Abruptly she stops speaking, and stares at Skelgill with a sudden light of realisation in her eyes.
‘What is it?’
‘You will be aware that Meredith Bale has consistently maintained both her innocence and her sanity?’
‘Aye – I’ve heard that said.’
‘There were several specialists seconded onto the forensic panel – each with their own distinct area of expertise.’ She pauses to brush a strand of hair from her cheek. ‘Key amongst them was Dr Agnetha Walker.’
Skelgill nods, his face stern. Briony Boss continues.
‘If you are talking about Peter Pettigrew being targeted – then Dr Walker could surely fall into the same category? And now she is a hostage.’
Skelgill sits back against the settee and folds his arms. He does not need to reveal his knowledge of the investigation – but clearly this information supports the line reflected by DS Jones’s findings about the connections of several of the actors in the case. After a few moments’ consideration he settles upon a question.
‘Why was Dr Agnetha Walker appointed to come and work with Meredith Bale?’
Briony Boss makes a hand gesture that indicates a caveat.
‘I should stress that Meredith Bale was not her only patient – but certainly her experience on Meredith’s case made her a good candidate for the job. Peter Pettigrew came to me with the proposal – I’m sure you are aware it is not easy to attract the best people to this far flung corner of England – but Agnetha Walker had lost her husband some months before, and he felt she might be amenable to the change of scene. We positioned it as a temporary assignment – although Peter had in mind that it could be made permanent if it proved to be a success.’
As Briony Boss recounts this history, it seems that a note of unease creeps progressively into her voice, and disquiet mists her dark eyes. Skelgill, at first both listening and watching attentively, allows his own gaze to wander and he stares out through the windows on one side of the office. From a sitting position there is not much to see – just an undulating line of brown fell tops and a blanket of low grey cloud, albeit the latter is showing the bluish hints of breaking up. He faces the Director.
‘So what might either of them have said or done to wind up Meredith Bale?’
Briony Boss strives to shrug off whatever preoccupation has stolen upon her. She gathers herself, though she responds with excessive formality.
‘By being associated with her committal to Haresfell instead of prison. Such an outcome interposes a significant hurdle to a judicial review of her case. Subsequently, I suppose Meredith Bale would regard any attempts at treatment or therapy as a further denial of her belief that she is a victim of a miscarriage of justice. I am aware she objected to the regime of medication prescribed by Peter Pettigrew, and among other things disliked Dr Walker’s use of hypnotherapy.’
‘Hypnotherapy?’
‘That is correct. I am led to understand Dr Walker is a highly skilled practitioner. I cannot comment upon its efficacy, I’m afraid. But given Agnetha Walker’s remit – in assessing the veracity of a patient’s claimed condition – one can empathise with the Meredith Bale’s interpretation that it is a somewhat clandestine method.’
Skelgill is plainly discomfited. He rubs his chin and shifts position on the sofa. His gaze darts about his feet and the legs of the coffee table. When he looks up he finds Briony Boss’s probing eyes upon him.
‘She told me that Meredith Bale is a sly operator – not easy to get behind the mask. Refused to speak about the letters she wrote to Harry Krille. I didn’t realise she’d tried hypnosis on her.’
Briony Boss nods.
‘It may have backfired.’
‘She also said that if there had been some communication between Meredith Bale and Harry Krille – as a kind of experiment – it would have needed your authorisation.’
Briony Boss seems to start at this suggestion, and her features harden.
‘That is certainly correct – but I cannot always guarantee that the correct protocol is followed.’
‘Are you saying they may have had organised contact?’
The Director meets his inquiry with a level gaze.
‘Simply that I don’t have eyes everywhere, and that if a person were to initiate some interaction, I may not find out about it.’
‘But that couldn’t just be any old nurse?’
She gives a confirmatory shake of her head.
‘No. It would need to be a senior member of staff – someone with jurisdiction over both of the patients concerned.’
‘Such as Dr Peter Pettigrew?’
‘Certainly at his level it would not raise any eyebrows – my own excepted.’ She tilts her head to one side inquisitively. ‘But you have no actual basis for this idea, Inspector?’
