‘Perhaps we could have a quick look before we go?’
‘Certainly, Inspector.’
‘What did he say about the retreat – about being away?’
‘Very little, Inspector – but that was the norm.’ Once more, she looks a little piqued. ‘He could be going to a conference in Shanghai and would only inform me on the evening before – or perhaps even call in from the airport.’
‘So you didn’t make his travel arrangements, book hotels – that sort of thing?’
She shakes her head.
‘As I mentioned, Inspector, Mr Buckley was miserly in the extreme – I don’t believe he would have trusted anyone else to obtain the lowest possible prices.’
‘Did you know he was attending the retreat?’
She shakes her head.
‘It was just some parting comment about the frozen north and that he may be some time – I think he was humorously paraphrasing Captain Oates.’
Skelgill raises his eyebrows – perhaps disapproving of the slight upon his part of England – or maybe even at the ironically analogous outcome.
‘How had he seemed prior to leaving – health-wise, state of mind – his behaviour?’
The woman ponders for a moment before she replies.
‘I can’t say I noticed anything out of the ordinary – but then again there was no ‘ordinary’ as far as Mr Buckley was concerned – he was prone to mood swings and flashes of temper and hyperactivity, and then there were periods of apparent depression – these could all occur within the same afternoon.’
Skelgill looks at DS Jones, who writes furiously to keep up, despite her shorthand skills. She glances briefly at him mid-flow. Skelgill puts down his cup and saucer and leans back casually against the sofa.
‘Did he drink much at lunchtimes?’
‘I should not say excessively, Inspector, despite the length of his engagements – he commuted most days by car, and I believe he was conscious of the risks – to his licence, at least.’
‘How about drugs?’
Constance Belgrave appears puzzled.
‘You mean medicines, Inspector?’
Skelgill slides the back of a forefinger beneath his nose in an ambiguous gesture.
‘Including medicines.’
‘Well... I shouldn’t have thought a man of his generation would use illegal drugs, Inspector...’
This notion seems to have caught her by surprise; it appears her worldliness is restricted to the sphere of soft-pornographic literature.
‘How about legal ones?’ Skelgill holds out a palm in an inquiring manner. ‘For instance, were you aware of him taking medication for what might have been irritable bowel syndrome?’
Constance Belgrave looks almost as disturbed by this as the idea of her former boss having a clandestine cocaine habit – although it could simply be the nature of the ailment itself. She shakes her head vehemently.
‘As far as I am aware, Inspector – despite Mr Buckley’s many failings – I am fairly certain that his physical health did not number among them.’
*
‘So what do you make of the tablets, Guv?’
‘I think they’re the same, aren’t they?’
‘It looks like the identical packaging as those we found on the island.’
Skelgill shrugs.
‘See what the boffins make of them when we get back, eh?’
‘Sure, Guv.’
DS Jones pats her attaché case. Within is an evidence bag containing two packets of capsules discovered in Rich Buckley’s desk. Miss Constance Belgrave, having retrieved the spare keys from their hidey hole inside a fake English dictionary, had appeared familiar with the general layout and contents of the drawers, and was patently surprised when the medicine was uncovered beneath a sheaf of overdue invoices and unsigned authors’ royalty cheques. As regards the retreat, there was no documentary evidence to be found – in fact the publisher clearly operated on a very minimalistic system of paperwork altogether.
‘Sounds like he was a nasty piece of work, Guv.’
Skelgill nods, his features grim.
‘Usually people just avoid folk like that – killing them’s a bit extreme.’
DS Jones looks expectantly at her superior – but he appears to have concluded his judgment and says no more. They walk on a little in silence – they are heading for Farringdon tube station – there has been a small change in their plans, in that they have concluded they will not fit all three remaining interviews into the time available, and are about to divide and conquer as far as Angela Cutting and Burt Boston are concerned. The former lives in Regent’s Park, while the latter has an address near Paddington – the Circle Line will serve them both, Skelgill alighting first at Great Portland Street, while DS Jones must continue for four more stops to the west. Roughly contemporaneously, DS Leyton – supplied by digital means with the information that Rich Buckley was embroiled in divorce proceedings – ought to be en route (by taxi) to the exclusive village of Bray on Thames, to meet with the late publisher’s spouse.
