Murder on the Lake (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 4)

by Bruce Beckham

  Skelgill scowls, as if there is too much jargon for his comfort in this sentence.

  ‘What did you make of him?’

  Lucy Hecate looks a little startled, as though it would be above her station to offer an opinion on a leading industry figure.

  ‘I understand he was a very successful publisher.’

  ‘How about on a personal level?’

  There is a discernable tightening of her features, rather like a sea anemone that retracts its tentacles in response to the clumsy poke of a child’s finger. Skelgill polishes off the remainder of the Swiss roll, and then reaches over to retrieve his mug. He drinks some tea, though the silent hiatus caused by this little procedure does not encourage Lucy Hecate to bloom. Skelgill widens the scope of the question.

  ‘What I mean is, how did he... interact with the other members of the group?’

  This seems to be a more acceptable form of words.

  ‘I think perhaps the females found him a little intimidating.’

  ‘Verging on predatory?’

  ‘I could not really comment, Inspector. Some people welcome advances that others would find uncomfortable – but I tended to keep to myself in order to optimise my writing time.’ Again she coils invisible locks around a crooked index finger. ‘Dr Bond argued with him on a couple of occasions – but I imagine you noticed that he was rather opinionated.’

  Skelgill raises his eyebrows, as if to indicate his impatience with the good doctor.

  ‘I suppose he’s had a lifetime of being listened to.’

  Lucy Hecate does not reply. Skelgill continues with the theme.

  ‘How did you get on with the others?’

  ‘Very well.’

  For a budding writer, Lucy Hecate is singularly economical with words – but perhaps there is a skill in that. Skelgill is again obliged to supply a prompt.

  ‘Ms Mandrake seemed to ruffle a few feathers.’

  Lucy Hecate considers this statement for a moment.

  ‘She was rather self-obsessed. It perhaps does not help a group dynamic when one person seeks all the attention.’

  Skelgill nods. Clearly, he witnessed for himself this aspect of Bella Mandrake’s character.

  ‘Lucy, you mentioned each person had to outline their contribution – what was hers?’

  ‘She said she was an actress, and that she had a unique insight into written dialogue.’

  Skelgill affects a ducking motion, as if to suggest this notion goes over his head.

  ‘I suppose that’s quite unusual.’

  Again Lucy Hecate offers no comment.

  ‘And the others?’

  ‘Dr Bond... is a doctor. Linda Gray, a chef.’

  ‘Very practical – it’s not exactly writing, though.’

  ‘The same could be said of Burt Boston, Inspector.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘He said his survival skills would ensure we were kept warm and fed.’

  Skelgill scowls disapprovingly.

  ‘The larder seemed well enough stocked – I reckon the red squirrels were safe for a week or two.’

  Lucy Hecate stares at Skelgill, as if the idea troubles her.

  ‘And what about you, Lucy – what’s your special talent?’

  ‘I can speed read.’

  Skelgill grins and raises his mug in a ‘cheers’ gesture.

  ‘You and me both.’ However, this claim is only valid if the definition of speed reading includes it being done by a subordinate, after a cursory scan from Skelgill. ‘So, how would that be useful?’

  ‘I offered to proof read other people’s work – to review their manuscripts. Bella Mandrake brought a three-hundred-thousand-word romantic novel.’

  Skelgill raises his eyebrows.

  ‘And who said romance is dead?’

  Lucy Hecate looks rather startled – and Skelgill must suddenly realise that in glibly unfurling this cliché he has sailed into choppy waters. He heaves to and changes tack.

  ‘Are you planning to go on more retreats?’

  ‘I should like to. Though it is easier to gain acceptance once you become published.’

  Skelgill looks at her sympathetically.

  ‘I believe that’s not easy.’

  ‘Publishers are very blinkered towards untried authors. Unless, perhaps, you are a former Page 3 model.’

  Skelgill shifts uncomfortably in his seat, as if by previous association with any such spectacle he shares some of the blame for the frivolous state of the books business.

