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

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘So, Inspector – is it a murder investigation yet?’

  Skelgill is clearly unprepared for this question; too fast to conceal, a flicker of alarm creases his features.

  ‘No, no – it’s just routine – it’s a requirement for the Coroner – it’s –’

  However, Sarah Redmond interrupts.

  ‘But shouldn’t you be asking me about Rich Buckley and Bella Mandrake – what was their state of health and mind – since there is no suspicion of foul play?’

  Now Skelgill looks a little sheepish.

  ‘These are on my list of questions.’ He points to his temples with the index finger of each hand – as if to indicate, in the absence of a notebook, the location of his substitute paperwork. ‘I just like to rotate the order – it gets monotonous asking the same thing over and again.’ Now he holds up both palms in a confessional gesture. ‘And what with you being a – detective writer.’

  Sarah Redmond leans back against the settee; her body language easing the pressure of her subtle interrogation. She smiles again, now demurely.

  ‘Oh, you have me bang to rights, Inspector.’ She shakes her head, and takes hold of a lock of hair, and begins weaving it between her fingers. ‘But a girl can’t help wondering – such a delicious set-up – and, hey presto, two deaths occur.’

  ‘It was just a coincidence.’

  Skelgill’s hasty negation carries little ring of conviction, and she continues unchecked.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be neat, Inspector – if Bella somehow bumped off Rich and then took her own life once the gravity of her offence had sunk in?’

  Skelgill seems ready to object – but then perhaps his instincts overrun the defences erected by his training – and he abandons his post and signs up to her cause.

  ‘Why would it be neat?’

  ‘Neat for the real murderer, Inspector.’

  As Skelgill stares at her, she springs up to her feet.

  ‘A glass of wine, Inspector – or are you driving?’

  He takes a second to answer, as if his mind is still wrestling with the writhing hypothesis she has just thrown at him.

  ‘I’m driving, later – but you go ahead.’

  ‘Just one moment, please.’

  Sarah Redmond glides lightly across the blood oranges and vibrant purples of the geometrically patterned carpet, watched by Skelgill from his half-turned position on the settee. She is slightly above average height for a woman, long-legged; she throws her feet gracefully, the curves of her calves, thighs and buttocks accentuated by the clinging hipsters. Her mane of hair is elegantly shaped, and its longest tresses reach down to the small of her back, brushing the curve of exposed pale flesh at the base of her spine. As she leaves the room Skelgill rises and removes his jacket. He folds it into quarters – and then sniffs it suspiciously a couple of times – before crossing to the windows and placing it upon the seat of a Shaker rocking chair. He tries to check his appearance in the pane, brushing his fingers through his hair, but there cannot be sufficient reflection – in any event he hears the clink of glassware as Sarah Redmond re-enters the drawing room, and he moves his hand into a salute, as though he is shading his eyes while observing the street below.

  Sarah Redmond glances at him and smiles; she carries two goblets casually in one hand, inverted with their stems between her fingers, and in the other a bottle of chilled white wine that is already attracting condensation. Its foil and cork have been removed and it does not appear entirely full, as though a glassful has already been consumed. Skelgill follows her and they resume their former positions on the settee. She pours a generous measure for herself and about half the amount for Skelgill.

  ‘I don’t normally drink before lunch, Inspector – unless I’m seeking inspiration, that is.’

  She smiles again, more coyly this time and raises the goblet. Skelgill stares at his glass – he has a curious expression on his face, perhaps he is reflecting that this could become a pleasant habit – and after a moment’s hesitation he reaches for it and reciprocates her gesture. He appears careful, however, to sip rather than to gulp.

  ‘You are left-handed, Inspector.’

  Skelgill appears a little surprised by her remark; he glances rather stupidly at the glass in his left hand, and then at how she holds hers in the same fashion. She nods as if to confirm his assumption.

  ‘I noticed at dinner – how you switched over your cutlery.’

  ‘Aye, well – I’ve never got the hang of it – feels like driving on the right.’ He lifts his glass and takes another small sip. ‘Bit of a handicap, really.’

