DS Leyton begs to differ. He is shaking his head in exasperation and his fleshy jowls respond a fraction behind time.
‘I call it flippin’ remarkable – in this day and age. So where does this leave us?’
DS Jones glances apprehensively at Skelgill, but he nods to indicate she should enlarge.
‘The deaths could be natural, accidental or by misadventure. But technically we can’t rule out one hundred per cent that one or both of them were deliberate. Dr Herdwick’s admitting that much, at least.’
Skelgill folds his arms and rocks back in his chair in order to regard the ceiling.
‘If we’re not just going to put this to bed, we need something to make us suspicious. A reason to investigate. A desire to investigate.’
DS Jones gestures to her notebook.
‘There’s the cocaine, Guv – Dr Herdwick says for it to have been in his blood he would have to have taken it while he was on Grisholm. That’s surely grounds enough?’
‘Plus your boat, Guv?’
Skelgill is still stargazing.
‘Aye – the cocaine is categorical – the boat we can’t prove a thing – except it bugs me the most. But it’s not an easy sell to the Chief – she’s narked as it is – apparently the head of Cumbria tourism sits on the board of the Police Authority – and now I’ve landed myself in the middle of a bad case of public relations.’
DS Jones is nodding in sympathy, but DS Leyton begins to fidget uncomfortably.
‘Thing is, Guv – on that score – I’ve not had chance to tell you –’
Skelgill snaps forward in his chair, rather exaggerating his reaction and causing DS Leyton to look alarmed. The latter clears his throat nervously before he speaks.
‘This company – Wordsworth Writers’ Retreats – I’ve had two DCs working on it since I got back this morning – so far, there’s not a trace of it.’
Skelgill’s features take on a rather cynical cast.
‘How hard have they tried?’
DS Leyton reaches for his own notes, which are perched on the tall cabinet at his side. He flicks through several sheets until he locates the page he is looking for.
‘Nothing online, Guv – just doesn’t come up at all. The nearest was something in Canada a few years ago – no connection. Then we’ve been on to a couple of trade bodies – the Society of Authors, and The Bookseller magazine – they’ve not heard of it, though they’re asking around.’
‘What about the people who were on the retreat?’
DS Leyton is already nodding.
‘Thing is, Guv – they’re all in transit. Plus most of them didn’t bring their mobiles with them, like they were asked. We got hold of the Lampray geezer – he’s on the train to London – he’s plugged his phone in – but he says he can’t remember any details and needs to check what info he’s kept at home.’
‘When will that be?’
‘He reckons before close of play – but he’s already delayed – apparently there’s wildcat tube strikes in London all this week. It’s holding up some of the mainline trains.’ DS Leyton taps the page with the back of his hand. ‘We’re keeping trying the others, obviously, Guv.’
Skelgill nods pensively.
‘Wordsworth Writers’ Retreats. Sounds like it ought to be a local firm.’ He glances at DS Jones. ‘What do you think, Jones – you’re the big bookworm?’
DS Jones seems unsure as to whether this is a compliment or a ham-fisted slight.
‘Maybe it was just a one-off event in the Lakes? It’s a good name really – it links the Lakes and the poet, and it says ‘words worth’ – clever idea when you think about it – whoever came up with it.’
Skelgill appears unconvinced.
‘Should have been held at Grasmere – though there’s no islands there, if that’s what they wanted. Or Cockermouth, come to that.’
Though he may not be of a literary bent, he refers to the illustrious bard’s locus of best-known domicile, and birthplace, respectively – no local lacks this knowledge of Lakeland’s most famous son. DS Leyton, who still employs the incomer’s pronunciation of Cockermouth (and, indeed, has his own Cockney rendering), chips in with a light-hearted contribution.
‘Don’t quite have the right ring to it, though, Guv – Cockermouth Writers’ Retreats. Sounds like a cross between a cock-up and putting your foot in your mouth.’
DS Jones looks suitably amused, but she is keen to add a serious suggestion.
