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

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘It’s a long story, Leyton.’

  Skelgill’s clipped intonation suggests the long story is not imminent. In short, it is that DS Findlay had returned to collect Skelgill as agreed, still accompanied by the cat, and with tears streaming down his cheeks and a handkerchief to his nose. “I didnae ken I’d be allergic tae the wee deil,” had been his choked words. His plan had been to return the cat to the apartment block, on the assumption that it would resume where it had left off, freeloading a good living, as only cats can. Skelgill, however – likely influenced by the creature’s leaping upon his lap as though he were its long lost owner, and his own rather carefree spirits at that moment – had petitioned otherwise, on the sworn promise that he would return it to its rightful owner, if any such claim were to be made. That Skelgill keeps at home a volatile Bullboxer incentivised by doggie treats to vanquish cats from his garden (they raid his breeding pond) is a variable in an equation yet to be resolved.

  ‘Is Jones back in?’

  ‘I said we’d meet her in the canteen, Guv – she’s getting tea organised.’ DS Leyton holds up his bag like a trophy. ‘I’ve got the special ring doughnuts you like, Guv.’

  Skelgill casts a contemptuous eye in his sergeant’s direction.

  ‘It’ll take more than that, Leyton – I’ve not had any lunch.’

  DS Leyton, still a couple of paces behind his superior, casts his eyes to the heavens and shakes his fists in frustration.

  ‘Right, Guv.’

  The cafeteria is close by, and Skelgill shoulders open the door like a gunslinger announcing his presence in the town’s main saloon. This is perhaps rather fitting, for most of the twenty-odd faces that turn in his direction do so with a collective expression of reverent awe – until first one, then another and then most of them break out into a burst of clapping and raucous cheers. Skelgill is stopped in his tracks. Nonplussed, he turns round – as if they can’t mean him – but only DS Leyton is behind. His trusty sidekick, quickly recovered from the routine snub, steps alongside and mutters under his breath.

  ‘It’s the street robbery you foiled yesterday, Guv – some of the other newspapers have picked it up.’

  Skelgill glances about self-consciously, evidently doing his best to meet the mixed requirements of his audience by appearing at once humble and triumphant; conditions that are not easy bedfellows. The effort seems to disorientate him, and he is clearly relieved when he spots DS Jones signalling from a relatively isolated table across in the far corner of the dining area, partly screened by some portable display boards. As the commotion subsides, he acknowledges the congratulations of those colleagues whom he passes closely, but otherwise, with DS Leyton riding shotgun, he reaches DS Jones without major interruption and takes a seat with his back to the rest of the room.

  ‘Beam me up, Scotty.’

  DS Jones grins; perhaps she humours him, for – despite his protests – he shows no inclination to decamp to the privacy of his office.

  ‘Tea, Guv – that’s yours with the sugars in the blue mug.’

  He reaches out and drinks thirstily.

  ‘Right Leyton, break out those doughnuts for starters.’

  DS Leyton glances at DS Jones.

  ‘He means starters – he’s had no lunch.’

  DS Jones looks as though she is about to make some kind of mischievous observation, but she freezes, as the first word is about to form on her lips, and stares beyond her boss’s head.

  ‘Hear you’ve got a cruiserweight contest coming up, Skel.’

  Skelgill does not look around. The voice, with its querulous Mancunian drawl, belongs unmistakeably to DI Alec Smart.

  ‘Very funny, Smart.’

  ‘Thought you were getting a bit old for fisticuffs, Skel.’

  Now Skelgill does turn in his seat, his cheeks reddening. DI Smart loiters a little beyond reach. He wears a trendy suit with drainpipe trousers and winklepicker shoes that must be a good three inches longer than his feet, and a designer haircut slicked back with gel. He is grinning, though his leer is directed at DS Jones, as if he is pleased to imply that he is by a few years the younger of the two Detective Inspectors. Skelgill stares woodenly and does not reply (this can be a danger sign); DI Smart looks slightly wary and keeps his distance.

  ‘Just thought I should warn you, Skel – in case you didn’t know – you wouldn’t want to rub her boyfriend up the wrong way.’

