Skelgill makes an ironic hissing sound.
‘Cancel the miracle.’
DS Leyton shakes his head and chuckles.
‘So, Guv – if you weren’t pulled overboard fighting a giant sturgeon – what did happen?’
Skelgill again scowls.
‘Shove over that teapot, Leyton.’ He tops up his mug and stirs in several spoons of sugar. ‘We don’t have wild sturgeon in Britain. It was a pike I was after. I’ve bet Woody I’ll have a twenty-five pounder out of Derwentwater before the month’s up.’
‘So you’re running short of time, Guv – how much did you bet?’
‘It’s not the amount, it’s the odds, Leyton.’ For a moment he appears unwilling to expand upon the details of the wager, but then he relents. ‘Tenner – at a hundred to one.’
‘Cor blimey, Guv – you’re talking a grand.’
‘Aye, well – the ale was talking a grand.’
DS Leyton vigorously scratches his head, as though it might help to free up an idea. He appears perturbed by his boss’s costly predicament.
‘Can’t you catch one out of your regular lake, Guv? Ship it over?’
‘A bet’s a bet, Leyton.’
Skelgill’s features are set uncompromisingly. However, with the deadline only four days away, the suggestion of a Bassenthwaite Lake ringer must have growing appeal, and perhaps there is the faintest Machiavellian glint in his eye. Nonetheless, he opts not to become sidetracked.
‘And if it weren’t for that, we wouldn’t be here now. I was fishing close in to the island and I spotted one of the writers – the young girl, Lucy.’ He glances up at DS Jones, who averts her gaze and studies the list of names in the notebook that lies open before her. ‘It was just getting dark and she was calling for help. They’d discovered Buckley dead about an hour earlier, and they had no communications. I came ashore at the jetty, got the lie of the land, went back down to the boat about an hour later and it was gone. By then it was pitch dark. Considered various impractical options – ended up staying the night. Planned to signal for help this morning – if you didn’t find us first.’
‘Which we did, Guv.’
Skelgill shoots DS Leyton an irritated glance for stating the obvious. Perhaps there is an element of frustration that he has been thwarted in completing his ‘rescue’ of the writers’ party.
DS Leyton tries again, along less contentious lines.
‘I take it no one half-inched your boat, Guv?’
‘I wouldn’t say that, exactly.’
‘Meaning what, Guv?’
‘Meaning it didn’t blow away.’
Skelgill stares hard at his sergeant, biting his lower lip. But he opts not to elaborate.
‘Let’s park that for now – tell me what you know that I don’t.’ He reaches again for the teapot.
DS Leyton nods to DS Jones, who, by dint of her vastly superior admin skills, when present is relied upon as chief note-taker. She flips back a couple of pages, but after a cursory glance she recites from memory.
‘We landed at about seven-fifteen, Guv. The front door was unlocked and I recognised your boots in the hall.’ (Skelgill raises an eyebrow but does not comment.) ‘No one was up, so we started going round the bedrooms. DS Leyton found you. I discovered the dead woman. Some doors were locked. That’s why we didn’t know about Buckley until you told us.’
‘We just thought he’d had even more sauce than you, Guv.’
DS Leyton intends his quip to be light hearted, but he receives a withering look from Skelgill for his trouble. DS Jones quickly continues.
‘Dr Herdwick was working an early shift and when he heard you were missing he volunteered to come out with us.’
Skelgill folds his arms and shakes his head, as insult is heaped upon the injury.
‘And what’s the old vulture saying?’
‘He’s referring the deaths to the Coroner, Guv.’
‘On what grounds?’ There is an antagonistic note in Skelgill’s question. ‘I thought we were looking at a heart attack and an accidental overdose of sleeping pills?’
Now DS Jones refers to her notes.
‘Several technicalities, Guv – cause of deaths unknown, or at least, uncertain – deaths sudden and unexplained – no known visits by a medical practitioner –’
‘Apart from the quack.’
Skelgill’s rather scathing interjection refers to the Yorkshireman and former GP, Dr Gerald Bond, of whom he has plainly not become enamoured.
