‘Hello, Inspector.’
‘Lucy.’
Skelgill bows his head and smiles inoffensively. He has evidently decided to employ first-name terms.
‘Please come in.’
Lucy Hecate steps aside and holds open the sprung front door. She waits for a moment after he has entered, and glances back into the empty landing.
‘My sergeant has been delayed – she’s caught up in the tube strike.’
‘Oh, I see.’
She fastens the latch and holds out an arm to indicate that Skelgill should turn left. He goes ahead of her into a small sitting room. The windows give on to the narrow street below, and face similar apartments opposite, thus requiring heavy net curtains for daytime privacy. A pair of navy blue cubist sofas makes a right angle either side of the entrance, though where there might be a television set instead a wall-mounted electric fire provides the focal point. A large arty print adorns each of the three walls, but otherwise there is little biographical detail to describe the flat’s occupant. On the coffee table lie a slim aluminium laptop and a black e-reader, illuminated at a page of text. Since these appear to reserve Lucy Hecate’s place on the right-hand settee, Skelgill lowers himself down on that to the left of the door. She, however, remains standing.
‘Tea, Inspector – although I only have Earl Grey, I’m afraid?’
Skelgill, who has been known to express colourful non-PC opinions about men who drink Earl Grey tea, nods vigorously.
‘Very kind of you, Lucy – milk and three sugars, please.’
The cramped galley kitchen is immediately across the little hallway, although Skelgill would have to peer around the door to see his hostess, so despite her proximity he opts to check his messages while she readies the tea-things against the background rumble of a kettle. The apartment has just two other rooms – their white panelled doors matching those of the lounge and kitchen – and, by a process of elimination, these must be a bathroom that overlooks the internal courtyard and a small bedroom facing the street side. It would appear, therefore, that the petite property is only suitable for single occupancy – or for a couple who get on well together and own very few possessions.
Skelgill watches as Lucy Hecate carries in two mugs of tea and a plate of mini Swiss rolls – his antennae have detected the crackle of cellophane, and here is the explanation. The china mugs are decorated with rather clumsy illustrations of freshwater fish, and Skelgill might wonder if they have been selected as a conversation piece – he gets a too-pink salmon, while she has an overenthusiastically mottled trout. However, he chooses not to remark, and instead dips his nose into the tea and watches as she settles down gracefully across from him. She is dressed rather in the manner of a ballet dancing in training gear, a faded grey-and-pink ensemble of pumps, rucked legwarmers, calf-length leggings, and a wrap-top over what might be a leotard. The effect is to emphasise her dainty frame and careful movements, and she perches on the edge of the sofa with a curve in her spine that contrasts with Skelgill’s somewhat more relaxed slouch. He swallows a mouthful of the hot tea and smacks his lips.
‘Very good – I’m parched – it’s thirsty work getting around London.’
Lucy Hecate regards him quizzically.
‘I would have thought for a fell-runner it would be easy, since it is so flat.’
Skelgill grins modestly.
‘Maybe it’s age catching up with me.’
She gazes at him, unblinking.
‘Wasn’t Bob Graham forty-two when he achieved his landmark round?’
Skelgill affects a little jerk of surprise.
‘Actually, Lucy – he was forty-three – but I’m impressed you’ve even heard of him.’
She permits herself an abridged smile.
‘There was a book on the history of fell running in the library at Grisholm Hall.’ Her long blonde hair is drawn back into a ponytail, but a few strands have escaped, and she pauses to brush these from her face. ‘It’s hard to imagine how anyone can run for twenty-four hours in that rugged terrain.’
This is something of a gift horse for Skelgill, an invitation to expound upon his own exploits, and he pulls back his shoulders as though he is about to do so. Then it appears some thought must strike him – or at least an underlying sense that any such showing-off will not in fact win bouquets from this young woman. Her tone is flat and reserved, and her cool façade suggests impregnability to endearing advances. Accordingly, Skelgill’s considered response – albeit a little out of character – endeavours to turn the spotlight back upon her.