  ‘I shan’t be rubbing anyone up the wrong way.’

  ‘Not counting the Chief.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  DI Smart pretends to look hurt by Skelgill’s impatient tone.

  ‘Don’t shoot the messenger, Skel – I just thought you’d want to see The Gazette – evening edition’s just out.’

  He reaches across the little invisible belt of no-man’s land and proffers Skelgill a folded newspaper. Reluctantly Skelgill takes it, and grudgingly nods his thanks. But DI Smart is not looking at him; instead he ogles DS Jones, winks at DS Leyton, spins on his heel, and saunters away.

  Skelgill turns back and places the newspaper disinterestedly on the table.

  ‘Prat.’

  His sergeants nod in concert, and DS Leyton shoots a disapproving scowl after their unwelcome visitor. But DS Jones is more interested in the local journal – she spreads and smoothes it flat – and promptly giggles as she absorbs the headline above the evidently syndicated and now familiar photograph of Skelgill punching out the lights of the mugger. She spins the paper round for her colleagues to see. Even the normally reserved Westmorland Gazette has gone to town on the story – a copy editor’s dream – with the predictably alliterative and partisan headline “Cumbria Cop KOs Cockney Knifeman”.

  Skelgill regards the article with a mixture of affected disdain and poorly disguised interest, and chews one side of his mouth as he reads the short paragraph that – given the dramatic picture – has no need to misrepresent the circumstances. He shakes his head and folds up the paper, although it is noticeable that he puts it to rest close by, as though he has now taken ownership of it.

  ‘Bit harsh, that, Guv.’

  ‘In what way, Leyton?’

  ‘About him being a Cockney, Guv – how do they know? Just ‘cause it happened down in London – don’t mean to say it were one of the local villains.’

  Skelgill shrugs.

  ‘I can’t help you with that one, Leyton – he seemed to lose the power of speech before I was able to inquire after his place of birth.’

  DS Leyton shrugs phlegmatically. He resumes his task rudely interrupted by DI Smart, and tears open the bag of doughnuts.

  ‘Dive in, everyone.’

  Skelgill grunts his approval and does as invited; he chews thoughtfully for a minute or two, perhaps considering a point that may not have occurred to his colleagues – that, since the first article appeared in the London press, describing him as a ‘mystery detective’, he has been identified. He might reasonably wonder by what process this has occurred, and what ramifications it will have.

  While he and DS Leyton continue to tuck into the doughnuts, DS Jones watches on calmly – neither of her colleagues expecting her to partake in such an unhealthy afternoon snack. After a minute or two she opens a file that lies on the table before her.

  ‘Shall I update you on a couple of things, Guv – there’s some interesting new forensics?’

  Skelgill swallows and takes a gulp of tea.

  ‘Interesting – or significant?’

  DS Jones narrows her eyes.

  ‘Significant – to the extent they can be trusted.’

  Skelgill nods sharply for her to continue.

  ‘Dr Herdwick has received the results of the more detailed blood and fluid tests that he sent away to the lab. I don’t know if this is a coincidence, Guv–’ (Skelgill twitches involuntarily) ‘but the same point applies to both Rich Buckley and Bella Mandrake. The residual levels of the chemicals that may have caused each of their deaths – atropine in Buckley�
��s case and benzodiazepine in Mandrake’s – were approximately ten times greater than could have been achieved by swallowing the medicines found in their possession.’

  She looks up from the page. Skelgill is staring at her intensely – it is hard to tell where his thoughts might lie: whether this news has struck a chord, or if he is simply just distracted by some appraisal of his attractive colleague.

  DS Leyton is more transparently perplexed.

  ‘Maybe we missed some empty packets?’

  DS Jones shakes her head.

  ‘That’s exactly the point, though – apparently it’s not a matter of quantity – it’s to do with concentrations. Dr Herdwick said – well – his words were along the lines that you can’t get drunk on shandy, Guv.’

  Skelgill laughs ironically, knowing the cantankerous pathologist would not have used the expression drunk.

  ‘So what’s he telling us?’

  DS Jones speaks with careful and deliberate enunciation.