‘What about the owners of Grisholm Hall – surely they’ll have an address?’
DS Leyton slaps his hands onto his ample thighs in a gesture of frustration.
‘One step forward, two back. We’ve been on to the estate office – they don’t know much about it. Apparently bookings are handled through agents in London – we’re waiting to hear from them.’
Skelgill folds his arms and, yawning, stares out of the window at the darkening sky.
‘They must have liaised to organise all the provisions, get the place ready, arrange for the boatman – probably had to pay something up front – plus the hire of the property.’
‘I reckon so, Guv, but – these agents – it’s one man and his dog and the dog’s in charge of the admin.’
‘Well, get them chased up. We’re not going to look too clever if Wordsworth find out first and start kicking up a fuss – dog or no dog.’
‘Will do, Guv.’
DS Leyton inhales as though he is about to say more, but then he hesitates and frowns at his notes.
‘What is it, Leyton?’ Skelgill’s tone suggests he suspects there is more incomplete news to follow.’
‘Er... the deceased, Guv – next of kin.’
‘Aye?’
‘No problem with Rich Buckley – his office in London was open so we’ve got his wife’s number – that’s being dealt with. Bella Mandrake, though, Guv –’
‘Aha?’
‘She’s not what she seems.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, Guv – among her personal effects – there’s not a lot – but there’s a credit card – in the name of Ms J Smith. Nothing else to indicate she’s really Bella Mandrake.’
‘What about an address?’
‘Nothing, Guv. We’re waiting on the credit card company to get back to us – that should do the trick, obviously.’ He scratches his head and frowns. ‘Unless it’s not hers.’
DS Jones sits forward.
‘Maybe it’s a pseudonym, Guv?’
Skelgill juts out his chin and rubs the weekend’s stubble broodingly. DS Leyton looks inquiringly at DS Jones. She elaborates.
‘A pen name – like George Orwell and Mark Twain – it was a fiction course, after all. And didn’t you mention, Guv, she was supposed to be an actress?’
Skelgill nods, but does not comment. DS Jones continues.
‘Bella Mandrake does sound a bit theatrical, when you think about it. Maybe some of the others, too?’
‘Burt Boston.’
Skelgill says this through clenched teeth. DS Jones nods. Skelgill taps the surface of his desk with both palms.
‘Let’s wait and see if any of them has given us a false name – then we might have reason to get a bit hot under the collar.’
6. TRAIN TO LONDON – Monday 5 p.m.
As it turns out, it is not a false name that prompts Skelgill to experience a rise in temperature, but a small item of health information relating to the late Rich Buckley. Via his wife, the investigating team have reached his GP, in order as a matter of protocol to report the death and obtain for the Coroner relevant details of the deceased’s medical history. During this exchange it has emerged that Rich Buckley was not in receipt of anti-diarrheal medication, nor was he known to suffer any form of chronic ailment that merited such a prescription. The tablets that could, in theory, have brought about his death may not have belonged to him.
Of course, there are other possible explanations for his possession of the drug. He travelled widely, spe
aking at conferences on a global basis. The identical medicine is available, for instance, in the United States, where he had most recently attended a major international book fair – and he could have obtained it privately, if not indeed on the same basis in Great Britain or elsewhere. Nonetheless, as Skelgill put it, there were simply ‘too many straws in the wind’ – the wind, from his perspective, also being one of the straws.
Thus by late afternoon on Monday, Skelgill and his two sergeants – all travelling for austerity purposes on second-class tickets – are seated, upon Skelgill’s insistence, in an empty first-class carriage, that rattles down the West Coast Line through indistinct countryside and enfolding dusk towards England’s sprawling capital.
