‘Why was she working late?’
‘Her company is putting on a performance in August – Romeo and Juliet – they have a regular slot for rehearsal after the evening meal every Friday.’
‘And Meredith Bale – she’s in the group?’
‘I understand she plays Juliet.’
Briony Boss forces an ironic smile, though Skelgill remains grim faced. The Director continues.
‘The class ended at seven-thirty. Helen Pettigrew had called Coniston Ward to say that Meredith Bale would be returning later – that she would contact Security when they had finished. They must have been doing some extra rehearsal, one to one.’
Skelgill inhales, as if to raise a question – but at this moment the telephone rings. Briony Boss answers and listens intently. Though she is already tense it is news that further unsettles her, for she stiffens and her grip on the handset tightens.
‘Are you certain?’
She listens again and then terminates the call without a word. The two detectives regard her like starved wolves. She clears her throat and takes another sip of her drink. When she looks up the whites of her eyes seem enlarged with disbelief.
‘That was the gatehouse. They say that Dr Helen Pettigrew left with Dr Agnetha Walker at just before eight. Dr Walker was driving.’
‘Jeez!’
It is DS Leyton’s exclamation that expresses their collectively incredulity. And now the trio sit like actors who have simultaneously dried. Skelgill is first to find his tongue – he speaks tersely through clenched jaws, as if he is wrestling to control his emotions.
‘Leyton – go down to the gatehouse – I want chapter and verse – get the registration number of Dr Walker’s car – it’s a red Volvo – put out an emergency alert. Move it.’
‘Right, Guv.’
DS Leyton hauls himself to his feet and bustles towards the door – however, Briony Boss holds up a palm.
‘Sergeant – you will need someone to escort you.’
But at this moment the door opens – the Head of Security has arrived with a uniformed subordinate. A brief exchange establishes that the latter will chaperone DS Leyton, and the couple make a hasty departure. Skelgill is introduced to Eric Blacklock. He is an imposing figure – albeit in his early sixties – about Skelgill’s height but of a much heavier build. There are the ponderous movements and measured speech of an archetypal English village police constable; a strong chin and grey hair cropped close to a broad head – though beady blue eyes suggest a shrewd brain operates within the uncomplicated exterior. He asks Briony Boss if he may take control of her computer. She yields up her seat, and she and Skelgill cluster around. Eric Blacklock methodically dons a pair of reading glasses, and with sturdy fingers making slow and deliberate taps of the keyboard he logs in. Then he directs the mouse and after half a minute more makes a final click and sits back.
‘Watch. This is them leaving through the staff foyer.’
The picture is grainy – a jerky sequence of monochrome stills that shows two rather shadowy figures advancing together, first entering the area, then crossing in close company, almost arm in arm, and swiping themselves out of the exit. Skelgill leans forwards, staring keenly. The leading person is clearly Dr Agnetha Walker – her slim form combined with her long wavy blonde hair is quite unmistakeable. The second woman is taller – a bigger physique altogether; and dark hair spills in coils from the hood of her coat, which has already been raised in anticipation of the rain that awaits them. They appear to exchange no words, although their movements are purposeful. Dr Agnetha Walker glances back anxiously as she passes through the door, but her companion pushes up behind her and she is obliged to move on. Eric Blacklock clears his throat.
‘We’ll have other footage – I’ll need more time to isolate it – but this proves they went out to the car park. To come back in, they’d have to pass through our main Security check – and they obviously haven’t done that.’ He looks pointedly at the Director, and then to Skelgill. ‘We’d have better than this – but the new system that was to be installed was cancelled.’
Briony Boss has been breathing audibly through her nose, at a rate that reveals an elevated pulse. She flashes a dark look at Eric Blacklock, but then she sighs and inhales again. She addresses Skelgill.
‘That is not Dr Helen Pettigrew – it goes without saying.’
Eric Blacklock cranes around to stare at her with a curious expression. Clearly he knows the impossibility that it could be the badly injured psychologist – but there is something that perplexes him.
‘She doesn’t look like Meredith Bale, either.’
