‘Guv – I wondered – if you knew about DS Leyton – what happened on the London Underground?’
Skelgill folds his arms. Her tone of voice has told him that it is not some humorous anecdote she is about to relate.
‘What are you talking about, Jones?’
‘Earlier on, Guv – when we arrived at Euston – I noticed he wasn’t keen to take the tube – then I remembered what a DS from the Met told me on a course I was on – she’d worked with him previously.’
Skelgill is implacable. DS Jones continues.
‘It’s going back over ten years – when they were both constables on the beat – there was a fire at a tube station – in north London somewhere.’
‘So what happened?’
‘They were the first on the scene – by then there were clouds of smoke billowing up from the tunnels – but the station staff thought everyone was safe – so they were guarding the entrance to stop anyone going inside.’ She pauses to brush away strands of hair that have fallen across her face. ‘Then someone said there was a tramp left behind on the platform – he was disabled and probably drunk.’
An expression of alarm fleetingly crosses Skelgill’s intense countenance.
‘So Leyton went in for him?’
DS Jones nods, wide-eyed.
‘He saved him, Guv.’ Suddenly her eyes flood with tears and glisten as they reflect the flickering tea light on their table. ‘He carried him up something like fifty steps because the escalators had been switched off. They were both in hospital for a month. DS Leyton received the Queen’s Medal, Guv.’
Skelgill is chewing his lip vigorously – it looks painful and he clearly cannot be aware that he is doing it – such is the reassessment that must be running through his mind. After a minute he reaches for his beer bottle, though he merely contemplates the label.
‘He’s kept that quiet, hasn’t he?’
DS Jones concurs.
‘So I think that’s why he’s not keen on the tube, Guv.’
Skelgill nods pensively.
‘Well – thanks for telling me – saves me putting my bloody great daft foot in it.’
DS Jones grins.
‘Oh – I think he’s thick-skinned enough for you not to worry, Guv.’
Skelgill scowls; perhaps he registers the implied if unintended criticism in this statement. Nonetheless, he sets his jaw determinedly.
‘I’ll tell him we’ll all be using taxis tomorrow – and to hell with the taxpayer.’
7. DICKIE LAMPRAY – Tuesday 9:30 a.m.
‘I don’t particularly recall going to bed last night, Jones.’
Skelgill utters these words with uncharacteristic formality, and DS Jones glances at him with apparent concern – though it may just be the slanting rays of the low autumn sun that cause her to squint. They walk steadily, side by side, along a chequered suburban pavement. The day is bright and mild, with a forecast of seventy degrees Fahrenheit – something only Londoners can aspire to in late October.
‘DS Leyton helped you to your room, Guv.’
‘Right.’
‘You were a bit groggy. We were just saying at breakfast – we thought you were looking tired, on and off, during the day.’
Skelgill frowns reproachfully, though his reply indicates that his frustration is directed at himself and not his sergeant.
‘I don’t know what’s been wrong with me – I mean, what did we have – a couple of beers and a whisky in the hotel bar?’
DS Jones perhaps refrains from commenting that this might be something of an under-estimate, at least as far as her superior is concerned.
‘It was a long day, Guv – on top of your night on the island.’
‘Not as long as it was for you guys.’ He shakes his head obstinately. ‘I don’t get it.’
‘How do you feel now, Guv?’
Skelgill shoots DS Jones a quick sideways glance, as if to check whether she is covertly assessing his state of health.
‘Right as rain – I walked halfway round Hyde Park this morning.’
‘Really?’
‘Aye – I was wide awake at five – once those bin-men came past clanking and yawping.’
DS Jones appears satisfied with this response.
‘You did well to find it, Guv.’
‘It’s hardly rocket science, Jones.’ Skelgill’s tone carries a friendly reprimand. ‘I might be a country boy but I can deal with turn right on Oxford Street and your destination is ahead.’ He imitates a satnav voice by way of explanation.