  ‘That if the substances that proved toxic came from medicines, the pills weren’t what they said on the packets.’

  DS Leyton offers a suggestion.

  ‘Maybe they were counterfeit?’

  But DS Jones is shaking her head.

  ‘We’ve had a report back on the packaging – it’s genuine – in both cases sold under strict licence in the UK.’

  DS Leyton is still frowning.

  ‘So, what did you mean about not trusting the results?’

  DS Jones glances at the printed notes and turns a page. She taps a paragraph with a neatly sharpened nail and nods, as if she is reminded of what she needs to know.

  ‘It’s a statistical point. Remember at school, the null hypothesis?’ She glances at each of her colleagues in turn; they look like they don’t. ‘This result is only accurate at the ninety-five per cent confidence level.’

  DS Leyton grimaces.

  ‘That sounds pretty confident, to me.’

  DS Jones makes an ambivalent face.

  ‘It means that if you did the test a hundred times, you’d get a false result five times because of sampling error.’

  ‘One in twenty.’ Skelgill makes this conversion.

  ‘That’s right, Guv – it’s still a reasonably high probability – but as a standalone fact you might struggle to impress a jury.’

  Skelgill sticks out his jaw and rubs his stubble with a knuckle.

  ‘Look – I was rubbish at maths – at most things, come to that – and this week I’m getting sick of the word coincidence – but there must be some statistic in our favour – since both of them had inexplicably high concentrations of the drugs in their blood.’

  DS Jones nods eagerly.

  ‘And Dr Herdwick agrees with that, Guv.’

  DS Leyton has taken out his mobile phone and begun to tap away at the keypad. He suddenly makes an involuntary start and emits a little cor blimey whistle.

  ‘What is it, Leyton?’

  ‘I was just doing the odds, Guv. See – one in twenty, that’s nineteen-to-one against, in racing parlance. You put a pound on a double on two nags both at nineteens and you’d get four hundred nicker back, including your pound stake.’

  DS Jones is grinning widely; her colleague may have struggled with the concept of statistical confidence levels – but by viewing the equation through the eyes of a bookie he has delivered a striking outcome. Skelgill is nodding slowly.

  ‘One in four hundred sounds a lot more significant than one in twenty – chance of it being a mistake, that is.’

  Now DS Jones turns another page of the report.

  ‘There’s more on times of death, as well, Guv. For Rich Buckley we think around two p.m. on Sunday, with a margin of a couple of hours either side. A bit more accurate for Bella Mandrake – quite close to two a.m. on Monday.

  Skelgill folds his arms.

  ‘Just remind me – neither of their bedroom doors were locked?’

  The two sergeants shake their heads in unison: it was DS Jones who first entered Bella Mandrake’s room; and DS Leyton is hotfoot from his interview with Linda Gray, who discovered Rich Buckley.

  ‘What are you thinking, Guv?’

  Skelgill raises his shoulders and rotates his head, as though his neck is stiff.

  ‘If their doors were generally left open, then someone could have tampered with their medicines. Seems unlikely to have happened while they were in their rooms – though not impossible. Buckley, I wouldn’t expect to lock his door – but if you’d have asked me to bet whose door was locked on Sunday night, I’d have said Bella Mandrake’s.’

  DS Jones holds out an upturned palm, offering a suggestion.

  ‘Though she was prone to nocturnal wandering, Guv – remember what Burt Boston told us. She could have gone downstairs again on Sunday night, and then forgotten to lock her door when she came back?’

  Skelgill dunks and eats the final bite of the last odd doughnut and then drains his tea. He licks his fingers and leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. For a moment he stares down at the soggy crumbs in the base of the mug. Perhaps in the absence of tea leaves they provide a satisfyingly distracting pattern, mirroring the irregular images that populate his mind, stirred up by Sarah Redmond’s quick-fire improvised hypothesising – to which he can now add this afternoon’s revelations. After a minute or two he sits back and stares at DS Leyton.

  ‘Get us a top up, will you, Leyton?’

  DS Leyton seems perplexed, as if he has been expecting something more profound than a request for more tea, and the command does not immediately register. Then he starts, and rises, and reaches for their three mugs as ordered.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks.’ DS Jones politely declines.

