Murder in the Mind

by Bruce Beckham

  She surveys him with a knowing grin. Unsure of how to respond, he averts his gaze and stares out rather blankly across the river. Her next remark seems designed to compound his confusion.

  ‘Take the escapee Harry Krille – a case in point. I found him a most disconcerting and yet engaging adversary.’

  Skelgill darts her a surprised glance.

  ‘You knew him?’

  ‘Only in a manner of speaking – back in those dark days – I was the Crown Prosecutor.’

  Skelgill bites at his lower lip and nods slowly.

  ‘When you were at the Old Bailey.’

  ‘Harry Krille – you see, Daniel – he was your typical neighbourhood psychopath – a ruthless killer, lacking empathy and emotion, but also a smooth-talking, unselfconscious flirt. Of course – I have not set eyes upon him since his trial.’

  Skelgill shifts uneasily, as if the hard ground is discomforting him.

  ‘The trouble with a psychopath, Daniel, is that they know what you are feeling but they don’t feel it themselves – so they can use your own emotions against you. One has to be very guarded in one’s dealings with such a person.’

  Skelgill now makes a deep expiration of breath that is something akin to a sigh.

  ‘You sound like you’re describing my boss.’

  She responds with a throaty chuckle.

  ‘Now, now, Daniel – you know only too well that she and I are acquainted.’

  Skelgill reciprocates with a rueful grin.

  ‘Aye – and you know I’d never say anything I wouldn’t tell a person to their face.’

  ‘That may become your downfall, Daniel.’

  ‘I think I’m well past the point of no return, Alice.’

  She considers him through narrowed eyes.

  ‘Oh, I hear on the grapevine you are most highly regarded – even if those in authority are reluctant to admit it.’

  Skelgill makes a dismissive scoffing sound.

  ‘They won’t have to if I don’t get somewhere with this case.’

  She wags a reprimanding finger.

  ‘Which brings us back to Broadmoor.’

  Skelgill looks bemused.

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘Yes – at least as far as Briony Boss is concerned.’ Now she delivers a confidential wink. ‘I appreciate your observation about my not being a rumourmonger – but one cannot avoid what one hears. Gossiping is the gratuitous passing on of superfluous information. This is not such a circumstance.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Evidently the sub-committee did entertain some reservations over Briony Boss – there was more debate than was finally presented for my approval – and of course sweetened by the silky tongue of Peter Pettigrew. It was noted that her elevation from staff nurse had been somewhat meteoric, entering the administrative ranks and rising rapidly to executive level. There was a suggestion that at certain pivotal moments of her career something more than merit was at play.’ Alice Wright-Fotheringham scrutinises him closely. ‘You have met her, of course?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Then perhaps you understand what I may be talking about?’

  ‘I reckon I get your gist, Alice. She’s a striking lady.’

  ‘There we are, then. It is not difficult to imagine that she might still be a source of disquiet. And, of course, she came with a reputation for stamping out restrictive practices amongst the workers. She is said to have wreaked havoc upon the unions at Broadmoor, and broken up their most militant cabal.’

  Skelgill nods, but senses she will continue.

  ‘However, it does strike one as odd that there is friction between her and Peter Pettigrew. From what I am told he has done very well out of Briony Boss’s accession – promoted to higher grade and awarded overall control of medical policies for Haresfell. She has given him the platform to become a national authority – with so few similar institutions in the British Isles.’

  Skelgill is looking concerned.

  ‘We’ve not been able to interview him – since the attack on his wife – he’s spending a lot of time at her bedside at Cumberland Infirmary.’

  Alice Wright-Fotheringham makes to remark – but she checks herself and shakes her head sympathetically. They both sip their tea in silence for a minute or two. The scene is pleasant, despite the drizzle, a wooded gorge lined by gnarled alders and oaks. The motion of the river both mesmerises and lulls – its rocky bed and shallow nature conjure a perpetually changing pattern of sight and sound, ripples and eddies that ebb and flow and splash and swoosh with a certain improvised harmony. A dipper buzzes past, and then performs an aerobatic turn to land upon a half-submerged stone. Small songbird though it might be, it bobs once or twice, showing off its smart evening suit, and then plunges recklessly into the torrent. A few moments later it emerges several yards downstream, popping up onto another boulder, now with its dinner wriggling in its beak.