‘Added together, Guv – plus the fact of two deaths in two days among a small group of people – Dr Herdwick says he can’t just sign them off.’
‘He was joking about quarantining the lot of you on the island, Guv – spin it out longer, or something like that.’
DS Jones laughs involuntarily at DS Leyton’s remark, although it is not quite clear to her colleagues why this might be. Under critical scrutiny she resumes her more serious demeanour.
‘So is he talking autopsies?’
‘Some preliminary tests, at least, Guv.’ DS Jones glances at her notes. ‘Obviously it looks fairly certain the Mandrake woman ingested medicines plus alcohol, but we’ve also found various prescription drugs among Buckley’s possessions.’
There is another round of silence as each person perhaps attempts to piece together a coherent picture of events. Although the circumstances are unusual, on the face of it they appear to be the product of a string of coincidences. Certainly Skelgill’s involvement can be nothing other, while the concurrence of two accidental or even natural deaths is perfectly feasible. For sergeants Leyton and Jones, arriving ‘cold’ to the scene (with Skelgill’s safety their overwhelming preoccupation at the time), the facts are such that undue suspicion need not be aroused. Skelgill, however, has undergone a more qualitative experience, and his intuition is informed accordingly. He consults his wristwatch; the time is approaching ten o’clock.
‘I’d better call the Chief.’ He holds out a hand to DS Leyton. ‘If you could lend me your mobile.’
DS Leyton obliges.
‘What do you reckon, Guv – gut-feel-wise?’
Skelgill screws up his face in an unbecoming rodent-like manner.
‘Not a lot we can do without something to go on from Herdwick.’ He drains his mug and takes care to place it quietly upon the table top. ‘Better have a quick word with everyone – get their details in case they decide to scarper.’
DS Jones is nodding.
‘From what I can gather, Guv – that appears to be the general consensus.’
‘Last night, they were all for seeing it through to the end of the week.’ Skelgill purses his lips. ‘Except Bella Mandrake.’
*
‘How’s the head now, Guv?’
Skelgill is checking that his mobile phone is none the worse for its ordeal afloat. Given that he has gained access to a fishing website, it seems all is well. Without looking up, he grips his temples between the thumb and fourth finger of his right hand.
‘As my old ma says, there’s not a lot in there to damage.’
DS Jones chuckles. She scoops a spoonful of froth from her cappuccino and snaps her full lips over it, rather in the manner of a frog devouring a fly. Then slowly she pulls out the spoon and dips it back into the coffee.
‘I get the impression it was a bit of a wild night.’
‘I was first to bed – can’t think why I had the worst hangover.’
DS Jones watches him for a moment, but there is apparently little to glean from his concentrated features. She drops a hand to her side and taps her attaché case.
‘I’ve got plenty more paracetamol if you want some, Guv?’
Skelgill shakes his head, though somewhat gingerly.
‘Just shoot me next time I pick up a glass of red wine.’
‘I’ll make a mental note, Guv.’
Skelgill puts down his handset and glances suspiciously about the lobby. They are seated in comfy armchairs in a medium-sized hotel at Portin
scale, beside the northerly tip of Derwentwater, and close by the spot where his boat was recovered. He has negotiated temporary mooring facilities, and has retrieved his belongings. He has yet to recover his car and trailer from the public slipway at Keswick – and indeed is still to engineer a change of clothes from those in which he set out to fish yesterday morning. DS Jones has volunteered to chauffeur him for the present, while DS Leyton has returned to police HQ, assigned to coordinate the contacting of next of kin, and as bearer of the bad tidings to Wordsworth Writers’ Retreats.
‘What did you make of them, Jones?’
‘On the island, Guv?’
‘Aye.’
DS Jones places her elbows on the arms of the chair and interlocks her slender fingers. Her nails are neatly manicured and Skelgill, looking at them, self-consciously folds his own weather-beaten hands into his armpits.
‘I can’t say I’ve met any writers before, Guv. They all seemed well educated – law-abiding.’ She unwinds her fingers and inspects her nails. ‘Though definitely idiosyncratic – take the James Bond character. Smooth talker. Suave. Very self-confident.’