‘Are you writing about the Lakes – is that why you were reading the book?’
Lucy Hecate is cradling the mug between her two hands, like a hiker on a cold day – indeed the flat is far from warm – and she takes a small sip before she replies.
‘I read as widely as I can, Inspector. Though the Lake District would make a good backdrop for a mystery – but I think Sarah Redmond will beat us all to it.’
Skelgill’s expression is politely inquisitive.
‘In what way?’
‘She hinted that she intends to kill off her Edinburgh detective – Frances Furlough.’
‘And start again with a new one based in Cumbria?’
‘I got that impression, Inspector.’
Skelgill shakes his head.
‘No one would believe it – like I said the other night, nothing ever happens.’
A pair of little furrows forms between Lucy Hecate’s fair eyebrows.
‘Except at Grisholm Hall.’
Now Skelgill folds his arms.
‘Aye – but two natural – or at worst accidental – deaths are not going to make a great whodunit, Lucy.’
In employing the words natural and accidental Skelgill may simply be toeing the official line. However, another interpretation could be that it is a subtle test of her reaction – for he does indeed elicit one; the creases between her brows deepen, and her expression becomes openly puzzled.
‘But why are you investigating?’
Skelgill unfolds his arms and leans forward in an avuncular manner. ‘It’s out of our hands. When the Coroner’s involved – which can be for a minor technicality – we have to go through the motions. You did the right thing, Lucy – in trying to attract assistance.’ He scratches his head absently. ‘Not that I was much help.’
‘I felt we ought to do something – we might not have sat idly by if we had been at a retreat on the shore.’
Skelgill nods sympathetically.
‘If you’d have been on the shore Mr Buckley might have phoned a doctor and had treatment in time. Ms Mandrake might not have got herself in a confused state. I might have caught my record pike.’
Skelgill falls silent, no doubt recalling his outstanding bet. Lucy Hecate watches calmly. She does not react to his ironic reference to his curtailed fishing trip, but instead – in her characteristic fashion – she points out the obvious facts.
‘We did have a doctor, Inspector. Dr Bond has been retired for only two years. He stated at the welcome meeting that since we were rather isolated anyone should feel free to consult with him.’
‘But Mr Buckley didn’t call upon his services?’
‘He may have done, Inspector – I don’t know. Though I saw them talking on several occasions.’
Again Skelgill thinks for a moment before proceeding.
‘How did everyone react when Mr Buckley was found to have died?’
She looks at him as if this is a rather superfluous question.
‘There was initial shock, as you would expect – although Dr Bond and Mr Lampray announced it to the rest of us, so it was handled in a professional manner. Apart from Bella, I was a little surprised by how quickly the others took it in their stride.’
‘You’re quite a lot younger than the rest.’ Skelgill seems to be implying that her elders were more phlegmatic in the face of bereavement.
‘I’m twenty-six.’
He regards her searchingly.
She does not look twenty-six – after all, that is the same age as DS Jones; and it is unimaginable that this waiflike creature could command the authority among hard-bitten adults that his colleague demonstrates daily. Yet, he ought not be surprised – he has this information already. Among the details collected before the members of the retreat departed were their ages: Lucy Hecate the youngest at 26, Sarah Redmond 34, Angela Cutting 37, Bella Mandrake 39, Burt Boston 42, Rich Buckley 45, Linda Gray 46, Dickie Lampray 59 and the retired Dr Gerald Bond 62.
‘Did anyone try to put you off – from going outdoors?’
Lucy Hecate is nodding even before Skelgill has finished the question, as if she has been expecting it.
‘I got the impression they all thought it was futile.’ She twists a strand of hair around a finger. ‘Burt Boston said the same things as you did – that it would be pretty impossible to get a signal through the storm – although he was wrong in assuming there would be nobody brave enough to be out on the lake.’
Skelgill winces theatrically at what he takes to be a compliment.