Skelgill is supporting himself with his hands on the edge of the desk. He pushes off and transfers his fists to the small of his back. He grits his teeth as he flexes his troublesome spine.
‘What kind of wig does Juliet wear?’
Briony Boss’s dark eyes flicker in the gloom.
‘You are right, Inspector – they have an extensive collection of costumes – and wigs, of course.’
Eric Blacklock swivels around in the Director’s chair. He folds his arms stubbornly.
‘Why would Dr Walker lead Meredith Bale out of the hospital?’
Involuntarily, Briony Boss backs away. It appears that the idea is abhorrent – and that she is struggling to find an explanation. Then Skelgill supplies one.
‘It didn’t look like she had much choice, to me.’
This seems to be a straw she is willing to cling to. Now she holds out both hands in hope.
‘What do you mean, Inspector?’
Skelgill inclines his head in the direction of the computer terminal.
‘I’d say – from the way that Meredith Bale was sticking close to Dr Walker – she had a concealed weapon beneath that coat.’
Eric Blacklock begins to protest, but the Director overrules him with a curt interruption.
‘Their movements were not natural. That is plain.’
Skelgill digs his hands into his pockets and takes a turn around the carpet.
‘How could Dr Agnetha Walker have become caught up in this?’
Briony Boss takes a couple of paces towards him, as if she senses firmer ground in his vicinity. Indeed she places a tentative hand upon his sleeve.
‘Inspector – she has use of a consulting room – it is right beside the drama studio – it was the gymnasium manager’s office prior to the conversion.’
Skelgill nods, but he remains silent, encouraging the Director to continue with her speculation.
‘She could have heard a noise – a cry of distress – and gone to investigate.’ She draws the fingers of both hands slowly through her hair, as though she is tracing the imagery that percolates through her mind. ‘Meredith Bale must have intimidated her – perhaps, as you say, with the weapon she used to attack Dr Helen Pettigrew.’
Skelgill joins the fingers of both hands and pulls them down onto the top of his head. It is as if he is unconsciously mirroring the Director’s action.
‘Why wouldn’t she run away, raise the alarm?’
Briony Boss looks pained.
‘Inspector – it is not so easy to run anywhere in a place like this – it is designed to prevent exactly that eventuality – to contain patients who might wish to avoid their nurses’ ministrations. As you have experienced, there are security doors restricting almost every area.’ She shakes her head so that her hair falls back into place. ‘And, of course, having Dr Walker to accompany her made her exit appear more convincing – should they have been seen by another member of staff, or been followed on the camera system.’
Skelgill rubs his eyes and then clasps his hands together in a gesture of union.
‘I take it they’re acquainted – Dr Agnetha Walker and Dr Helen Pettigrew?’
Briony Boss nods.
‘I understand they get on well – Dr Walker has been a dinner guest on several occasions – what with her living away from home – and working on a project supervised by Dr Peter Pett
igrew. It would not be unusual for them to depart together.’
Skelgill nods slowly as he files away this piece of information.
‘And you’re sure about Dr Peter Pettigrew having left a good hour earlier?’
Now the Director turns back to Eric Blacklock. He seems rather reluctant to supply the answer. His response is accordingly gruff.
‘The computer says so. We’ll be able to confirm with CCTV. And the duty officer at the gatehouse.’
At this last suggestion Skelgill’s eyes narrow doubtingly. It is a reasonable reaction given that the employee in question has already misidentified one Dr Pettigrew. However, he addresses Briony Boss.
‘If we could get that confirmation – along with a list of movements in the vicinity of the drama studio between the class ending and the time that Meredith Bale and Dr Walker were recorded leaving.’
‘Of course, Inspector.’
At this, Eric Blacklock rises laboriously and with a glance at each of them begins to make his way towards the door. It seems he does not intend to receive an order in front of Skelgill.
‘Might take me an hour or so. The technology’s slow.’
He departs without further explanation or leave-taking. It is plain that he is reluctant to shoulder any blame for his area of responsibility, when his superior’s budget cuts can be scapegoated. As soon as the door closes behind him a somewhat despondent Briony Boss crosses the room.