Skelgill shrugs with affected casualness.
‘Only that Harry Krille escaped on Thursday – and Meredith Bale escaped on Friday.’
Now she plies him with a distinctly submissive expression.
‘You must be thinking that the escapes occurred too easily, Inspector.’
Skelgill seems to be disarmed by this trick of body language.
‘I’m not sure I’d say that about Meredith Bale. Hers seemed a pretty high-risk strategy to me.’
‘And Harry Krille?’
He gives her a rather old-fashioned look.
‘Aye, well – with hindsight it was put on a plate for him. And a convenient blind spot in your security.’
Briony Boss still has her head bowed.
‘You are aware of the views of Eric Blacklock.’
Skelgill makes a scoffing sound.
‘Happen I’d be calling him Eric Buckpass if I were in your shoes.’
Briony Boss forces a grin. However she lays a palm upon her breastbone. Her nails are varnished in a dark ochre that matches her lipstick.
‘It stops here, I’m afraid.’
‘Can’t be easy when you’ve got a simmering mutiny on your hands.’
Again she seems inwardly to reel – Skelgill’s erratic approach mixes expressions of sympathy with sharp critical jabs – however, she maintains her outward calm.
‘I’m not sure I’d put it as strongly as that, Inspector – with almost nine hundred staff there will always be little areas of local difficulty.’
Skelgill nods, though in a non-committal manner.
‘We were just speaking to the primary nurse for Frank Wamphray and Meredith Bale.’
He watches her closely.
‘Arthur Kerr, yes.’
Now she waits for him to elaborate.
‘I gather he’s been a bit of a troublemaker in his time – like when you were at Broadmoor.’
She regards Skelgill evenly.
‘Thankfully those days are past now.’
‘He seems to have done alright out of his transfer – considering some of the allegations that were made against him and his cronies.’
It is plain that Briony Boss is becoming increasingly anxious, as if she suspects Skelgill of feeling his way towards some dark corner of her curriculum vitae that she would rather remained undiscovered.
‘I suppose you could say everyone deserves a second chance, Inspector.’ She gives a nervous laugh and bats her eyelashes. ‘If I, of all people, weren’t to champion that, what sort of place would this be?’
Skelgill’s stare is penetrating, and he does not respond to the ambiguity implicit in her statement. But gradually his concentration wavers as, rather musingly, Briony Boss takes a slow sip from her glass. She leans back against the sofa and her body slips down by a couple of inches, causing the hem of her skirt to ride up and reveal bare thigh at the top of her hold-ups. Now she is watching the tracking of his eyes – in a prolonged and deliberate movement she uncrosses and re-crosses her legs. There is a moment of silence – punctuated only by the faintest hiss of their breathing. Skelgill’s gaze travels back up to meet hers.
‘Can I ask you a personal question
?’
‘I am at your mercy, Inspector.’
Sharply, he inhales.
‘Did you have a fancy for Harry Krille?’
24. THE LUNE
‘Guv, I’ve been looking all over for you.’
‘I stepped out for a breath fresh air – I needed to think.’
‘Where are you, Guv?’
‘Not far.’
There is a pause as DS Leyton considers to what degree he may quiz his superior. In the end, he opts for a less contentious question.
‘What shall I do, Guv?’
‘Just carry on, Leyton – I’ll be with you in a bit.’
‘Right, Guv.’
DS Leyton inhales as if to speak again, but Skelgill chooses to interpret the pause as the end of the conversation and terminates the call. He returns the phone to a breast pocket of his gilet. In his left hand he grips a fifteen-foot salmon rod and now he draws back the line that has floated downstream, until the rod is perpendicular to the river, the Lune. Working two-handed, with a smooth action he crosses his forearms and touches the rod against his right shoulder, lifts it back across his chest to ‘present arms’, pauses for half a second, and then fires the shooting head through the air: with great precision the leader unfurls to drop the fly gently above a deep pool that runs a slow black under the far bank. He watches hawkishly as the current takes the line; he mends when necessary and when it begins to swing around he retrieves with jerky movements of his right hand. Finally he takes a couple of steps downstream and sets himself to repeat the whole operation. The classic double Spey cast with a Skelgill modification or two thrown in.
