar’s a prefect – Toby Vellum’s what they call in those public schools his ‘fag’ – you know, Guv, his gopher, like?’

  ‘I know what a fag is, Leyton.’

  Skelgill sounds remarkably unfazed, given that his sergeant has unearthed a potentially intriguing connection. Yesterday in the drawing room – albeit for a short while – he witnessed Toby Vellum arriving in proximity with the Regulus-O’Mores, and there was no indication of any relationship, long lost or otherwise. It seems unlikely that Edgar, at least, would not have recognised him. And surely Toby Vellum would have had no qualms about identifying himself? Yet his introduction to the family by Fergal Mullarkey had been met with cursory nods and those present returning to their conversations.

  ‘What do you reckon, Guv – should I follow that one up?’

  ‘Aye – as you like, Leyton – what else was there?’

  DS Leyton hesitates – perhaps a touch deflated his superior’s apathy.

  ‘Er – about Brutus, Guv – what DI Smart said about him being in the Lakes – when we thought he’d gone to London?’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Drawn a blank so far, Guv. I’ve talked to all our regular press and radio contacts – you’d think they’d have been tipped off if a celebrity were knocking about – but nothing – nor anything coming up on social media. I’ve tried all the main hotels and guest houses – I wonder if it was a case of mistaken identity – or someone pulling a fast one on DI Smart to make a few quid – oh –’

  ‘Not very likely, Cock.’