She refers to Burt Boston, rather than the eponymous doctor. Skelgill is instantly disapproving of her assessment.
‘If he’s ex-SAS I’m a monkey’s uncle.’
DS Jones seems surprised by his vehemence, and edges back in her seat.
‘What makes you say that, Guv?’
Skelgill turns and gazes out over the water, which laps close to the rear lawn of the hotel. The weather has indeed improved and, though there is still a swell rolling up the lake, the sun now glints benevolently off the corrugated surface, and Tufted Ducks bob contentedly between dives.
‘A few things.’
‘Such as, Guv?’
Skelgill appears reluctant to elaborate, as though telling her will force him to abandon an as yet incomplete edifice in his mind. But then he looks her in the eye and begins to count out on his fingers.
‘For one, he had no torch with him – basic piece of kit, especially for a trip to an island with no electricity. For two, he knows nothing about knots – he was nodding away when I said I’d moored with a clove hitch. For three – and you’re right, he has been watching the Bond films – he started talking nonsense about blowing up a propane cylinder.’
Skelgill might add that, though Burt Boston had offered to swim for help in his stead, he had not pressed the point when Skelgill objected on the grounds of his duty to protect the public. DS Jones, looking just a hint chastened, raises a hand in the direction of the lake.
‘It’s not going to be great PR for this writers’ retreats company, Guv – two people dying on one of their courses.’
Skelgill takes a gulp of his coffee and wipes his lips with the back of his hand, which he then rubs with the heel of the other to disperse the chocolate powder mark.
‘Eighty per cent survival rate – that’s better than climbing Everest.’
DS Jones grins obediently at his rather ghoulish joke.
‘That’s including you, Guv.’
Now Skelgill blinks self-effacingly.
‘My mental maths doesn’t extend to seven out of nine.’
‘I guess it’s an even less flattering figure, Guv.’
‘Anyway, there were ten of us – I was an honorary member for the night. Did I tell you I blitzed them at Scrabble?’
‘You did mention that, Guv.’
‘Aye – happen I did.’
There is a shelving unit beside their seats, containing the usual hotel collection of forsaken paperback blockbusters and bulk-buy second-hand hardbacks that could only have been produced without reference to publishers or readers, in a time when it was fashionable to write with absolute and totally uninformed self indulgence. DS Jones is glancing musingly along the top shelf, and she pulls out what appears to be a detective novel.
‘I can’t help thinking of that Agatha Christie story, Guv – where a house-party get stranded on an island and one by one they start dying off.’
Skelgill appears only vaguely engaged by this allusion.
‘Aye – but this crowd are unconnected.’
DS Jones drums her nails on the clothette cover.
‘So they were in that story, Guv.’
Skelgill shakes his head dismissively.
‘Aye, well you know me and fiction, Jones.’
5. DR HERDWICK’S REPORT – Monday 2:30 p.m.
‘Sorry to keep you, Leyton – got a bit tied up over at Portinscale – what with sorting out the boat and one thing and another.’
Skelgill, finding DS Leyton waiting in his office, is economical with the facts, having cajoled DS Jones into a pub lunch at a nearby watering hole. His motives were a little less than altruistic, as he admitted when supping thirstily on a pint of strong ale: there had to be some way to shift his limpet-like hangover. However, given that the ‘hair of the dog’ has still failed to flush away all vestiges of discomfort, his politeness is somewhat uncharacteristic. DS Leyton, unused to apologies from his superior, looks rather discomfited, and jumps to attention before sidling out into the corridor, offering to fetch them teas from the machine. DS Jones, meanwhile, is consulting with the police pathologist, Dr Herdwick.
‘Here we go, Guv.’ DS Leyton slides a polystyrene cup carefully across to Skelgill’s side of the desk. ‘How was the boat?’
Skelgill shrugs, nose already in his tea. He swallows and smacks his lips approvingly.
‘Shipshape is probably the word. But there is one annoying detail. Harry Cobble can’t remember if the painter was on board or trailing.’