The rain has stopped and bright patches of blue sky have begun to appear with increasing frequency, allowing the sun to turn the clouds white for the first time in what seems like weeks. The temperature is rising and beneath his gilet Skelgill wears just the shirt and trousers he dressed in for work, though these garments are protected by an old pair of somewhat corroded olive-green bootfoot chest waders. He stands about a third of the way across the river, the water lapping around the tops of his thighs. His location is a mile or so north of the bridge from which he and DS Leyton have observed Haresfell Hospital, and quite close to the hamlet of Hare’s Beck Foot – indeed the confluence of Hare’s Beck with the Lune is just a couple of hundred yards upstream, and quite likely has influenced his choice of beat.
His expressed “need to think” would appear to remain as yet unfulfilled, since he and DS Leyton have much to do back at the hospital – a packed timetable of interviews – but he shows no inclination to return to such duties. There is of course an alternative explanation: that he has the scent of a salmon in his nostrils. Indeed, there have been one or two likely rises – tantalising glimpses of silver scales glinting in the sunlight – easily sufficient to divert his focus. And though he is a self-professed “pike man”, there is a quality about salmon fishing certain to ignite his competitive instinct: just how do you catch a fish that does not want to feed?
Either way, compulsion appears to have the upper hand and in a slow tango at one with the stream, methodically, metronomically, he continues to cast, retrieve, step and repeat. And then his phone rings again.
‘Jones.’
Perhaps surprisingly under the circumstances, his greeting lacks any particular note of censure.
‘Hi, Guv – that’s us on the way back.’
DS Jones’s use of the collective pronoun warns him that she is in the company of DI Smart.
‘Driving?’
‘We just set off. The satnav’s saying ninety-six minutes to Penrith.’
In the background there is some unintelligible quip from Alec Smart – probably to the effect that he will do it in a lot fewer. DS Jones affects a polite laugh.
‘I shan’t ask how it went.’
‘Pretty successful, thanks, Guv.’
It is clear her response is for the benefit of her companion. Skelgill grunts his disapproval.
‘Pass on my congratulations. Not.’
‘Will do, Guv.’ She inhales and pauses for a second – it would seem she is composing a suitable form of words for her primary message. ‘Remember last week, before I left – you asked about my contact in the NHS?’
‘Aye?’ Skelgill sounds briefly amused – she is evidently massaging the facts in order to conceal their clandestine rendezvous.
‘I’ve received an email – there was a piece of information I thought I should pass on.’ (Skelgill does not respond – though he has one eye on the river.) ‘He came across a mailing address in the Manchester area for Dr Peter Pettigrew – it related to an expenses claim for professional literature that was delivered, a couple of years back.’ She pauses again. DI Smart has evidently turned on the radio and now she is competing with rock music. ‘The thing is, Guv – the expenses claim was all above board – but the apartment’s address – it’s the same one on record as being Dr Agnetha Walker’s home address.’
Skelgill remains silent. Now his line has wrapped itself around a raft of sticks trapped by a cluster of exposed rocks.
‘Guv?’
‘Aye – I was making a note. Two years ago, you say.’
‘Where are you, Guv?’
‘Just by Haresfell.’
‘Right.’ She hesitates, but Skelgill offers no encouragement. ‘Want me to follow it up when I get back?’
‘Maybe – I’ll let you know.’
‘Sure.’
Skelgill ends the call and puts away his phone. He makes a curious face – something of an unbecoming gurning expression if the truth were told. Then he resumes his fishing. After a few minutes his staccato progression downstream brings him opposite a break in the bankside vegetation. There is a raised area of short-cropped lawn upon which stands a small plain-looking stone lodge, of the sort that once would have been the residence of the gardener or gamekeeper on a large estate. The property is in good repair, with newly pointed joints and a bright coat of maroon paint on the woodwork of the windows and the bargeboards below the gables. Skelgill does not pay particular attention, concentrating as he is, until some sixth sense must raise his hackles. He glances sharply to see that, from a position beneath the steep grassy bank, almost at water level and only half a dozen yards away an elfin boy is perched on a rock watching him.