While it might have seemed sensible, in hindsight, to detain the retreat’s seven surviving participants in Cumbria – indeed on Grisholm – to facilitate convenient interviewing, Skelgill has identified that the scenario is more complex. (Not least, there is no obvious crime, and no obvious suspect.) In any event, to discover much about Rich Buckley it will be necessary to visit his London office and speak with the staff; there is also his wife, and potentially his GP; and then the agents that handle the rental of Grisholm Hall. Moreover, as has already been recognised, the members of the retreat had little with them in the way of reference information that may be of practical use to the police. And although Dr Gerald Bond and Linda Gray, who both live in Cumbria, and the successful author, Sarah – aka Xara – Redmond, is based in Edinburgh, four of the seven – Dickie Lampray, Angela Cutting, Burt Boston and Lucy Hecate – reside in the Central London area. Finally, less tangibly, there is the view that Skelgill has iterated to his own superior: that if anyone has anything to hide they are less likely to be on guard on their home turf.
Skelgill’s request to pursue the investigation south was thus approved, though not without reservations on behalf of his boss. The rationale for ‘foul play’ of some kind is very much a matter of conjecture, and seems dependent upon a healthy dose of intuition on Skelgill’s part – not a quality that generally carries much weight with the powers that be. Indeed, there is a strong case to be made that Skelgill’s personal embroilment in the events (albeit not comprehensively reported) renders him too close to the situation to conduct an objective investigation. Countering this, however, is the argument that he has obtained an insider’s insight into the characters concerned, and indeed the minutiae of events as they unfolded. From this perspective he is uniquely placed to move matters forward with greatest haste.
Perhaps this latter point was the clincher, given that there is a desire on high to see the mystery untangled, and its threads neatly wound up, with maximum speed and minimum fuss. However, it is only on the proviso that he achieves these goals that he has been cleared to proceed. He has thus rallied his troops, called fleetingly at home to shower, change and pack an overnight holdall, extend the boarding arrangements for his dog, and rendezvous at Penrith railway station just in time to jump aboard the departing 4:50 express for Euston. Thence, it is not long before trouble arrives in the shape of the conductor.
‘This is a second-class ticket, I’m afraid, sir.’
Skelgill nods. His jacket lies on the spare seat beside him, and he reaches into the pocket to retrieve his warrant card, now restored to his possession. He brandishes it at the railway employee, an underfed and rather lopsided young man burdened by an unfashionable hairstyle and a permanently harried set to his pale and pinched features.
‘It doesn’t make any difference I’m afraid, sir – we’re a private company these days.’
Skelgill takes back his card and patiently stows it away. He squints at the man’s identity badge.
‘Are you a taxpayer, Norris?’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘And serving the public – if not by name a public servant?’
‘In a manner of speaking, sir.’
‘We’re travelling south to investigate a very serious case. We need to discuss our plan – it’ll take us an hour or so.’ He lowers his voice conspiratorially. ‘It’s a double murder.’ The ticket inspector’s eyes widen. ‘At the moment we’re on contracted time – but we can’t conduct the meeting in second class because it’s packed full and people will overhear. If we have to wait until we reach London we’ll need to do it tonight and the taxpayer will be charged overtime. Think how much that will cost.’
‘I see, sir.’
The conductor takes a half step backward and glances up and down the carriage. Skelgill casts an arm about the four-seater section they occupy.
‘I notice these seats are not reserved.’
‘That’s correct, sir. It’s not a popular service, this time of day – at least not for business travellers.’
‘So you could do both us and the taxpayer a favour if we were able to use them.’ Skelgill grins in a friendly manner. ‘Naturally we’ll move if the carriage begins to fill up – but I wouldn’t have though there’s much chance of that this side of Manchester?’
‘It’s Warrington we go through, actually, sir.’
Skelgill beams.
‘There you go then – one-horse town – no danger of getting busy, eh?’
‘Probably not, sir.’ The man frowns, however.
‘Excellent – and when do we get the free buffet service?’
The conductor hesitates for a moment, as though he is having second thoughts. But then he sighs and his shoulders droop – lopsidedly – by another inch or so.
‘It’ll be along in about twenty minutes, sir.’