  ‘Do you catch by logic, Daniel – or is it gut feel?’

  Skelgill turns to her, blinking.

  ‘You mean fish?’

  ‘Fish – or criminals. Is there a difference?’

  Now Skelgill is forced to contemplate the distinction.

  ‘After I’ve caught a fish – when I’m thinking about it – maybe driving home, walking the dog, whatever – I can explain how I did it.’ He pulls off his Tilley hat and absently combs back his hair with the fingers of one hand. ‘I can’t honestly say I always see it at the time.’

  ‘But you must be using information – otherwise you would cast upon the main road, or a playing field, or the staff canteen at your police headquarters.’

  Skelgill grins.

  ‘Might get a battered haddock.’

  ‘But you see my point?’

  ‘Aye. I guess.’

  He sounds as though he is not sure that he does, but he nods with sufficient enthusiasm to satisfy her.

  ‘In my most difficult cases – as a judge rather than as a barrister – I always knew before I understood.’ (Skelgill is now watching her closely.) ‘When the facts are before one’s eyes, it can take a little time before one’s subconscious yields up the truth.’

  Skelgill seems to be composing a rejoinder – but at this juncture a text alert sounds from his breast pocket. He pulls an apologetic face.

  ‘Leyton – one of my sergeants.’

  ‘On a Sunday – is there no peace for the wicked, Daniel?’

  Squinting, Skelgill grimaces as he reads the message.

  ‘Important?’

  ‘Could be – possible sighting of Harry Krille – at least, a place he might have been hiding out – a bothy beside Hayeswater – above Hartsop.’

  ‘That is near Patterdale, is it not?’

  ‘Aye – couple of miles south, before you hit the Kirkstone.’

  ‘What might that tell you about his trajectory, Daniel?’

  ‘If you drew a line from Tebay through Hartsop it’d probably pass by Keswick.’ Skelgill scowls doubtfully. ‘But this the Lakes – who travels in straight lines?’

  Alice Wright-Fotheringham is frowning.

  ‘Then hadn’t you better do so – make a beeline – Inspector?’

  Skelgill glances about uneasily. His gaze comes to rest on his dog. She is regarding him inquiringly, head cocked on one side, ears pricked, pink tongue protruding by a quarter of an inch.

  ‘Daniel – I shall take Cleopatra – the pair of them seem to be getting on like a house on fire – she can stay the night if you can’t drop by before, say, ten p.m. Failing that, collect her tomorrow.’

  He casts a loose hand towards the Eden.

  ‘Sure you don’t mind, Alice – cutting it short?’

  ‘Daniel – we’ve had our tea – I’ve caught my Lady of the Stream – I’ve told you all I know – I think we’ll begin to get bored of one another – that is ample for a first date.’

  Skelgill grins – but it is Alice Wright-Fotheringham that has the final word.

  ‘When you call at Kesw
ick – not that I am unappreciative of your builder’s brand – but you shall have a decent pot of Earl Grey.’

  22. INTERVIEWS

  ‘Shame about that barn catching fire yesterday, Guv – think it could have been a red herring?’

  ‘You mean to put us off the scent?’

  ‘I suppose so, Guv.’

  ‘What about on the scent?’

  DS Leyton scratches his head.

  ‘How does that work, Guv?’

  ‘If it were Krille – why would he torch it, Leyton?’

  Now DS Leyton puffs out his fleshy jowls.

  ‘Destroy any evidence, Guv – that he’d been there.’