‘Excuse me one moment, Inspector.’
She bears her glass and opening a cabinet recharges it – and then repeats the operation with a matching tumbler. She carries them slowly to where Skelgill is engrossed at her desk – he is replaying the video on her computer, frame by frame to get the best shot of Dr Agnetha Walker’s final strained backwards glance into the foyer. Certainly the psychologist appears alarmed – her eyebrows raised searchingly – but he has seen this expression several times in person, and knows it is not so straightforward as face value might suggest.
‘These violent delights have violent ends.’
He is jolted from his preoccupation by these melodramatic words. Briony Boss is upon him, proffering a glass – there is the rattle of ice – a hand that trembles – and tears of black mascara that stream down her cheeks – her breathing comes in heavy gasps and she sways alarmingly. Skelgill springs to his feet and grabs at both tumblers simultaneously. Relieved of the burden she collapses against him – wraps her arms around his torso – and buries her head into his shoulder.
*
‘This is becoming our second office, Guv.’
Skelgill shrugs.
‘Could do worse, Leyton – the food’s better than HQ – and at Haresfell there’s always a minder lurking.’
‘Suppose they’ve got no choice about that, Guv. Can’t trust us not to get blagged by another fantasist like Frank Wamphray.’
Skelgill now scowls disagreeably.
‘Pot and kettle, Leyton.’
DS Leyton nods, his nose buried in his mug. They have drinks only – both opting for coffees in recognition of the lateness of the hour and their need for alertness. He wipes away chocolaty froth from his lips with the back of his hand.
‘That Volvo’s disappeared into thin air, Guv. That’s them – and Harry Krille.’
Now Skelgill nods grimly. He casts about the motorway cafeteria, and then thumps clenched fists onto the table in frustration.
‘It’s like being padded-up, Leyton – waiting to go in to bat – it’s a killer.’
‘I thought you were a bowler, Guv.’
Skelgill folds his arms and leans towards his colleague.
‘Aye – but you still have to bat, Leyton – especially when your team’s in trouble. Makes it worse.’
DS Leyton nods appreciatively.
‘Got a game tomorrow, Guv?’
‘You must be kidding – it was cancelled Tuesday. There’s ducks on the square – and I’m not talking about the scoreboard.’
DS Leyton grins at his superior’s sardonic joke. But lacking a witty retort, he remains silent, and they both sink into reverie. It may be they reflect on the decimation wrought upon the English cricket season by the climate, but if – more responsibly – the whereabouts of the Haresfell fugitives occupies their thoughts then Skelgill’s simile is apposite: there is little they can do but metaphorically twirl their bats in anticipation of a breakthrough. DS Leyton, judging by the various expressions that tangle his brows, begins to wrestle with some deeply perplexing scenario, and one that plainly troubles him. After a couple of minutes the construct surfaces sufficiently for him to air his concern.
‘Guv – do you reckon Harry Krille’s got a hostage?’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Well – it beats me why your Dr Walker didn’t put up more of a fight – or even scream out to the geezer in the gatehouse. If he’d have just kept the barrier down they couldn’t have gone anywhere.’
‘So where does Krille come in?’
‘Well, Guv – imagine if Meredith Bale says to you, my pal Crazy Harry’s got your kid – so you’d better do as I tell you – then you’d probably obey.’
‘She doesn’t have kids – or relatives in Britain – she’s from Sweden.’
A flicker of suspicion disturbs DS Leyton’s features; is Skelgill sufficiently acquainted with Dr Agnetha Walker to know such facts?
‘Or maybe a friend, Guv – some connection, anyway.’
Skelgill remains doubtful.
‘I can’t see it, Leyton – it’s too complicated.’
DS Leyton seems determined to find some chink in Skelgill’s opposition.
‘Well – how about if she’s got something on her, then?’
‘Like what?’
‘I dunno, Guv – she was a nurse, wasn’t she? What if she knows Dr Walker committed some misdemeanour and has evidence to prove it?’
‘Blackmail.’ Skelgill’s weary tone implies his resistance remains intact.
‘Could be, Guv.’