‘Perfect – thanks for your cooperation, Norris – we’ll keep you posted on our progress as the journey goes on.’
‘My shift ends at Warrington, sir – that’s... where I live.’
‘Good for you, Norris.’
Skelgill settles back and folds his arms, as though the matter is closed. His two sergeants, somewhat embarrassed, tender their tickets for clipping, avoiding eye contact. The remainder of this operation is conducted amidst an awkward silence, until finally the man shambles swaying along the aisle and disappears from their carriage with a swish and a clunk of the automatic door.
‘Fair enough, don’t you think?’ Skelgill addresses his subordinates, seeking approval. ‘No point having all this empty space – never mind good food going to waste.’
DS Jones grins at her incorrigible superior. DS Leyton shakes his head.
‘I think you nearly blew it, slagging off Warrington, Guv.’
Now Skelgill paradoxically disagrees. ‘Nothing wrong with Warrington, Leyton – I was best man at a wedding there once.’ He falls silent, and appears to be replaying an old memory, for the hint of a smile creases his lips.
‘Anyway, Guv – it did the trick – we might be stuck on here for a while if there’s a knock-on effect from the tube strike.’
Skelgill breaks off from his reverie. ‘All the more reason to be comfortable, Leyton.’ He activates the recline position of his seat and places his hands behind his head. He nods to DS Jones who has arranged her notebook and documents on the table before her. ‘Give me a shout when the trolley dolly turns up.’ And he promptly closes his eyes.
*
‘Beats me how you can solve those things, Emma – does my head in, even the easy ones.’
They have been given complimentary newspapers, and DS Jones is steadily working her way through the cryptic crossword of the Daily Telegraph, while DS Leyton peruses the pages of a less cultured journal. Skelgill is perhaps sleeping, although at intervals during the journey so far he has surprised them by suddenly chipping in with a contribution to their conversation, despite his lowered eyelids and sporadic snores. DS Jones smiles at her colleague.
‘Oh, well – a... friend... showed me how to do them when I was at uni – half the battle is cracking the secret code that the compiler uses. If you can work out what the clue means the answer’s usually staring you in the face.’
DS Leyton puts down his own newspaper and glances across at her h
alf-completed grid.
‘Give us an idea, then.’
DS Jones taps her pen on the folded broadsheet.
‘Ok – take this one – I’ve already solved it. The clue says, “Go without love, with girls getting visual aids” and it’s seven letters long.’
DS Leyton puffs out his cheeks and stares vacantly at the page, and then hopefully about the carriage, as if they are playing a game of I-spy and the item is close at hand, if only he can spot it. But after a few moments he shakes his head and concedes defeat.
‘That’s just double Dutch to me, Emma – it might as well be written in French.’
DS Jones smiles patiently.
‘Let me show you. There are a couple of encrypted elements in here.’ She writes out the clue along the foot of the page, spacing it into three distinct phrases. ‘See this last bit, “getting visual aids”? The word “getting” is telling us that the answer is something that means “visual aids” and the first parts of the clue will resolve to make this word.’
DS Leyton scratches his head.
‘Visual aids? What – like for a presentation when you hold up crime-scene photos?’ He counts on his fingers, silently mouthing letters. ‘How about ‘example’ – that’s got seven letters?’
DS Jones nods encouragingly.
‘It could be – but if we work out the rest of the clue, it will tell us.’
‘Go on then.’
‘Well, there’s another coded phrase: “go without love” – that means the letter “g” – because “love” is usually code for an “o” – so “g” is the first letter of the solution.”
‘Bang goes my example.’ He puffs out his cheeks. ‘What about ‘gadget’ then?’ He counts again. ‘Cor blimey – not enough letters.’
She chuckles.
‘And lastly we need another word for “girls” – because the clue is telling us to put “g” with girls.’
‘Lasses.’
They both glance up, for this submission comes from the ‘slumbering’ Skelgill. It is a word from his regular northern lexicon.
Murder on the Lake (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 4) Page 7