  She shakes her head, quite vehemently.

  ‘Oh, no Inspector – we are the lucky ten per cent. Although in the creative professions the statistic is less skewed. Witness at Grisholm Hall: as well as you and me, there were Linda and Lucy – and Rich. What are the odds of that – five out of ten?’

  ‘Life’s full of coincidences.’

  ‘And clichés, Inspector.’

  Skelgill hesitates.

  ‘So what does it mean?’

  ‘I understand we can call upon a part of our brain that is off limits to mere mortals, Inspector – a skill to be celebrated.’

  Skelgill grins sardonically.

  ‘I’ll try that one with my boss.’

  Sarah Redmond, with studied care, kicks off her plimsolls to reveal manicured toenails coloured to match her hair, and – exhibiting an enviable flexibility of the joints – tucks one bare foot beneath the opposite thigh, enabling her to sit side-on in a kind of half-lotus position, facing Skelgill directly.

  ‘Where were we, Inspector?’

  Skelgill appears to edge slightly away from her, although this movement enables him to swing a casual arm over the back of the settee, and to rest the opposite elbow on the furniture’s arm behind him. Now he, too, is largely facing her.

  ‘You were solving my crime – not, I stress, that there is any evidence of a crime having been committed.’

  Sarah Redmond takes a slow drink of wine, scrutinising him over the rim of her glass.

  ‘Nonetheless, Inspector, it is fascinating to speculate – there must have been previous occasions when things were not all that they seemed.’

  Skelgill produces a non-committal shrug of the shoulders.

  ‘I’d say that’s par for the course – criminals don’t generally leave us a note of their MO.’

  ‘Unlike in the whodunit, Inspector.’

  Now Skelgill frowns.

  ‘I’m no expert on crime fiction – but I thought these stories were all about red herrings.’

  His remark is more of a statement, but Sarah Redmond shakes her head. Locks of hair fall across her eyes, and she blinks rather alluringly through the Titian veil.

  ‘I should say, Inspector, that the ideal whodunit allows for each of the possible suspects to have a motive – even if it is not explicitly outlined by the narrator – call them red herrings, but I believe they are more sophisticated than that.’

  If Skelgill is harbouring doubts about this line of discussion he does not show it. Yet it must strike him that the woman is intent upon some course of her own. And there is the police protocol of not discussing an investigation with a member of the public – one who, after all, is a possible suspect (if there are such persons in this case). But, perhaps swayed by the comfortable privacy of their surroundings, and the first reckless flush of the alcohol, he is willing to be led by her subtle manoeuvres. His fluctuating attitude is perhaps reflected in his use, for the first time, of her name.

  ‘So what would your motive be, Sarah?’

  Sarah Redmond appears delighted by his question. She smiles contentedly and takes another languorous drink of her wine, and then swirls the contents of her glass and considers the glistening maelstrom, as if for inspiration.

  ‘To kill Rich Buckley – I think... revenge.’ She throws Skelgill an experimental glance. ‘To kill Bella Mandrake – to silence her.’

  Skelgill looks disti
nctly shocked.

  ‘And why is that?’ This is all the reply he seems able to muster.

  ‘I don’t need to approach the problem from your perspective, Inspector. You have incomplete knowledge. There is much about me you don’t know. Rich Buckley took me as a lover – then spurned me just as I was emerging as a novice author – he destroyed my confidence and set back my career – it took me years to recover. Bella Mandrake ran a local drama group – she took me under her wing – she helped me rebuild my self-assurance – and my reputation as a writer – we had a torrid lesbian affair – I ended it against her wishes – and so she threatened to expose both relationships – unless I complied with her demands.’

  Skelgill sits in silence, slightly open-mouthed, a little wide-eyed, and breathing audibly.

  Sarah Redmond is deadpan; then suddenly she bursts into a peal of laughter and reaches forward to press a hand on Skelgill’s thigh.

  ‘I’m joking, Inspector!’

