Skelgill folds his hands together on the white tablecloth and glances about nervously, as if he is concerned about eavesdroppers. However, her earlier assertion is accurate; the ambient cacophony creates a little bubble of privacy around their table. But he might wonder what purpose her compliment serves – and also he must be conscious they have limited time and he has questions to ask. Indeed, he shakes his head modestly and contrives to engineer a link from one to the other.
‘The last you saw of me – Ange,’ (he stresses the name to please her) ‘I was being shepherded off to bed – not exactly action man.’
‘I was sad to see you go, Inspector – we were quite a team.’
Skelgill raises an eyebrow, and his manner becomes more serious.
‘Now one player down.’
‘Ah, very unfortunate – poor Bella.’
‘I must ask you, Ange – what transpired after I went to bed?’
Angela Cutting takes a drink of wine and – the amount consumed having passed halfway – someone in uniform is there to top it up.
‘Little of note, if I recall, Inspector. Scrabble was won, our lead was unassailable – we packed that away and after a while, at that preposterous imposter Burt Boston’s insistence, tried a game of charades – but it never really got off the ground. It descended into general chit-chat around the fire, with some people drifting in and out of slumber on the spot.’
‘How about Bella Mandrake – can you remember how she was?’
‘She had been rather disturbed all evening – in fact ever since Rich’s body was found – though she was prone to drama at the least excuse – she was also well oiled, as no doubt you could tell, Inspector.’
Skelgill nods. There is nothing here he does not already know.
‘When did she go to bed?’
Angela Cutting picks up her glass and swills the pale golden liquid around. The restaurant has extensive windows, leaded in a fine diamond pattern with a harlequin-like mixture of coloured and opaque glass. The sun, which from its low autumn meridian cannot be shining directly into the room, is finding a way by means of successive reflections to radiate gently upon their table.
‘I can’t actually recall – no wait, Sarah and I went upstairs together – Bella had insinuated herself between Burt and Dickie – I wasn’t paying too much attention, since I was discussing Frankfurt with Sarah.’
‘Frankfurt?’
Angela Cutting smiles patiently.
‘The world’s largest book fair, Inspector – it was earlier in the month.’
Skelgill nods. However, he spurns any temptation to digress.
‘Despite your conversation – can you remember who else was left in the drawing room as you left?’
‘I think only little Lucy had gone to bed.’ She closes her eyes momentarily, revealing lids artfully smeared with peacock blue translucence. ‘But maybe the elderly doctor chap – Gerald Bond – as well.’ I am afraid you might have to ask the others if you wish to piece together the situation.’
Skelgill shrugs as if it is not of too much importance.
‘But Bella Mandrake – apart from her behaviour as you described – there was nothing to suggest she might be liable to take an overdose of sleeping pills?’
Angela Cutting flashes him a suddenly stern glance.
‘I truly hope it was an accident, Inspector?’
Skelgill is silent.
‘You don’t think otherwise, surely?’
Skelgill tilts his head from one side to the other.
‘There’s going to be a Coroner’s inquest – we just have to keep an open mind while we gather all the available facts. There are strict rules governing the certification of deaths.’
Angela Cutting regards him pensively.
‘And this applies to Rich, as well?’
Skelgill nods.
‘I spoke with Mr Lampray this morning – he suggested you might be able to cast some light on Mr Buckley’s state of health – that you were one of the last to be with him on the night before he died?’
For the first time a hint of discomfort disrupts Angela Cutting’s measured demeanour. Her eyes narrow and there is a just-discernable tensing of the fingers that caress the contours of her glass. She takes a drink and rolls the wine around her mouth like a connoisseur performing a tasting exercise.
‘Dickie is right – although, I am afraid to say, I left Rich in Bella’s clutches – he seemed not unhappy with that. As for his health – I should say he was as vigorous as ever.’