‘I think crackers is the word you’re looking for.’
She stares evenly at him, as though flattery were not on her mind in making the statement.
‘Only Dr Bond made any effort to stop me – he said there was a danger of a falling tree – or that I could be washed off the rocks.’
Skelgill grimaces, perhaps in part to conceal his frustration, since she declines to acknowledge his wit.
‘It was blowing a bit – but Derwentwater’s not exactly Cape Wrath. I’ll give him the tree, though – there’s always that risk.’
‘I felt safer in those woods than in the house.’
Skelgill’s eyes narrow – but perhaps he identifies with her sentiment, for he opts not to interrogate her meaning.
‘It was bad luck – just when you have no communications, a healthy person goes and has a heart attack.’
‘I searched about to see if there were some other means we could use – like an abandoned rowing boat – but Grisholm is rocky all around.’
Skelgill nods; an old beached dinghy, hull uppermost, is not an uncommon sight about the Lakes – but whether such a craft would be watertight is another matter.
‘I wondered, Inspector – if your men have searched the island – I lost a knitted scarf somewhere.’ Skelgill looks a little surprised, and she backpedals, as if she realises this is asking too much. ‘Its only value was sentimental.’
‘I’m afraid not, Lucy – at the moment we’ve no plans to commit that level of resources – this is just a routine matter.’ However he appears sorry to disappoint her. ‘But you could contact the owners of Grisholm Hall – or at least their agents – I’ll get one of my sergeants to send you the details.’
She nods thoughtfully.
‘Thank you, Inspector. Actually, I can probably find the number myself.’
Skelgill follows her gaze towards her laptop.
‘How was the technology ban received?’
‘I think most people felt it was a good idea. It was a retreat, after all.’
Skelgill is silent for a moment.
‘You’re aware we still haven’t managed to trace the organisers?’
Lucy Hecate nods.
‘I have forwarded the emails to your officers, Inspector.’
Skelgill runs the fingers of one hand through his hair, avoiding the side of his head that bears the wound.
‘Unfortunately – I’m informed by my HQ – emails to that address are being returned as undeliverable.’
‘Oh, I see.’
Skelgill looks pensive.
‘I mean no disrespect, Lucy – I can understand how it would be easy to identify the likes of Sarah Redmond, she’s famous – but how would they know to email you – and the other unpublished authors?’
Lucy Hecate appears to take no offence. Her features remain calm and composed. Then she suddenly seems to remember the untouched plate of Swiss rolls, and leans forward to slide it closer to Skelgill.
‘Inspector?’
‘Don’t mind if I do, thanks.’
‘Help yourself – I bought them for you.’
‘Very kind.’
She makes a small nod of the head – perhaps in lieu of a “You’re welcome” – and watches rather expressionlessly as he takes one of the cakes and bites it in half. Just when it seems she might be intending to skirt around the question, she returns to the point.
‘Of course, it could have been random spam – I receive plenty of emails for products and services I never use – but I think that is unlikely. Most probably they are obtaining lists of people who have shown interest in writing courses, that kind of thing.’
‘Have you – shown an interest?’
She nods.
‘I subscribe to several e-newsletters – for instance, from writers’ centres that I have registered with, and online book groups – and second-hand booksellers probably rent out their lists.’
Skelgill nods pensively, as though he has not considered this possibility.
‘Was it costly?’
Lucy Hecate seems perplexed, as if she understands what he means but wonders why he is asking her something he already knows.
‘The retreat – at Grisholm Hall?’
‘Aye. It can’t have been cheap.’
‘It was free, Inspector.’
Now it is Skelgill’s turn to look confused. Plainly, this is news to him.
‘But how does that stack up? Someone must have paid for the whole shebang.’
Lucy Hecate looks like she doesn’t entirely agree.
‘It is not unprecedented, Inspector.’
She leans over and wakes her laptop with a tap upon the touchpad. Her fingers are slender and her nails short, unbitten and unvarnished. Deftly she types in a search term, and clicks upon the first result.