  ‘Aye – well – aye, I presumed you were.’ Skelgill is blushing and looking stiffly down at her hand. ‘Clever story though – I can see why you’re good at your job.’

  Sarah Redmond smiles with satisfaction. Slowly she withdraws and helps herself to more wine. Skelgill takes a rather large gulp from his own glass, and does not object when she offers him a top up.

  ‘So you see, Inspector – it would be convenient for me – the murderess – if you were to believe that Bella disposed of Rich and then killed herself.’

  Skelgill produces what is clearly a somewhat forced and uncomfortable grin. But he opts to hear more.

  ‘So, the others – what would be their motives?’

  She drinks and then eases herself into the corner of the sofa, leaning back and stretching out her legs, so that her bare toes make the lightest of contact with Skelgill’s thigh. As he glances down, she closes her eyes meditatively.

  ‘Dickie Lampray, Angela Cutting – well they both go back some years with Rich Buckley – I have seen them in their coven, late at night, conspiring – perhaps they acted together – some old rivalry?’

  ‘Wouldn’t money be a more likely motive, given their business connections?’

  She opens first one eye and then the other, and concedes with a toss of her head.

  ‘Perhaps Rich double-crossed them – and they decided an alternative fate would be most suitable.’

  ‘Alternative to what?’

  ‘Dickie’s connections run very deep – compared to him Rich was just a new kid on the block – I imagine Dickie could call in a few favours if he wanted to damage Rich.’

  ‘And what about Angela?’

  ‘As the saying goes, the pen is mightier than the sword. We all tread carefully in the presence of a renowned critic.’

  Skelgill ponders for a moment, perhaps reflecting upon his own experiences to date.

  ‘And Bella – why would they kill her?’

  ‘I think – I think – that Bella was the architect of her own destruction.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘You saw how she was, Inspector. She sought the limelight, in her own peculiar way. When you arrived she redoubled her efforts – she made the killer – or killers if it were Dickie and Angela – think that she knew something of what they had done. So she had to be eliminated.’

  Skelgill frowns; he does not appear convinced.

  ‘But she was going on about ghosts and whatnot.’

  ‘Forces of evil, as I recall, Inspector – sufficiently ambiguous to suggest she meant in human rather than supernatural form.’

  Skelgill nods in acceptance, though he might recall that Sarah Redmond had played her part in rather mercilessly winding up an already disturbed Bella Mandrake.

  ‘Okay – if it weren’t them – what about the writers?’

  She furrows her brow and turns out her bottom lip in a petulant manner.

  ‘I should have to drink and think a little more – to explore what might be their motives.’ She does indeed drink. ‘To kill Rich Buckley would appear to be a spontaneous act, since these are unknown and as-yet unpublished authors. Would he have provoked some anger that prompted such a drastic response? Knowing what little I did of him – certainly he was capable of causing offence, without remorse – but could something so damaging have occurred in those few days?’

  ‘There’s been talk that he was something of a ladies’ man.’

  Now – perhaps for illustrative purposes – she makes a blatantly flirtatious gesture, turning a naked shoulder to Skelgill and fluttering her lashes suggestively.

  ‘Oh, I believe we ladies could handle Rich, Inspector – although perhaps he would have considered the aspiring authors to be easier pickings.’

  Skelgill inhales as though he is about to comment upon this observation, but Sarah Redmond holds up a palm, like a medium suddenly hearing a voice from the other side.

  ‘I think – I think – perhaps instead we should consider insanity. That’s it.’

  She raises her glass and takes another mouthful of wine; she holds it for a moment, before, in a rather melodramatic fashion, tipping back her head and swallowing. Skelgill watches her, intrigued.

  ‘Insanity.’

  His response consists of a simple restatement of the noun, but Sarah Redmond seems to understand it is a question.

  ‘Were not the deaths caused by – in effect – poisoning?’

  Now Skelgill looks like he might wish to back-track.

  ‘My scientific colleagues believe that Rich Buckley died from heart failure, caused by an adverse reaction to some medication he was using – he’d probably obtained it privately and therefore had no proper guidance on how much to take.’