Her intonation, though flat, has a brooding quality, as though she is reassessing the virtues of her actions. There is also a suggestion that Skelgill might have trespassed upon her hospitality, via a question that points to uncomfortable territory. But, for him, foraging beyond the pale is his bread and butter, and he takes another speculative step.
‘His secretary complained that he could be a bit forward with the ladies.’
The statement is an invitation for Angela Cutting to confirm or deny, but she is evidently too wily a vixen to allow herself to be cornered.
‘Oh – one man’s forward is another man’s missed opportunity, Inspector.’
The reply – accompanied by a beguiling smile – is cryptic, to say the least, but Skelgill grins back as if he gets her drift, and she seems satisfied.
‘Rich talked a good game, Inspector – I shouldn’t go too much by what you hear.’
Skelgill nods.
‘How well did you know him?’
Now Angela Cutting enfolds the base of her wine glass with the fingers of both hands, her long, perfectly manicured nails meeting like a gathering of red soldier beetles.
‘At a personal level – only superficially – in publishing circles there are continual events – launches, ceremonies, conferences – we float about afterwards with cheese and wine and make pleasantries as if we are all old friends. RBP has been on an upward trajectory for some years – Rich was the driving force, so he was widely known to many in the book trade.’
Skelgill nods.
‘Were you surprised to find he was at the writers’ retreat?’
‘Not at all, Inspector.’
Her reply is quite matter-of-fact and suggests she feels no need to elucidate. Skelgill probes further.
‘I just wondered what would take a busy man away from his work for a week or more.’
Angela Cutting choses to interpret the question as if it is obliquely aimed at her.
‘Why not a few days away from it all – no digital interference, an idyllic location, a blind date or two?’ She bats her eyelashes mischievously. ‘And an attractive fee.’
‘Which may not be paid.’
Now she shrugs indifferently.
‘So I understand from one of your constables, Inspector.’
If the loss of her fee is an issue, she does not show it. Skelgill reverts to her allusion to romantic liaisons.
‘Do you think Mr Buckley was availing himself of – as you put it – blind dates?’
Now her demeanour becomes distinctly coy. She leans back against the settle and folds her hands demurely on the edge of the table.
‘Though I was in the next room to Rich, the thick walls in that old place definitely do not have ears, Inspector. Of course, one senses movement in adjoining chambers, and footsteps crossing the landing – but there is nothing I could put my finger on.’
‘You mean you heard something?’
‘Oh, I’m sure there was the odd bump in the night – but I was safely tucked up in bed – I hadn’t bargained for the cold and it would have taken wild horses to drag me out to investigate – even had I been so inclined. And unlike yourself, Inspector, I am a very deep sleeper.’
Purposefully, she regards him as if she anticipates a challenge – but after a second or two, since he does not react, she relents and stretches languidly. She lifts her napkin casually from her lap and begins to rise from the table.
‘If you will excuse me, Inspector, I shall just powd
er my nose before our food arrives.’
Skelgill has no alternative but to acquiesce with good grace. When Angela Cutting returns, their order immediately follows – as if their table has been under sympathetic observation –beneath glinting silver cloches borne shoulder high and delivered to their place settings with a practised flourish. At this juncture Skelgill’s baser instincts kick in, and his attention gains a new focus. He is easy meat, therefore, for an enlivened Angela Cutting. Their conversation – thus far a game of subtle but intense fencing – becomes relaxed, and ranges widely. Playing to his ego, she leads him across hill and dale – and lake – by quizzing him about his Cumbrian homeland and his exploits on and off duty. When the region’s gourmet reputation comes up, she asks to try a small taste of his pie, and reciprocates by feeding him a bite of precious lobster from her fork. If this is a ploy to eat up their available time, it succeeds – for Angela Cutting seems suddenly to realise she may be late and signals to the staff that she wishes to depart.
The maître d’ seems to take excessive pleasure in handing the bill to Skelgill. Heroically he reaches for his battered wallet – his eyebrows unable to conceal his reaction at setting a Beamonesque personal best for the price of a pie supper – but his attempt to pay is thwarted by Angela Cutting, who reaches across and pins down his hands with her own.