  Skelgill shakes his head slowly, patently unconvinced – although DS Leyton makes a fair point. By the time they arrived yesterday evening at the peaceful grey-stone hamlet of Hartsop – in the seventeenth century a lead-mining and spinning community – a glum PC Dodd was waiting to intercept them with the news to which DS Leyton has referred: the bothy was gutted. Skelgill had remarked that the inferno had done them out of a nice stroll (a sharp climb beside Hayeswater Gill of around a thousand feet). DS Leyton, for his part, had looked somewhat relieved – knowing his superior officer, he quite likely would have led them onwards and upwards, on the grounds that to be within touching distance of High Street (the fell where once a mountaintop Roman road passed joining forts at Penrith and Ambleside) it would have been churlish not to go the extra half mile, for his sergeant’s edification. This would have seemed an even worse prospect were he to be informed – as Skelgill undoubtedly is – by the words of Lakeland’s cantankerous biographer Alfred Wainwright, who candidly described the remaining ascent from Hayeswater as “deteriorating into a dull trudge.”

  ‘What would he have left behind, Leyton – to give away his presence? He’d realise a sniffer dog would pick up his scent inside or out – so destroying the place makes no odds.’

  DS Leyton rolls his shoulders, as if he has slept badly and still bears the stiffness.

  ‘Might have been testing his bomb, Guv – could have saved us a job if he’d blown himself up.’

  Skelgill declines to be amused.

  ‘There’s no knowing it was Krille, Leyton.’

  ‘But the dog, Guv – the handler reckoned it got something.’

  Skelgill shrugs. He leans forwards over the map of the Lake District that is spread out before them. Now he stares at it determinedly, like a person willing form to emerge from a Magic Eye image. DS Leyton sits patiently at his side, but when after about thirty seconds Skelgill makes no move, he checks his wristwatch and shunts restlessly in his chair.

  ‘Want another tea, Guv? We’ve got about ten minutes before Arthur Kerr’s due.’

  Skelgill does not respond – as if he is locked in a battle with his senses, and cannot afford to let go of his grip at this precise moment. But then he releases the breath he has been withholding, and pushes himself back into an upright position.

  ‘You know what they say about the Pope, Leyton.’

  DS Leyton grins and rises dutifully. They have set up their allocated Haresfell interview room in a more formal style, with their two seats facing a single chair across the table. There are no windows, and Skelgill glances about uneasily while he waits for his colleague to return. He lifts the map, stretching his arms to grab either margin, breaking its back and compressing it like a practised concertina player. The coffee bar is only yards away, and it is just another minute before DS Leyton reverses through the door and shuts it with a shove of one foot.

  ‘Better give me an update, Leyton.’

  Now Skelgill refers to the debrief DS Leyton has this morning received from his small team of Detective Constables. DS Leyton deposits the drinks carefully upon the table surface, and then relieves a pocket of two chocolate wafer bars.

  ‘Nice one, marra.’

  ‘Don’t tell the missus, Guv – she’s been giving me grief about how I need to stop eating snacks between meals.’

  Skelgill makes a face – as one who consumes meals between meals and exhibits no side effects, he does not particularly comprehend this logic.

  ‘I’ll eat it for you if you like – or go halves?’

  DS Leyton reaches rather protectively for his bar.

  ‘Nah – you’re alright, Guv – I reckon I’ll get away with this ’un. I just need to remember not to keep the wrappers in my jacket. Proper Miss Marple, she is.’

  Skelgill is already dunking a section of biscuit into his tea. He shrugs indifferently and pops it into his mouth. He wipes his fingers on his thigh.

  ‘Fire away, then.’

  Now DS Leyton retrieves a sheaf of notes from an attaché case. He places them on the table, angled slightly towards Skelgill, but his superior only glances cursorily before turning his attention to his next piece of confectionery.

  ‘There’s not a whole lot – but if we take things in chronological order – then starting with the death of Frank Wamphray. Manchester reckon the hospitals they’re investigating are admitting to discrepancies in their stock levels, but they’re claiming it’s down to incomplete reporting when emergencies are taking place.’ DS Leyton takes a sip of tea and looks longingly at his chocolate bar, but at the moment there is not time to commence eating it. ‘And fair enough, Guv – I mean, if you were the one having a heart attack, you wouldn’t want to wait while some geezer fills in a form to get the medicine. Next thing there’s another sick patient and the critical response team is off to attend to them. Admin gets done the next day, if they’re lucky.’

  Skelgill grunts somewhat disinterestedly.