DS Jones grins, admonished accordingly.
‘True enough, Guv. How was it?’
‘Almost deserted – surprisingly peaceful.’ He scratches the back of his head. ‘Could have sworn I saw a pelican flying over – but it wasn’t properly light.’
‘There used to be some on the lake in St James’s Park, Guv – they were quite a tourist attraction. Maybe they’re still around.’
Skelgill purses his lips.
‘Aye, well – it would be a relief to know my mind’s not playing tricks on me.’ He watches a flock of pigeons as they cross low over the rooftops not far ahead. ‘Pelicans, though – they eat fish by the bucket load – can’t be all that popular – there’s supposed to be big pike in the Serpentine.’
DS Jones looks surprised by this idea.
‘But people swim in there, Guv – there’s a famous club – they have races every Saturday.’
Skelgill must be reminded of his outstanding bet, for his grey-green eyes glaze over – an effect unlikely to be caused by concern for bathers – until he dismisses the recalcitrant thought with a shake of the head.
‘I was tempted to have a fish – I’ve got a travel rod – should have packed it.’ He shakes his head regretfully. ‘Don’t know how I would have landed anything decent, mind.’
DS Jones grins, perhaps amused by the idea of her superior officer wrestling bare-handed with a great snapping and flailing pike pulled unwillingly from London’s historic recreational lake, much to the amazement of early-morning inline skaters and horse riders. Nevertheless, just as she is well informed about the existence of the Serpentine Swimming Club, Skelgill’s knowledge of the water’s piscine population is correct: the lake holds good numbers of large bream, carp, roach and – indeed – pike to thirty pound plus, a lesser-known fact that, if broadcast widely, might deter the more apprehensive among the goose-greased doggy paddlers.
‘So what did you do for breakfast, Guv?’
‘Came across a café in Soho – it was full of Polish builders – I took that as a good sign – pint mugs of tea and bottles of HP on the table. Went for the full English.’
‘How was it?’
Skelgill tilts his head from side to side.
‘Not up to Gladis’s standard – but not a bad second, all things considered.’
‘The hotel food wasn’t so clever, Guv – I just had the continental buffet, so I was fine – but DS Leyton was a bit disappointed with the fry.’
Skelgill is pensive for a few moments before he next speaks.
‘Think I handled the taxi business okay?’
DS Jones nods vigorously. Skelgill refers to a short briefing before they divided into two asymmetrical ‘teams’. He had recapped upon their interviewing plan – that he and DS Jones shall visit the members of the retreat, while DS Leyton will investigate the contacts his unit at HQ has opened up. Furthermore, since it is clear that their various ports of call are only loosely serviced by the London Underground system, they should use whatever means of surface transport is most time- rather than cost-efficient. That said, the ‘teams’ having gone their separate ways, that comprising he and DS Jones had promptly descended into Tottenham Court Road station, whence the Northern and Piccadilly Lines brought them to Baron’s Court in West Kensington. Dickie Lampray resides in the adjoining district of Fulham, and it is just a half-mile walk from this station to his home.
Indeed, closing in, they swing into a residential road just
one street removed from the great meander of the Thames that delineates the area and makes it two-thirds an island of the venerable flower. The narrow thoroughfare is tree-lined (though these are now largely bare), with mainly empty residents’ parking bays marked at intervals. The houses, which date from the Edwardian era, are unassuming in size and built in tightly packed terraces punctuated only by side streets, though they possess a certain flamboyant charm. There are ornate timbered half-gables above deep bays that extend down to the ground floor, multi-paned sash windows with leaded glass, and red-ochre tiled skirts and porches that contrast nicely with whitewashed harling elsewhere. Each property, which is about a room and a half wide, achieves a semblance of privacy through a small front garden hemmed in by a matching wall of red brick and dressed white chalk.
But, despite the pleasant nature of the neighbourhood, Skelgill has the look of a disenchanted tourist.