‘Oh no, Inspector – you are my guest – it is I that brought us here.’ Skelgill begins to protest, but she continues. ‘Not only do I have an account – but in any event I can claim this back.’ She slides the black leather presenter from his grasp and returns it to the waiting maître d’, who clicks his heels and – without a glance at Skelgill – bows briefly at Angela Cutting and turns away.
Skelgill holds up his wallet.
‘Perhaps I can leave the tip?’
She shakes her head.
‘It is already included, Inspector – London practice.’
‘Well – thanks very much – I wasn’t expecting this... Ange.’
His addition of her name sounds rather dutiful, but she smiles appreciatively and again reaches to press his nearest hand.
‘I am only sorry I was unable to entertain you at my home, Inspector – but perhaps there will be another occasion.’
Her intonation makes this more of a statement than a question, but as Skelgill follows her towards the exit he again seems distracted by the trailing glances of other diners, and his response is rather vague.
‘We have a six o’clock train for Penrith.’
Angela Cutting is reunited with her five-figure mink coat and Skelgill watches respectfully as she wriggles into the garment and then tips the young female cloakroom assistant. As the street door is opened for them, Skelgill allows her to go ahead of him. The limousine is drawn up directly outside, but as she moves towards it the figure of a man blocks her path, with another close beside him.
‘Oh, not now, please – I’m already late.’
Angela Cutting’s response suggests she is accustomed to such unsolicited approaches – but her subsequent sharp intake of breath winds back this notion; the man is brandishing a knife.
‘Oh, my God.’
Automatically Skelgill steps between them. In this stand-off neither party speaks, but as Skelgill holds up his right palm in a placatory gesture the assailant with a lupine snarl raises the glinting blade to shoulder level as though he is about to strike.
And now, in one of those curious blink-of-an-eye and yet slow-motion moments, a flashing left hook sinks into the man’s jaw and transforms his expression of hostile aggression through a sequence of surprise, shock, fear and pain, and his face becomes a distorted mask of anguish – all in the split second before his lights go out and the force of Skelgill’s punch slams him against the car, thence to collapse limp upon the sidewalk. The knife clatters onto the ground and slides harmlessly beneath the vehicle.
Angela Cutting screams and staggers back in horror. She is prompted not by the sudden explosion of violence, but because the knifeman’s accomplice – with remarkable opportunism and an impressive disregard for his partner in crime – snatches her designer handbag, vaults his stupefied ex-ally and hot-foots it in the direction of Soho. In response, Skelgill tears off his jacket, thrusts it into the hands of the thus-far immobilised doorman (so much for his imposing presence), and sprints away in pursuit.
When he returns grim-faced just over two minutes later there is a trickle of blood dripping from his brow. One of his trouser legs seems to have a rip at the knee. His hair is dishevelled and flopping down over his forehead. But his left hand has the arm of the mugger firmly – in fact very firmly – twisted and rammed hard up between his shoulder blades, as he is marched squealing to face justice. In Skelgill’s right hand is Angela Cutting’s handbag, still fastened and apparently none the worse for its little adventure.
Already three uniformed beat bobbies are on the scene. They have the recovering, if clinically concussed, knifeman in handcuffs, and are delighted to relieve Skelgill of his new charge and subdue him likewise (with the handcuffs, rather than the concussion). Skelgill shows his warrant card to the more senior officer – a few words suffice to explain his presence, and role in the incident; indeed the police have already gleaned from Angela Cutting and the doorman what has transpired. And now official vehicles, sirens blaring and ignoring the local one-way system, arrive from all directions to block off the narrow streets. A crowd gathers, rather as though this is another one of those impromptu Covent Garden street performances.