  ‘From what I’m hearing, it sounds like you have potential as a writer.’

  Lucy Hecate flashes him a wary glance, and then rather glowers at the screen on her lap. Her countenance is stern, and perhaps she has difficulty in receiving the compliment. She makes a little ungracious shrug of her shoulders. Skelgill, however, continues to encourage.

  ‘So don’t give up your night job, eh, lass?’

  She inhales as though she is about to answer, but there is a sudden sharp buzz of the apartment’s intercom. He checks his watch.

  ‘That’ll be my sergeant – but I think we’ve just about finished, Lucy. I’ll catch her on my way out.’

  11. NEWS OF BURT BOSTON – Tuesday 5 p.m.

  ‘Don’t tell me – he’s not in the SAS and never has been.’

  ‘You were right from the start, Guv.’

  ‘Apparently he didn’t fool Angela Cutting, either.’

  ‘Really? He thinks he carried it off the whole time they were on the island.’

  Skelgill shrugs.

  ‘Well, at least one of them was humouring him.’

  DS Jones nods ruefully.

  ‘So, would you like to hear the real story?’

  ‘Fire away, sergeant.’

  She grins.

  ‘Burt Boston is his real name – other than Burt being short for Engelbert.’

  Skelgill flashes her a sceptical glance.

  ‘His mother was an opera singer from Cologne – apparently the original Engelbert Humperdinck was a German composer.’

  Skelgill shrugs reluctantly.

  ‘And he’s gay, Guv.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘He was quite open about the deception – he told me immediately. He’s a masseur. He works from home.’

  ‘Is that an official job?’

  ‘He made a point of telling me he pays all his tax.’

  Skelgill shakes his head doubtfully.

  ‘Sounds dodgy to me.’

  DS Jones considers Skelgill’s assertion.

  ‘Thing is, Guv – there’s a probably a market there – for females – who wouldn’t generally feel comfortable with a male masseur.’

  Skelgill makes a scoffing sound.

  ‘I hope he didn’t make you feel too comfortable – else I’ll be wondering why you were late.’

  ‘Guv...’

  DS Jones makes a disapproving face. However, her determination not to be sidetracked suggests she is convinced by what she has discovered.

  ‘I think he was being pretty straight, Guv – I reckon I’d know. The apartment is set up professionally – there’s a plaque downstairs and certificates in the hall – and a treatment room immediately as you enter – a proper massage table and all the fittings.’ She grins and adds a postscript. ‘And he’s got a Chihuahua called Butch.’

  ‘I’m relieved to hear it.’

  ‘He admitted the macho act was to impress the judges, so to speak – he sounds desperate to become an author.’

  Skelgill nibbles with uncharacteristic decorum on a piece of shortbread. Having collected his colleague outside Lucy Hecate’s apartment, they have walked up through the university district to Euston, where – foot-weary and rather subdued by the stifling air of a chain coffee shop – they await the arrival of DS Leyton, and subsequently their train north. They sit beside one another on a spacious though rather lumpy leather sofa, with a low table for their drinks and Skelgill’s snack.

  ‘So, what’s the SAS thing all about
?’

  ‘It’s from one of his clients, who’s serving in the army. Apparently he’s full of these fantastic adventures – but the Official Secrets Act gags him – so Burt Boston wants to fictionalise them. He figures he’ll stand a better chance of getting published if he poses as the soldier.’

  ‘I think he’d find his cover would soon be blown.’

  DS Jones nods thoughtfully.

  ‘Though he looks the part, Guv – he might pull it off.’

  Skelgill seems a little irked by this observation.

  ‘So long as he doesn’t take his Chihuahua to the interview.’

  DS Jones smirks agreeably. Skelgill dips the remainder of his biscuit experimentally into the foam on top of his coffee, then quickly withdraws and swallows it.

  ‘So what did he have to say about his comrades at Grisholm Hall?’

  DS Jones has her notebook on the table, and flips it open at the page retained by a rubber band. Skelgill squints briefly at the neat lines of shorthand, and then settles back cradling his mug.