  ‘Something to eat, as well, Guv?’

  Now it is Skelgill who stares rather vacantly, as though this question baffles him. Evidently, competing thoughts bar the way to the basic processing function of his brain. After a short delay the question gets through, but – to DS Leyton’s evident wonder – Skelgill waves him away.

  ‘Not just now, Leyton.’

  Frowning, Skelgill watches DS Leyton lumber across to the serving counter. Then he turns back to face DS Jones. He ducks his head, and speaks in a hushed voice.

  ‘Bella Mandrake had a novel rejected by Rich Buckley Publishing. I found the letter in her flat. They gave her a scathing review.’

  DS Jones’s eyes widen.

  ‘Are you thinking she killed him and then committed suicide?’

  Skelgill grins, clearly surprised, and breaks out into an uncharacteristic chuckle.

  ‘What is it, Guv?’

  He shakes his head – but clearly her rapid deduction has prompted some comparison in his mind.

  ‘You’re not left-handed, are you?’

  ‘No Guv – er, well...’

  ‘Well, what?’

  ‘I’m ambidextrous, actually – but you know how, when you’re at school, they try to get you to do everything right-handed – to avoid smudging the ink – cutting-out with scissors – and hockey, you can only play right-handed.’

  Skelgill makes an ironic face.

  ‘Aye, well – hockey wasn’t one of my strong suits.’

  ‘That’s darts ain’t it, Guv? I thought you were fairly handy down the pub?’

  This is DS Leyton chipping in, as he leans over to place replenished mugs on the table.

  Skelgill glances at DS Jones. ‘He means the oche – it’s where you chuck from.’

  DS Jones nods obediently; though it is likely she knows this fact, being a useful darts player herself.

  ‘So, how did it go with Gerald Bond?’ Skelgill pulls his mug towards him and, peering critically into the liquid, asks this question in an offhand manner.

  DS Jones reaches to extract her notebook from the case at her feet. She is wearing a low-cut top and Skelgill and DS Leyton casually look away – but their simultaneous action finds them staring with surprise at one another, unprepared to speak. There is a mom
ent of comic silence, until DS Leyton suddenly breaks into an exaggerated bout of coughing.

  DS Jones glances up inquiringly, but seeing Skelgill nod that she should go ahead, she lays down her notebook and speaks first from memory.

  ‘On a scale of one to ten, Guv – I’d say five in terms of being uncooperative.’

  Skelgill nods once.

  ‘Interesting.’

  DS Leyton, too, nods in agreement, although his quizzical expression suggests he has less of an idea why this might be thus.

  ‘I think he’s blaming us for ruining his career as an author, Guv.’

  ‘He didn’t have a career as an author.’

  ‘No, Guv – but he seems to believe he was on the verge of a breakthrough, and we spoiled it by calling off the retreat.’

  Skelgill scoffs.

  ‘What did he expect – two deaths and it’s still Carry On Camping?’

  ‘I get the impression he would have happily carried on, Guv.’

  Skelgill gnaws at a recalcitrant finger nail.

  ‘Aye – he probably would. While I was there – not long after he’d pronounced Buckley dead – he was trying to talk everyone into staying.’

  ‘He claims he’d canvassed opinion – even after Bella Mandrake had died – and there was a majority in favour of seeing out the full week.’

  Skelgill shakes his head.

  ‘It’s all very well – in his job he probably dealt with a death every few days. Ordinary members of the public just don’t experience this kind of thing – even we don’t.’

  DS Jones nods.

  ‘I don’t think he’s really accepted that he’s retired, Guv – his study is still kitted out like a consulting room – with an examination table and all the equipment – he’s even got a skeleton.’

  Skelgill appears pensive, his features contracting into a scowl.

  ‘Did he confirm what Lucy Hecate said – about having a special contribution to make?’

  DS Jones nods.

  ‘He did, Guv – more or less word for word as you told me. And he was able to reel off the reasons the others had given – though he didn’t sound impressed – I think he considered himself a cut above the rest.’