‘This can’t be right, Jones?’
DS Jones is tracking their progress on her mobile. She glances at the handset.
‘It’s definitely the correct address, Guv – Tummel Road. The house should be near the end on our side.’
‘Surely he lives somewhere grander than this?’
DS Jones notices an estate agent’s For Sale sign that has a quick-response code printed on it. She stops and scans the symbol with her mobile. Then she scuttles to catch Skelgill, watching the screen as the details appear. She emits a little whistle of astonishment and holds the handset for Skelgill to see.
‘It might not be grand, Guv – but if he doesn’t have a mortgage he’s comfortably a millionaire.’
Skelgill takes the device for a moment, as if he needs to hold it to absorb the information. He shakes his head disbelievingly.
‘I’d settle for the balance, less a million.’
*
‘Whoops, here comes Gypsy – do you mind dogs, Inspector – I can send him upstairs if you prefer?’
The canine to which Dickie Lampray refers is in fact an elderly chestnut-coloured spaniel, and despite an initial flurry of enthusiasm in welcoming Skelgill and DS Jones, it quickly settles into a gnawed wicker basket. They have been admitted through a panelled entrance door decorated with Art Nouveau glass into a tiled hallway. Where there might be expected to be a whiff of dog, the air is filled with the artificial scent of roses, which emanates from a plug-in device beside the creature’s bed. The walls are decked with professionally taken framed photographs that would appear to relate to literary award ceremonies, judging by the evening wear of their subjects (each grinning group including a dinner-suited Dickie Lampray, sporting various colourful variations of his trademark bow tie).
‘It’s no problem, sir – I have one myself.’ Skelgill bends down to stroke the hound behind an ear; it gazes up with soulful, sticky red-rimmed eyes. ‘King Charles, is he, sir?’
Dickie Lampray appears pleased by Skelgill’s accurate identification.
‘Quite right, Inspector – I’m a man for proper dogs – I cannot abide this nonsense of these outrageously priced and frankly ridiculous crosses the breeders are cashing in on these days.’ He gestures loosely towards his pet. ‘Only this morning I was walking Jip beside the Thames and we were ambushed by a Morkie and a Schnoodle – what will they come up with next? I dread to think what they’ll call it if someone mates a Shih Tzu with a Dachshund – although perhaps they already have. What kind is yours, Inspector? I would guess a pedigree Bloodhound – ha-ha.’
Skelgill grins rather sheepishly.
‘She’s a Bull... terrier.’
‘Excellent, Inspector – and, of course, they are a much friendlier breed than their ferocious reputation suggests.’
He turns to lead the way, and DS Jones flashes a surreptitious grin at her superior, acknowledging his white lie (for Skelgill’s somewhat unconventionally acquired pooch is a Bullboxer). They enter a front parlour, though the narrow house is knocked through into an adjoining living room and kitchen all the way to a small conservatory at the rear, creating a telescopic perspective with a view upon a shadowy courtyard that ends abruptly in the high brick wall of some other building. The whole effect is rather claustrophobic, and gives the impression that the walls are slowly but surely closing in. The succession of spaces is furnished in a masculine style, with leather sofas and easy chairs, and dark mahogany furniture. The various alcoves created by the alterations are lined by bookshelves, neatly stacked with mainly modern fiction hardbacks, arranged in size order from the centre of each shelf outwards.
‘Please be seated officers. Is filter coffee acceptable? Custard creams?’
‘Very kind of you, sir.’
Dickie Lampray has a tray already prepared, which he collects from the kitchen area. Though his lively manner seems unchanged from that encountered by Skelgill previously, his dress (casual dog-walking clothes, carpet slippers, and no bow tie) renders him a subdued and domesticated version of the urbane character that had seemed so well suited to the imposing surroundings of Grisholm Hall.
‘Do you work from home, sir?’ Skelgill gestures towards the nearest shelving unit.