‘Alreet, marra?’
The boy evidently does not understand Skelgill’s colloquial greeting, but he has not lost his tongue.
‘Caught owt, Mister?’
Skelgill grins.
‘Just about to, lad. Next cast, maybe.’
‘Can I try?’
Now Skelgill lets out a little chuckle.
‘Even if I could wade through that deep pool – this rod’s way too big for you, chum – get your Dad to buy you a starter kit. Six footer max, you want.’
The boy makes a face of resignation.
‘Me Mum and me Dad are divorced.’
There is a moment’s silence as Skelgill searches for the right words. His gaze falls upon the water streaming relentlessly between them – but before he can speak they are both startled by a scolding voice that emanates from the direction of the cottage.
‘Johnny! You mustn’t disturb the gentleman – people pay a lot of money to fish. I’ve told you before. Now go inside and watch television, there’s a good boy.’
Approaching them across the grass, Skelgill sees a woman of around his own age. She is of medium height and slender, and looks ready to exercise, since she wears trainers and black calf-length yoga pants, and a close-fitting fluorescent pink vest top. Her long brown hair is drawn back into a tight ponytail, ringed by a set of neckband headphones of the sort used by dedicated joggers. Her red lipstick stands out at a distance, as though it is freshly applied. There is something of the catalogue model in her appearance – toned, tanned, trim – and Skelgill might be speculating that she seems unlikely to stay divorced for very long.
The boy glances ruefully at Skelgill and scrambles up the bank, to sc
uttle obediently around the corner of the building. A cloud unveils the sun, which angles dazzlingly from behind the woman, as she seems to teeter on the edge of the embankment. Skelgill narrows his eyes and is obliged to raise a shading hand in salute. She is well spoken, and addresses him apologetically.
‘I’m sorry – he can’t help it – he’d love to fish but I don’t know what to do – and it’s very expensive, of course. Sorry he disturbed you.’
Skelgill, grimacing into the streaming rays of sunlight, must look rather fierce, for the woman clasps her hands apologetically to her bosom, and brings one knee forwards in front of the other, in a semblance of a curtsey. It is the kind of body language that would work on Skelgill in most circumstances, but on this occasion there is no such need.
‘No worries, love – it’s not easy to spook a salmon – even if there’s any to be spooked – and I’ve just got a local angler’s permit – only costs a couple of quid.’
‘Oh, well – that’s good to hear.’ The woman smiles with relief and lowers her hands, placing her palms on her haunches, her hips pushed forwards in an athletic stance. Skelgill’s comment, together with his accent, has probably revealed sufficient of his provenance, but she takes the opportunity to make conversation. ‘Are you from this area?’
‘Cumbria, aye – North Lakes.’ Now Skelgill hesitates, perhaps assessing how much he should say – and not forgetting that he is a Detective Inspector presently on duty (on lunch break, at a stretch), and that it behoves him to uphold the good reputation of the force. Then he evidently decides it is better if he asks the questions. ‘How about you – do you live here?’ He directs a tip of his head towards the small property.
‘Oh, no – if only – no, we are on vacation.’ She turns her upper body to consider the cottage with a longing gaze. Skelgill notices her supple movement and the curves of her figure, highlighted by the sun that glances off her sheer outfit. She looks back at him. ‘It’s a holiday home owned by my boss – he kindly let me borrow it for the week – it’s a bit of a hideaway, really.’
She observes Skelgill for his reaction – there is a glint of intrigue in her eyes, and she smiles again, displaying even white teeth. But Skelgill – though he is looking directly at her – does not respond. Indeed, she might reasonably think she has offended him in some way – or even that he has suddenly been caught short and is embarrassed to be trapped beneath her gaze. Moreover, if this latter scenario were to have crossed her mind, his next action would reinforce the notion. Without a word he begins to back away, and then he seems to realise he ought to offer some explanation. He makes a brief hand gesture that might be a wave.
Murder in the Mind Page 23