  Sarah Redmond glares with mock censure.

  ‘Inspector – so formal – you are spoiling our little game.’

  ‘It’s just a medical fact.’ He shrugs apologetically. ‘If it’s any consolation it doesn’t completely rule out some interference. Same with Bella Mandrake – took too many sleeping pills, on top of the alcohol – but it’s impossible to say she acted alone.’

  Sarah Redmond seems content with these caveats. There is the glimmer of excitement in her eyes.

  ‘There you are, then, Inspector – a psychopathic doctor – that is your murderer.’

  Skelgill stares at her with some alarm.

  ‘Or a deranged cook.’ She holds up a long slim finger with its chiselled nail, and then runs it around the rim of her glass. ‘A fly in the soup? A killer in the kitchen. Or, of course, any one of us could have tampered with the drinks. I recall that Burt and little Lucy were most eager to wait upon us.’

  ‘That makes seven suspects.’ Skelgill shakes his head in a cartoon manner. ‘Now you see why I don’t go in for brainstorming.’

  ‘So how shall you solve the crime, Inspector? Do you follow the methods of Poirot, or Holmes, or perhaps our local Inspector Rebus?’

  ‘I prefer not to think about it.’

  ‘But you must grasp the nettle sooner or later.’

  ‘No, I mean it literally – that’s what I do – I don’t think about it – and at some point...’

  ‘Eureka?’

  ‘Aye, if I’m lucky.’

  Sarah Redmond has gradually been inching forwards, a cold blue fire of icy anticipation burning in her eyes. Then suddenly she snaps them shut, and freezes, as if possessed by a moment of powerful introspection – as though she is committing something to memory, forming a connection that will serve her in future.

  ‘Perfect.’

  She opens her eyes. They seem to have an unnatural light that comes from within, a sapphire beam that she fixes upon Skelgill. Maintaining eye contact, she puts down her glass and claws at her hair with both hands, pulling it tight across her scalp and away from her face. Her ears are small and neat and from their delicate lobes dangle pendants of gleaming lapis lazuli. She tilts back her head to expose her slender neck and the milky skin of her throat; Skelgill stares entranced, vampiric.

&
nbsp; ‘Inspector – you look half-starved. Perhaps there is something you want before you go?’

  15. POLICE HQ – Wednesday 4 p.m.

  ‘Alright, Guvnor – how’d you get on up north?’

  Skelgill gives a non-committal shrug.

  ‘Aye, well – they let me back into England without a passport.’

  DS Leyton makes a disapproving grunt.

  ‘That’d be all we need, Guv – criminals would have a field day if there was an international border thirty miles up the road.’

  Skelgill and DS Leyton have crossed paths just inside the rear entrance of Penrith HQ. Skelgill, arriving shortly ahead of his sergeant, has paused to read a staff noticeboard, there being a small ad for a vintage split-cane spinning rod that has caught his eye. DS Leyton, hurriedly returning after some errand or other, bears a small though bulging brown paper bag. The team has a scheduled catch-up meeting for which they are both already overdue.

  ‘Er, Guv...’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘I just walked past your motor.’ DS Leyton scratches his head in an obvious acting-dumb fashion. ‘Not meaning to be nosey, or nothing, Guv – but I could have sworn there was a cat in there, asleep on the passenger seat.’

  Skelgill swings around and stares at his colleague. DS Leyton looks suddenly anxious – perhaps his superior’s trip has not gone well and now he will be on the end of an undeserved admonishment. But Skelgill’s severe demeanour can be misleading – sometimes it is slow to catch up with his fickle sentiments. He sighs in a bored manner – rather like a schoolboy returning home to his overbearing mother, and the tiresome and inevitable question about what kind of day he has had. Why, after all those skirmishes, stresses and strains, would anyone want to relive them?

  ‘Aye – well, you saw right.’

  DS Leyton appears relieved.

  ‘I thought it was, Guv.’

  Skelgill sets off along the corridor. He glances over his shoulder at DS Leyton, who still seems hopeful of a more detailed explanation.