‘Look – here is one in Scotland.’
Skelgill cranes to see, but the reflected light from the windows and the acute angle makes it difficult for him to discern the display. Before he can move, Lucy Hecate scoops up the laptop and steps nimbly over his outstretched feet. She drops lightly beside him. The matching sofas, in keeping with the restricted proportions of the apartment, are small, and their hips and elbows touch. She points her toes and balances the machine on her knees. Skelgill seems rather discomfited by her closeness, and sits rigidly, with his hands folded upon his lap.
‘This entire castle is given over year-round to writers. If your application is successful you stay for a whole month. All board and lodging is free of charge. It holds six people at a time. There is a full live-in staff who cook and clean.’
‘Where is it?’
‘Near... Peebles?’
Skelgill nods, though he does not turn his head to look at her. ‘It’s on the upper Tweed.’ Much of his knowledge of Scottish geography is based upon his experience of depriving its waters of their fish. ‘But if the writers don’t pay, who does?’
Lucy Hecate clicks on the ‘About Us’ tab. Details appear of a long-dead billionaire philanthropist of popular food brand fame.
‘This one is supported by a private trust. Some of them are funded by quangos. For those that charge, there are often grants and bursaries.’
‘So what about Grisholm Hall – what was the process there?’
‘You just had to respond to the email and state how you would benefit from being on the retreat and why you would be a good contributing member of the group.’
‘What did you say?’
Lucy Hecate pauses for a moment, as though she is considering whether this is a confidential matter.
‘That I was no more deserving than a thousand other aspiring writers.’
Now Skelgill glances at her – but as he does so an alarm sounds in the street outside and he rises purposefully, as if duty bound to investigate any such disturbance. He steps between the coffee table and the other sofa, and parts the net curtains for a better view. Below, there is a traffi
c warden investigating an illegally parked car, a newly registered sports convertible with its hood down and hazards flashing. An expensively dressed young woman emerges nonchalantly from a boutique and swings a large carrier bag into the passenger seat and drives away, apparently without a word. Skelgill turns to face Lucy Hecate.
‘Maybe that’s what did the trick – not blowing your own trumpet.’
She does not react and he moves back over, though now he sits in her former place on the empty sofa. He picks up a second Swiss roll and, perhaps prompted by the little slice of London life he has just witnessed, he employs the cake as a baton and makes a sweeping gesture about the apartment.
‘Must be pricey living here – how do you manage – we have you down as a student?’
She looks at him evenly.
‘That is correct – I am enrolled on a creative writing course – but it is only evening classes.’ Now for perhaps the first time she lowers her eyes, as if she is slightly embarrassed. ‘I work in retail – nothing permanent – but there are plenty of part-time jobs.’
Skelgill shrugs casually. He has no reason to decry her efforts as a shop girl. Instead he contrives an expression of minor wonderment.
‘Whenever I come to London, I always think what recession?’
Lucy Hecate nods slowly.
‘There is a recession of sorts in the literary world, Inspector. Bookshops are closing every week. Publishers are going out of business or being taken over. Agents are becoming irrelevant.’ She indicates her e-reader on the table. ‘There is the future of the book – if it is not already the present.’
Skelgill frowns at the small device, as though he disapproves of its presence.
‘I can’t imagine my Wainwrights on one of those. What happens when you're a day’s hike into the fells and your battery goes flat?’
‘But you use your mobile for navigation, Inspector.’
She phrases this as a statement rather than a question, even though she cannot be certain of the answer. Skelgill shrugs a little sheepishly, to confirm she is correct.
‘How about on the retreat – were they all of the old school?’
‘Actually, no.’ She shakes her head. ‘We had a number of discussions about e-books, and I would say just about everyone has embraced them. Mr Buckley gave a talk about how certain, more sensitive, genres are especially compatible with an electronic format.’
Murder on the Lake (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 4) Page 14