10. LUCY HECATE - Tuesday 3 p.m.
When Skelgill rings the bell to Lucy Hecate’s apartment the blood has long ceased to drip from the nick on his forehead caused by the crook’s heel as he brought him crashing down to earth in Greek Street. A hand in one pocket, absently he fingers the silk scarf Angela Cutting pressed upon him – literally so, as she tended to his wound with a concern worthy of a more serious injury. She had purred throatily, a fire in her eyes and a heat in her touch that saw him acquiesce when ordinarily he would have shrugged off such a minor inconvenience. But her intimate on-street ministrations were short lived. Effusive in her thanks and profound in her apologies, she was obliged to yield to the combined exhortations of her mobile phone, the driver, and the advancing hour – the television studio could wait only so long. She had insisted that Skelgill retain the flimsy garment – and that he must soon allow her to thank him properly – before she had planted a full-bodied kiss upon his unsuspecting lips and retreated into the car like a reluctant hermit crab that knows the ebb tide is about to claim her shell.
For his part Skelgill had melted into the watching throng – in good part Australian tourists mesmerised by the sight of the sulking criminals awaiting deportation – and for the past forty-five minutes he has wandered the streets of Soho, stopping once for a sandwich in a small café, and later purchasing a chocolate bar from a minimarket. His amblings have brought him full circle, since his next destination is barely two hundred yards from the restaurant, a short way down a narrow street that forms one of the spokes of Seven Dials. He checks his watch – he is on time, but DS Jones has not made their rendezvous. A text message has informed him that she is en route on foot from Paddington, where sudden industrial action has closed the London Underground and trapped all available taxis in the ensuing gridlock.
While Skelgill waits he pulls out the white scarf and stares at it pensively. A passer by – not knowing him – might reasonably speculate that he is wondering which washing cycle will remove bloodstains from so delicate an item. However, this would not be a successful wager. Indeed, there are probably no odds long enough to represent such a possibility. More likely he revisits the memory of the moment he restored the handbag to its owner. Despite the confused aftermath of the stramash and his need for first aid, Angela Cutting had keenly checked an internal zip pocket, before producing the scarf as an improvised dressing. And maybe he rues a failure to explore certain lines of enquiry that – clear to him as he walked about
afterwards – at the time were subsumed in the blur and bustle of the restaurant, such as rumours there might be concerning Rich Buckley’s financial status, marriage, or recreational habits; and about what liaisons or rivalries may have surfaced on the island – either among the professionals or the amateurs, or between members of both camps. Certainly Angela Cutting – hovering above them all, as Dickie Lampray put it – is well placed to possess knowledge and opinions on these matters. But has she contrived, by orchestrating a highly ritualised luncheon, to keep Skelgill’s questioning to its most superficial level? Has her siren call, having drawn him out of his depth, had him treading water while the minutes ticked by? Or should he just remind himself that, after all, these are witnesses not suspects he is interviewing, and anything other than gentle probing is wholly inappropriate? And yet, if his gut instinct is to be trusted – that the haunting sense of suspicion regarding events at Grisholm Hall has some substance – then they are neither witnesses nor suspects, but grey ghosts that drift in between.
‘Please come up – it’s the only door on the first floor.’
Even through the metallic intercom Lucy Hecate’s voice has a girlish quality – simple, plain enunciation, well spoken without being affected; a clipped soprano to Angela Cutting’s husky contralto. Skelgill, wrapping up his thoughts, is too slow to reply. There is the rattle of the handset being replaced on its cradle, and the microphone is cut off. An electric buzz sounds from within the jamb as the lock is released from above. The stair is entered not directly from the street, but from a triangular piazza, reached through lockable gates, that provides similar access to several such sets of apartments. On the ground floor are boutiques and a design business – the sunken courtyard affords partial tiptoe views into their rear windows, and glimpses through to the streets beyond. Skelgill has already recced this area, and has determined which first-floor windows must pertain to Lucy Hecate’s accommodation – each of these covered by plain roller blinds drawn down to sill level.
Murder on the Lake (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 4) Page 13