Again they become subdued – until DS Leyton has another idea.
‘Or bribery, Guv.’
‘What?’
DS Leyton taps the side of his nose with a stout index finger.
‘Remember what Frank Wamphray said, Guv – about how patients are bribing staff – we discussed it before – all it would take is access to a bank account.’
Skelgill frowns testily.
‘Leyton – I can see a nurse smuggling in a packet of baccy – but Agnetha Walker conspiring in a murder? Come off it, man.’
DS Leyton’s patience is beginning to wear thin, as his suggestions are successively dismissed. This sentiment is surely exacerbated by the fact that he is keeping his boss company late on a Friday night, while the latter makes scant effort to provide theories of his own. Suddenly he lets loose an expletive, one approximately rhyming with duck’s wake (and no connection to cricket, or waterfowl) – a minor outburst that attracts the wary eye of a young woman waiting to serve behind the hot food counter. Skelgill glances anxiously towards her, and waves a reassuring hand; perhaps she is the cousin, the insider whom he would not wish to distress.
‘Steady on, Leyton – it’s only a job at the end of the day.’
DS Leyton is sufficiently perplexed by this statement to forget his anger. He gazes at Skelgill with some amazement – the sentiment does not ring true with Skelgill’s irrational dedication to catching criminals, with little regard for his own personal safety, comfort or gain. Perhaps there is some aspect of his superior’s make up that he has not fully understood.
‘Look, Leyton – your guess is as good as mine – fair enough.’
The sergeant is not one to harbour grudges, and he probably knows this is about as near to an apology that Skelgill is ever likely to stoop. He nods amenably, and Skelgill continues.
‘I’m just going by the facts. Meredith Bale’s a big hulking serial killer – Agnetha Walker’s a seven-stone slip of a lass who looks terrified in that video f
ootage.’
DS Leyton purses his lips thoughtfully.
‘I’d put her at more than seven stone, Guv.’
Skelgill shakes his head resolutely, but does not elaborate upon the basis for his confidence.
‘Nobody can tell how a person will react in that situation – she might be a trained criminal psychologist, but if she walked in on Meredith Bale battering Dr Helen Pettigrew’s brains in with a claw hammer – who knows what switches it would flick?’
‘She’s not dead, anyway, Guv.’
‘Come again?’
‘You said accessory to murder, Guv – the hospital report says she’s critical but stable.’
‘Aye, well – let’s hope they’re right about the stable.’
DS Leyton nods sympathetically.
‘That’s some brass neck of Meredith Bale, Guv – knocking the woman on the head and getting herself escorted out of there.’
‘What did the duty officer at the gatehouse say?’
DS Leyton pulls the sort of face that precedes the relaying of unfortunate news.
‘He knows he’s dropped a clanger, Guv – reckons he’s in for the chop.’ DS Leyton absently rubs his crown with one hand. ‘I feel sorry for the poor geezer. Familiar car pulls up – it’s sheeting with rain – driver just lowers the window a couple of inches – he recognises her – she tells him she’s giving a colleague a lift – why shouldn’t he believe her? It’s dark and he can’t see properly into the car for all the raindrops and whatnot – but it looks enough like Dr Helen Pettigrew – why would he think for a minute she’s an imposter? It’s not his job to vet members of staff – that’s why they’ve got the electronic ID system.’
Skelgill is nodding pensively.
‘Eric Blacklock was complaining about the lack of investment in security – he was laying the blame at the Director’s door.’
‘She always seems a bit cagey to me, Guv.’ He pauses for thought. ‘Or if not cagey – distracted about something.’
Skelgill looks away, and it takes him a few seconds to compose a rejoinder.
‘She’s got plenty on her plate, Leyton.’
Perhaps his use of this idiom triggers a subliminal reaction, for he stares longingly towards the self-serve food counter. A trio of truckers has traipsed in, their boots clicking on the tiled floor, and they begin loading plates with the all-day breakfast. DS Leyton, on the other hand, following Skelgill’s line of sight, seems to be reminded of the possibility of Harry Krille stowing away aboard a lorry.
Murder in the Mind Page 18