‘Those books they publish, Guv – I noticed there’s a distinctive RBP logo on the spine.’
‘Aye?’
‘Dickie Lampray had quite a few of them on his shelves.’
Skelgill scoffs.
‘Probably for personal use.’
DS Jones chuckles.
‘He’s certainly a bit of an oddball, Guv – but I got the impression he’s quite harmless.’
‘They thought that about Crippen. He’s probably got his last partner buried under the back patio. I’m surprised the dog didn’t wander in with a human tibia in its jaws.’
She shakes her head in affected wonderment at Skelgill’s little fancy.
‘How did his manner compare to when you’d met him before, Guv?’
‘Definitely a bit edgy – but they’d already broken out the gin and tonic by the time I turned up.’
‘There’s more of a connection with Rich Buckley than he was willing to admit.’
Skelgill nods but remains silent.
‘I suppose it’s only natural, Guv – for people to distance themselves – when there’s some degree of suspicion – he must realise we have to investigate for foul play.’
‘Aye – he might be odd, but he’s canny with it.’
‘Constance Belgrave, too, Guv.’
Skelgill grins and shakes his head.
‘What is it, Guv?’
‘She reminded me of a maths teacher we had – she would have been retired by the time you went up to the High School. Everyone thought she was a right frigid old battle-axe – until one evening a couple of girls dropped into the classroom after hockey practice and caught her cavorting in the store cupboard with the caretaker.’ He beams broadly at the memory. ‘Her name was Miss Trimble – Annie – you can imagine what she got called after that.’
DS Jones looks puzzled.
‘This sounds like a cryptic crossword clue, Guv.’
‘I’ll leave you to work it out – but it’s a lot easier than that, Jones. ’
9. ANGELA CUTTING - Tuesday 1 p.m.
As Skelgill strides purposefully northwards along Regent’s Park’s magnificent Outer Circle, the weather seems to be living up to its unseasonal billing, for he carries his jacket slung over his shoulder, one finger hooked through the coat loop. The sun, however, is already dipping past its zenith, and slanting golden rays tint the whitewashed neo-classical façade of Nash’s Cumberland Terrace (the name a coincidence that has not escaped his attention). Here, property prices comfortably exceed their telephone numbers, and Skelgill would be excused for feeling a little daunted as he seeks out his destination.
About fifty yards ahead two stout ladies approach him, led by a pair of majestic Dalmatians, ears pricked and a spring in their step, though they trot with no sign of strain upon the leash. As they near a long black limousine with smoked glass windows, there is a blast of what surely must be the loudest motor horn in England. Though the nobl
e carriage dogs are unperturbed, the women start in unison and frown their disapproval. Skelgill, too, seems cross, and his left hand strays to his hip pocket where his warrant card is stowed for safety. Perhaps he is tempted to remind the driver that it is an offence to honk whilst stationary, and also to idle – but any such ideas are dispelled when Angela Cutting emerges elegantly from a smartly painted front door and coolly raises a hand in his direction. Since he is precisely on time, it would appear she has been waiting inside the porch for his arrival.
Her slender form is draped in an ankle-length white fur – mink it would appear, with a contrasting trim of striped black and grey – and her heels are even more precipitous than those she wore at Grisholm, bringing her within an inch or two of Skelgill’s height. Her raven hair is parted and pulled tightly over her skull, and the angled sunshine creates a two-tone effect of highlight and shadow. Her dark eyes are made up as if in readiness for Halloween – just a few days hence – and combine with her aquiline features to amplify her vampish mien. She seems pleased to see Skelgill and her scarlet lips part slowly in a sensuous smile that reveals her even white teeth with their gently pointed canines. Still on the step, she glances down as the distressed dog walkers bustle between them, her gaze drawn by the Dalmatians as though she might covet their striking coats. They pass and she extends a gloved hand to Skelgill.