‘Oh, absolutely, Inspector, most agents do – commercial leases in London are entirely unaffordable in my line of work – keeping up this place is hard enough, as it is – heaven knows what will happen once the hawks at the Bank of England start hiking the base rate.’
Skelgill nods but does not appear to be particularly engaged by this prospect, and instead gets down to business.
‘You might wonder sir, why we’ve come all the way to London to collect a document you could email to us – in fact, I believe have emailed to us.’
Dickie Lampray rather obediently fashions a slightly bewildered expression.
‘Well, er... yes, of course, I suppose I did.’
‘We have a number of calls to make, sir – I thought it might be best to see you first, as you seemed to be unofficially in charge of proceedings.’
‘Oh, well – I wouldn’t say that, Inspector – and certainly before poor old Rich died, he was rather, the, er... well, top dog, you might say. Ha-ha.’
Dickie Lampray’s laugh is tentative, but Skelgill nods encouragingly.
‘What it is, you see, sir – the deaths have been referred to the Cumbria Coroner – largely as a result of technicalities, such as being sudden, and of unknown cause – but that obliges us to investigate, in order to satisfy the inquest that there are no suspicious circumstances.’
Dickie Lampray is nodding.
‘Of course, Inspector, I understand perfectly.’
Skelgill is holding a biscuit, but he seems to realise he cannot at this moment begin to eat it and he replaces it upon his saucer.
‘And one aspect that is baffling us – indeed is going to make us look a bit amateurish if we can’t get to the bottom of it – is that, as you are aware, we’ve so far been unable to locate the company that organised the retreat.’
Dickie Lampray lifts an index finger, and then rises and shuffles his slippers across the carpeted floor with his odd short-stepping gait. He crosses to an open bureau in the living room section. He retrieves a sheet of A4 paper and brings it back to the coffee table.
‘This is a printout of the email I forwarded last night, Inspector – I am afraid I did not arrive home until after seven.’ He rotates the page through 180 degrees and hands it to Skelgill. ‘I think the only information of use will be their email address – it had not really struck me until now that I have no other contact details.’
‘We can’t a find a website, or a postal address.’ Skelgill looks inquiringly at the agent. ‘Would you say, sir – in your experience of these things – is that unusual?’
Dickie Lampray, who sits upright with his fingers interlocked and held against his breastbone, alternates his grip and gives a little shake of his hands.
‘Well – it is rather curious, with the benefit of hindsight – though if all had gone smoothly I don’t suppose I should have noticed.’
‘Had you heard of them before, sir – Wordsworth Writers’ Retreats?’
Now Dickie Lampray seems somewhat pained.
‘Well, the thing is – it sounds like the sort of organisation one has encountered many times – but in fact it is a clever combination of words – it has a familiar ring to it, when actually it appears the opposite may be true.’
Skelgill glances at DS Jones, perhaps acknowledging her matching assessment.
‘What made you go on the retreat, sir?’
‘Well, to be perfectly frank, Inspector – it was the fee.’
‘The fee?’
‘That’s correct, five thousand for a week’s work – free board and lodging – and not much work at that.’ He gestures to the sheet that Skelgill holds. ‘It is all detailed in the email.’
Skelgill glances vacantly at the page of text and hands it to DS Jones.
‘And have you received the fee – if you don’t mind my asking, sir?’
Dickie Lampray shakes his head, and rather dejectedly he turns out his bottom lip before he replies.
‘No – it was to be invoiced upon completion of the course.’
Skelgill remains silent for a few moments.
‘What are you thinking, sir?’
‘Well, obviously, Inspector – the course was not completed – but that aside, I am now rather wondering whether my fee – or even some proportion of it – will ever be forthcoming.’ He shakes his head unhappily. ‘I mean – if this company has disappeared off the police’s radar, I don’t fancy my own chances too strongly.’
Murder on the Lake (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 4) Page 9