  ‘I started off with our inquiry into Wordsworth Writers’ Retreats. His experience seems to be identical to the others – an email inviting him to apply, followed by a confirmation. He assumed it was some kind of promotional trick – that he’d be told he hadn’t quite satisfied the criteria but he could still participate if he wished to pay – so he was pretty shocked when he received the offer to go free of charge.’

  ‘And no other contact details?’

  DS Jones shakes her head.

  ‘He says he thought it was too good to be true – but once he’d been selected he just kept his head down and turned up at the meeting point as instructed.’

  Skelgill nods. Lucy Hecate’s elucidation of the funding of retreats, and perhaps, too, the details of the fees offered to the experts, has taken some of the mystery out of the otherwise rather unquestioning compliance of those who attended the gathering.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘He says they all settled in quickly – it was a bonus to discover they had a chef in their midst – the place was comfortable enough – the writers got down to work and the specialists contributed when asked. There was a certain amount of late-night drinking – less so among the writers – but generally speaking it was quite orderly and everyone got along.’

  ‘What did he have to say about Rich Buckley?’

  ‘That he liked to be the centre of attention – and to think of himself as a ladies’ man – which was a bit awkward at times.’

  ‘In what way?’

  DS Jones contrives an old-fashioned look. She refers to her notebook

  ‘To quote, Guv, “Bet you’d give her one, eh, Burt?” – which I guess put him in a quandary.’

  ‘In relation to which female?’

  ‘He says it was indiscriminate, Guv – whoever was within ogling range at the time.’

  Skelgill seems to be staring aimlessly into space, though perhaps he is picturing the comings and goings about the grand rooms of Grisholm Hall.

  ‘And did anything come of this bravado?’

  ‘Not that he knows of.’ She taps her notebook. ‘There is one thing, though, Guv. On the night before Rich Buckley died, Burt Boston says he went to fetch a drink of water – he thinks it was about two a.m. – and he found Bella Mandrake on the main landing. She claimed she was doing the same thing, and asked him to go down to the kitchen with her because she was afraid of the dark.’

  ‘Any indication of where she’d come from – or where she was really going?’

  DS Jones shakes her head.

  ‘He says he only noticed her when he got within a couple of paces. She was standing still in the middle of the landing.’

  ‘So much for being afraid of the dark.’

  ‘I know, Guv.’

  ‘And do you believe Burt Boston?’

  ‘In what respect, Guv?’

  ‘Remember – the bedrooms are all en suite. If you needed a drink of water, why trail downstairs?’

  DS Jones nods reflectively. Skelgill’s practical experience on the island has provided him with little insights that otherwise might easily be overlooked.

  ‘Good point, Guv.’

  Skelgill shrugs nonchalantly.

  ‘What else?’

  ‘He says he was relieved when you appeared, Guv.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘They were all expecting him to solve the problem of summoning help – he says he was on the verge of owning up – but once you took over he was able to keep up the pretence.’

  Skelgill tuts.

  ‘Like I say, he didn’t fool me.’

  DS Jones nods respectfully.

  ‘He was generally complimentary about the other members of the retreat. He did ask me if Dickie Lampray had said anything about him.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘He was a bit cagey, actually, Guv. But then he claimed that Dickie Lampray had remarked that his work had some potential and there might be a possibility of taking him on as a client. It does kind of correspond to what Dickie Lampray told us.’

  Skelgill leans his head back on the sofa and gazes at the woodworm-effect tiles of the suspended ceiling.

  ‘Maybe there was an ulterior motive, Jones.’

  DS Jones flashes Skelgill a sideways glance, and then briefly makes a face of mock shock- horror. Skelgill rocks forward and puts down his empty mug. He gazes speculatively at the queue at the counter, as if he is contemplating what to have next. He combs back his hair with the fingers of both hands, and DS Jones suddenly notices the blackened smear of dried blood on his temple.

  ‘Guv – what happened? That’s quite a bad cut you’ve got.’