‘Inspector, how delightful to see you again – I am afraid, however, that something has come up – I have an interview – perhaps I can take you for lunch in order that I may keep my appointment?’ She gestures casually towards the standing limousine. ‘They have sent their car.’
Skelgill seems a little put out. His theory about the disarming quality of home turf has been turned on its head: this is Angela Cutting in her element – demonstrating an assertiveness that is not easily resisted. Any hopes he might harbour for a swift debriefing and a nice little stop-off at a café he has spotted near Great Portland Street station now have to be abandoned.
‘Well – if it’s okay by you, madam.’ He still has his jacket slung over his shoulder, and makes a sign with his free hand to indicate his general attire. ‘But I’m not exactly dressed for it.’
She surveys him with an appraising glance.
‘Oh, no – it is very casual – and this is London, Inspector – it’s not what you wear, it’s how you wear it.’
Skelgill – never one likely to win any awards for sartorial elegance – appears uncertain of how to interpret this potentially ambiguous statement, but before he can fashion a reply Angela Cutting interjects.
‘I would have one condition, Inspector?’
‘Madam?’
‘I thought we had agreed you would call me Ange in private?’ She smiles archly. ‘I shouldn’t think our conversation is going to be overheard.’
Their journey is not a long one. From Regent’s Park they are chauffeured briefly east on Euston Road, then south the full length of Gower Street to High Holborn. She points out features of interest en route, such as the nineteenth century properties formerly inhabited by Charles Darwin and – for twenty-first century television purposes only – Sherlock Holmes. Skelgill nods appreciatively; though in the soporific cocoon of the luxury car he spends much of the trip sunk deep in the comfortable leather upholstery, rather like a dental patient under conscious sedation – though perhaps it is the invisible tentacles of his companion’s No.5 that bind him in a cloud of bemused torpor. Soon they pick up Shaftesbury Avenue as it slices between Soho and Covent Garden. A final left turn takes them into the fringe of the latter district, where they draw up just short of Upper St Martin’s Lane in a little confluence of narrow streets, outside what resembles – from ground level, at least – a diminutive Art Deco version of New York’s Flatiron Building. There is a theatre opposite advertising The Mousetrap – and Skelgill might be excused for wondering if he has nodded off and become part of some murder mystery in his dreams.
He is shaken from any such musings by a blast of cool air and traffic noise as the soundproofed door is carefully opened by the muscular figure of a commissionaire, the man complete with top hat and frock coat, and polished black brogues that click to attention. Skelgill, having been last to get in, is first to clamber out and – unused to such protocols – he hovers uncertainly beside the vehicle, neither assisting Angela Cutting nor enabling the doorman to lend a supportive hand. However, she rises elegantly and they are swiftly ushered inside a narrow wood-panelled lobby where a standing crowd of would-be diners blocks their passage. Leading Skelgill unobtrusively by the cuff, Angela Cutting pushes through the overcoated throng to a doorway where they are held at bay by a dinner-jacketed maître d’ – he looks stern, but his countenance changes as he recognises her and produces a honeyed, ‘Ah, Madame – of course – come this way, please’. The main interior, dictated by the flatiron, is roughly triangular and they are led to a two-seater bench table facing back into the room from the middle of what is the triangle’s hypotenuse, giving them, seated side-by-side, a panoramic view of the entire restaurant. While Skelgill dutifully holds her handbag, a waiting minion assists Angela Cutting in slipping from her mink to reveal a striking black silk mini dress that clings to her lithe figure and seems to leave little scope for underwear beneath. Plain gold jewellery is strategically placed about her person.