  ‘They’ve double-checked all their stocks and records here, Guv – and they still insist there’s nothing short. But, then again, how would we know if they’re covering their backsides? Unless we requisitioned and tested the whole lot, it’s irrelevant what it says on the labels. It’s impossible, Guv.’

  ‘What about the fingerprint analysis?’

  DS Leyton pre-emptively shakes his head as he leafs through the papers.

  ‘Turns out it’s just the people that handled the vial afterwards. A cleaner rescued it from the waste, and a pharmacist ran the initial tests – and neither had touched it prior to that.’

  Skelgill is frowning.

  ‘Does that strike you as odd, Leyton?’

  ‘Not really, Guv – well, at first, I thought maybe it had been wiped – then someone pointed out that all the staff who handle medicines and give injections and whatnot – they wear these surgical gloves. Everyone carries them – even the security staff in case they get into a bit of a rumble and come into contact with body fluids.’

  Now Skelgill grimaces. Still he does not advance any point.

  ‘About Frank Wamphray himself, Guv – we’ve talked to various people who saw him earlier on the morning he died. The female nurse who was present when he got the injection – the old battleaxe I mentioned – she had the hump because he’d apparently been allowed a trip to the hospital shop. It’s mainly tuck they sell, and he must have copped a whole load of chocolate and filled his boat – she reckons that’s why he was sick and so they had to give him the injection.’

  Skelgill raises an eyebrow. This news, however, does not dampen his enthusiasm for his own chocolate bar.

  ‘Otherwise, Guv – we’ve tried to verify whether there’s any truth in all that guff he told us – the story keeps coming back that he was a serial fantasist.’ DS Leyton appears disappointed by this finding and he shakes his head a little dejectedly. ‘But I still think there was something in what he said – else why was he done away with?’

  ‘We can’t prove that, Leyton.’

  DS Leyton slaps his hands down upon the table in a small act of desperation.

  ‘I know, Guv – but what? We come here as a favour for Manchester – then the hospital calls us in over those thefts – and next thing all hell breaks loose. There’s got to be more to it. You’ve said it yourself about these coincidences.’

  S
kelgill folds his arms and slumps against the back of his plastic chair.

  ‘Leyton – if you drained all the water out of Bass Lake you’d be left with a load of mud and thousands of flapping fish. Just because roach would be sharing puddles with pike doesn’t make them best of pals.’

  An expression of bewilderment crosses DS Leyton’s countenance. Whether it is frustration that his superior has now turned devil’s advocate, or that his analogy is patent nonsense and perhaps designed to confound, it is difficult to know which troubles him most. He reaches for his snack bar and cracks it open, under the covetous scrutiny of Skelgill. He eats a piece and washes it down with tea. The comforting sensation seems to settle him, and he turns a page of his notes.

  ‘We’ve not managed to get any further in identifying the last few members of staff that visited the dispensary – but they have now put together the sections of CCTV footage that show Meredith Bale and Dr Agnetha Walker leaving the premises.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘To be honest, Guv – I had a butcher’s before you got here – there’s nothing different to what Eric Blacklock first showed us. You can just see the pair of them walking like they’re arm in arm, along a series of corridors and using swipe-cards to get through the doors. There’s the red Volvo leaving the main gate from the staff car park – but that just looks completely normal. It must be that Meredith Bale had the doctor under her control one way or another – like we said before, Guv.’

  ‘What about Krille?’

  ‘There’s a distant shot of him climbing the rope ladder. You’d have to be eagle-eyed to spot him. You can’t make out any detail – like whether he’s got a rucksack or not. There was a nearer camera – but they’ve cut back on maintenance. The lens was covered in spiders’ webs and dead flies and all sorts of gunge. Apparently the lights attract insects so the spiders move in. Then birds and bats flock round and guano builds up. It was like trying to look through frosted glass.’

  Skelgill shakes his head disparagingly. DS Leyton continues.

  ‘The psychologists’ reports show nothing in Harry Krille’s behaviour that suggested he was about to do a runner. His gardening plot was immaculate and right in the middle of its season. Seems he’s grown competition standard leeks. They say how well he’d been responding to the horticultural therapy. Completely caught everyone off guard, Guv.’