‘That’s like the tow-rope, Guv?’
Skelgill grins.
‘In a manner of speaking.’
‘How is that significant, Guv?’
Skelgill puts down his drink and makes a little church with his fingers.
‘If it were on board, I’d know for sure it was cast off and shoved out into the lake.’
DS Leyton nods.
‘You still thinking that’s a possibility, Guv?’
Skelgill glowers.
‘Leyton, I’ve never had a boat work itself loose in my life. And how many others blew free last night?’
DS Leyton looks unconvinced.
‘Thing is, Guv – it was a storm and a half.’
Skelgill shakes his head.
‘In a teacup, more like – I’ve experienced much worse.’
DS Leyton ponders for a moment.
‘Why would someone untie your boat, Guv – when you’re the one who can raise the alarm?’
Skelgill crafts a wry grin.
‘Well, if it were deliberate, Leyton – you just said it.’
DS Leyton looks a little nonplussed.
‘What – to stop you raising the alarm?’
Skelgill smiles and opens his palms in a helpless gesture.
‘Unless someone decided I would be such scintillating company that they felt compelled to keep me for the night.’
‘So, what are you saying, Guv?’
‘Join the dots, Leyton – what happened last night?’
‘You got a bad hangover, Guv.’
‘Ha-ha, Leyton – now be serious.’
DS Leyton shrugs.
‘The Mandrake woman died.’
‘Correct, the Mandrake woman died.’
‘Accidentally, though Guv.’
Skelgill stares at DS Leyton, his countenance hardening. But then there is a gentle knock and the door opens; DS Jones enters bearing her notepad.
‘Maybe Jones can enlighten us, Leyton.’
He indicates that she should be seated. He leans back in his own chair and awaits her news.
‘Just provisional results at the moment, Guv.’ She glances between her two colleagues. ‘But if you want it in a word – it’s inconclusive.’
Skelgill tuts and swills down the last dregs of his tea.
‘That’s Herdwick’s middle name.’
DS Jones, undeterred, flips ope
n her notebook and reads verbatim.
‘Bella Mandrake almost certainly died from an overdose of sleeping pills combined with excess alcohol. They’re both muscle relaxants and can kill within a few minutes by causing sleep apnoea. The lungs are deprived of oxygen. Alcohol can amplify the effect of the drug.’
‘What about Rich Buckley?’
DS Jones nods and taps the notebook with her pen.
‘He died of heart failure, Guv – Dr Gerald Bond was right.’
Skelgill scowls disparagingly.
‘However – preliminary investigation shows very few indications of a predisposition – Buckley’s heart and arteries were in pretty good shape.’
‘So what caused it?’
‘That’s the more interesting aspect, Guv.’ Now DS Jones pauses, perhaps for dramatic effect. ‘His blood sample contains residues of cocaine – and atropine, among other things.’
Skelgill and DS Leyton remain impassive, until the latter asks the question that his superior may be resisting.
‘What’s atropine when it’s at home?’
DS Jones refers to her notes, as if she senses she should not overplay her hand.
‘It’s the poison found in Deadly Nightshade. It kills by stopping the heart.’
‘Stone the crows!’ DS Leyton starts, and his seat scrapes sharply against the floor tiles. But Skelgill is unmoved.
‘Deadly Nightshade doesn’t grow around here.’
‘There’s more to it, Guv – apparently it’s used in surgery, and in small doses in lots of prescribed medicines – including the anti-diarrheal tablets we found in his room.’
Skelgill ponders for a moment.
‘These pills – were they strong enough to kill him?’
DS Jones shrugs.
‘Dr Herdwick says cocaine’s more likely to have caused a heart attack. It’s well known for it.’
DS Leyton punches a fist into the opposite palm.
‘Cor blimey, Emma – you build us up for a poisoning and then let us down.’
‘Sorry about that.’ DS Jones grins ruefully. ‘I should add that the doctor also says that about a third of deaths from sudden cardiac arrest can’t be explained by observable medical conditions. They call it unremarkable.’
Murder on the Lake (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 4) Page 6