  Skelgill glances at her uneasily, and then looks away, as if he is deciding whether or not to relate what took place.

  ‘Bit of a fracas – couple of hoodlums tried to mug Angela Cutting.’

  DS Jones looks concerned.

  ‘When was this, Guv?’

  ‘It turned out she had a television interview – so she offered to buy us lunch, to save time – some posh restaurant not far from Lucy Hecate’s flat.’

  ‘What was it called?’

  Skelgill frowns.

  ‘I can’t remember – I mean I didn’t really notice – it was opposite a theatre showing The Mousetrap.’

  Now DS Jones’s eyes bulge.

  ‘That’s The Vine, Guv! It’s where all the celebrities go.’

  ‘I didn’t see any.’

  ‘There’s a permanent six-month waiting list for tables.’

  Skelgill shrugs indifferently.

  ‘Well, she just breezed in – they seemed to know her.’

  DS Jones squints as though she is trying to recall something.

  ‘So, what happened, Guv?’

  ‘Not a lot. They snatched her bag as we walked out. Between me and the local plod we put a stop to it.’

  DS Jones shakes her head, and her expression softens to one of mild wonderment.

  ‘I’m surprised you weren’t papped, Guv.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Photographed – the paparazzi are always hanging around there – and Stringfellows. It’s just around the corner.’

  ‘Why would anyone want to photograph me?’

  ‘I think I can answer that one, Guv.’

  The two detectives swivel round in surprise – for this voice, complete with its Cockney brogue, belongs to DS Leyton. Rather red in the face, and looking a little dishevelled from his journeying, he has appeared behind them, wheezing lightly, lopsidedly weighed down by his overnight bag, and eagerly brandishing a copy of the afternoon edition of the Evening Standard. He rounds their sofa and settles down with some relief in an armchair opposite.

  ‘You certainly made an impact, Guv.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Leyton?’

  DS Leyton opens the newspaper and, turning it around, spreads it out over the coffee table for his colleagues to see. He points to a quarter-page photograph and the
headline, ‘The Bodyguard’.

  Skelgill and DS Jones lean forward, Skelgill scowling his disapproval and DS Jones once more wide-eyed. The picture shows Skelgill in the split-second that his fist made contact with the knifeman’s jaw. In the background is a shocked-looking Angela Cutting, and the tall figure of a somewhat cowering commissionaire. The sub-heading states: ‘Undercover policeman comes to the rescue of well-known literary critic.’

  DS Jones pores over the article, and reads aloud.

  ‘“At lunchtime today literary critic and London socialite Angela Cutting was the victim of an attempted mugging by knife-wielding assailants outside The Vine restaurant in Covent Garden. Fortunately a mystery detective was on the scene to intervene. Ms Cutting is currently estranged from her boyfriend, former European cruiserweight boxing champion turned Hollywood tough-guy, Vinnie Nails, who is on police bail following a charge for the possession of a Class-A drug.”’ She glances up at her colleagues. ‘I remember reading about this – I just hadn’t made the connection to Angela Cutting.’ She returns to the article. ‘“Restaurant staff would not elaborate upon whether Ms Cutting and the detective had dined together – but if she seeks an able replacement for Mr Nails, it appears she need look no further. The Metropolitan Police reported that two Caucasian males have been detained in custody, but declined to comment upon the circumstances of the arrest.’”

  The two sergeants gape at Skelgill, who is clearly experiencing a conflict of emotions: the opposing ends of this spectrum being swagger and shame. He sets his jaw determinedly and returns their stares.

  ‘What?’

  DS Jones bites her lip and glances at DS Leyton. For a moment he looks disconcerted, as though – in the role of messenger – he is about to pay the time-honoured price. But he shrugs his bulky frame inside his jacket, returns Skelgill’s stare and then breaks into a broad grin.

  ‘What a beauty, Guv!’

  Skelgill is still glowering.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  DS Leyton jabs a stubby index finger at the photograph.

  ‘’You’ve half caved his face in, Guv.’

  Skelgill sits back and folds his arms.