Skelgill watches with apparent alarm as a napkin is spread over his partner’s lap, and then seems surprised when the same service is performed for him. He might reflect on how they have walked into such a prime table – with a queue of hopefuls waiting, the place packed to the gunwales, and no indication of a prior reservation. There is a cacophony of chatter and the clinking bustle of serving as white-shirted staff, impeccable in bow ties and waistcoats, heave to and fro. He looks about – perhaps in wonderment that this is a mere Wednesday lunchtime in late October – and becomes conscious that eyes flick in their direction, dropping away as his own gaze falls upon them. But Angela Cutting seems completely at ease; she watches him for a moment with an amused smile teasing the corners of her mouth.
As if by magic a wine waiter has materialised before them proffering a chilled bottle. He hovers in a manner suggestive that Skelgill should taste its contents. Angela Cutting touches him lightly on the forearm.
‘I have a preferred Chablis, Inspector.’ Skelgill inhales as if he might protest, but she anticipates his objection. ‘I appreciate you may not wish to drink since you are on duty – but a bottle allows for at least a sip or two.’
Skelgill shrugs. ‘When in Rome.’ He holds out his glass. Frowning, and taking half a pace backward, the sommelier decants a little, which Skelgill promptly swallows. ‘Perfect.’
The waiter nods, rather superciliously, it must be said – and then rounds to pour for Angela Cutting before returning to Skelgill. He does not demur, although he leaves the glass untouched and waits for a moment while a lesser-ranking second server darts forward to charge their crystal tumblers with sparkling mineral water – and drinks half down. He places the glass carefully upon its coaster and, with his head lowered in a rather confiding manner, leans a little towards his dining partner.
‘I get the feeling you have some admirers.’
Angela Cutting, who has mirrored his movement, brings her wine goblet to her lips and gazes at him conspiratorially over its rim.
‘Oh – I rather think it is you they are looking at, Inspector.’
Skelgill perhaps does not grasp the nuance in her words – that curious onlookers, if indeed there are such, are likely speculating about who it is with her, rather than who it is for his own sake. However, this line of inquiry is interrupted by the return of the maître d’, who exchanges pleasantries and confirms that their table is satisfactory and offers to take their food order. Angela Cutting turns to Skelgill.
‘Since we are short on time, may I recommend to you the steak pie and chips?’
Skelgill grins, as though he thinks she must be joking. She detects his hesitation, and elaborates
accordingly.
‘It is one of their most popular productions – almost a signature dish.’
Skelgill glances at the maître d’, who nods in confirmation.
‘Can’t argue with that – saves me choosing something in French and hoping it’s a mammal.’
Angela Cutting smiles.
‘Birds are okay, are they not? Even in French?’
‘Not if they’re an Ortolan.’
‘Good point, Inspector.’
‘Then there’s the matter of foie gras.’
Angela Cutting shakes her head in apparent sympathy with his view.
‘Sadly, très délicieux.’
Skelgill nods and evidently decides to call it quits – perhaps before the language gets any further beyond his limits.
‘What are you going to have?’
She pouts an indecisive kiss, but only for a brief moment.
‘I never can resist the lobster – though it is to the garlic butter in which it swims that I rather suspect I am addicted.’
She looks at the maître d’, and dismisses him with a flutter of her eyelids. He backs rather obsequiously from the table.
Skelgill frowns.
‘Won’t that be a bit – you, know – inappropriate for your job interview?’
She tilts back her head and laughs – though her manner is generous, and she takes a gulp of wine as though to demonstrate a point.
‘I ought to have explained, Inspector – it is not that kind of interview – it is for the Book Programme.’
Skelgill looks suddenly embarrassed, and a little flush of colour rushes to highlight his prominent cheekbones. It has obviously not occurred to him that it could be an interview in which she calls the shots.
‘Aye – well, you’ll look very good – I shall keep an eye out for you on the telly.’
Again she rests a palm upon his sleeve.
‘I appreciate your chivalry, Inspector – though I rather suspect from what you said at Grisholm Hall that it is not your regular viewing – and do not fret – why should it be – I prefer you the way you are – an unpretentious man of action.’
Murder on the Lake (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 4) Page 12