‘What did he have to say about Rich Buckley?’
DS Jones squints at her notes, and flicks over a couple of pages.
‘His exact words were, “Congenitally rude” – he was quite matter of fact about it, though, Guv.’
Skelgill lets out an ironic hiss.
‘That’s a laugh, coming from a Yorkshireman.’
‘Maybe that’s why they had a couple of barneys – it’s not all of us can bridge the north-south divide, eh, Guv?’
This contribution comes from DS Leyton, and Skelgill looks a bit nonplussed by the notion. However, DS Jones continues.
‘He did become a little agitated when I suggested he hadn’t got on well with Buckley. He wanted to know who had said that.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘I wasn’t in a position to relate confidential conversations.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘I don’t think he was impressed, Guv.’
Skelgill tuts irascibly.
‘And what about Buckley being ill – or asking his advice?’
She shakes her head.
‘He said the only person to consult with him – as he put it – was Bella Mandrake – and she was basically begging paracetamol at every possible opportunity – he described it as attention seeking.’
‘And did he give her anything?’
‘He said all he’d taken to the island was a small supply for personal use, and she’d used that up in the first two days.’
‘And nothing to Buckley?’
‘No, Guv – and he says he had no idea that Buckley was taking any medication – he’s heard of the drug, though – and he says there’s no way that could have killed him.’
‘Really?’
Skelgill sounds disappointed to hear this diagnosis.
‘Aha. He reckons these commercial preparations are tested to extreme levels of safety – even an overdose ought to be completely safe.’
‘Aye – we know that now.’
DS Jones is nodding.
‘That was the one time I got a smile out of him, Guv – when I said the police surgeon had confirmed heart failure as the cause of death.’
‘Because he was right.’
‘Aha. And he said a similar thing as Dr Herdwick – that in a significant proportion of sudden cardiac deaths a clear cause is never identified – especially in ostensibly healthy victims.’
‘What about Bella Mandrake’s overdose?’
‘He was quick to pontificate on that, too, Guv. I told him top-line what we know – to see how he reacted. He just said it’s difficult to overdose on sleeping pills, because of the reduced strength that they make them nowadays.’
Skelgill scratches his head in a gesture of frustration.
‘Did you ask him if he thought the deaths were suspicious?’
‘Yes, Guv.’
‘And?’
‘He said not in the least, Guv. He said he’d seen many far more suspicious cases – and plenty worse than these that had never been referred to the Coroner. He seemed quite indignant – almost as if he were taking it personally.’
Skelgill is again contemplative for a few moments.
‘Did he ask any questions?’
‘Just wanted to know why you weren’t there, Guv. I got the feeling he expected someone more of his own rank.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘That you were coordinating the investigation, Guv – I didn’t give any specific details.’
Skelgill nods, seemingly content with this response.
‘He did ask whether this would be all, Guv. He’s due to go hiking for the month of November to finish the research for his hillwalking guidebook – so he won’t be easily contactable.’
Skelgill sniffs rather disdainfully.
‘Wouldn’t you be bored out of your brains with all that time on your hands?’
His sergeants regard him wryly, as if they know exactly what he would be doing under such circumstances: the phrase “rod, perch and pole” perhaps springing to mind. This is one of Skelgill’s little aphorisms, which he uses interchangeably with “hook, line and sinker”, the former sounding curiously apposite, despite having no connection with angling (the three synonyms representing five-and-a-half yards, or one fortieth of a furlong). As if subconsciously making the connection to land measures, DS Jones attempts to get the conversation back on tracks.
‘He’s got a big house to look after, Guv – sits among fields and woodland just the other side of Bolton.’
Skelgill’s ears prick up.
‘Is it near the Eden?’
‘As far as I could tell, Guv, the grounds run right down to the river.’
Skelgill now looks like he wishes he’d accompanied her. He shakes his head regretfully.
‘There’s some cracking Grayling along that stretch. Two pound and above. You have to trot a worm downstream, sometimes far as the eye can see.’ Suddenly his left hand is up in front of his face, and he is gripping a rod, feeling for the fish. ‘You get a knock-knock-knock and then it’s bang! – into the fight – you always know a Grayling – feel it nodding as you bring it back.’
DS Leyton looks momentarily alarmed – for it seems that Skelgill is about to hand him the invisible rod in order to experience exactly what playing a Grayling is like. But, to his relief, his superior casts the equipment into the ether, slaps both hands on the table in a perfunctory manner and looks him in the face.
‘So, what about you, Leyton – how was Linda Gray the galloping gourmet?’
‘How d’you know that, Guv?’
‘Know what?’
‘She’s got a stables.’
Skelgill grins rather inanely – it appears he has invented the phrase purely for limerick-like purposes.
‘And why not?’
DS Leyton appears more confused.
‘There’s no horses any more, Guv – it’s been converted into her restaurant, The Stables.’
Now Skelgill lifts an imaginary phone to his ear.
‘A table for Mabel at The Stables.’
Quite what has possessed Skelgill it is impossible to know. Perhaps it is the sugar rush of five doughnuts. But bubbling beneath the surface of his typically enigmatic demeanour is a little well of euphoria that appears to be in danger of erupting in a display of unpredictable outpourings – indeed it would not be difficult to imagine him suddenly go gallivanting about the canteen and join in a waltz with a bemused member of the catering staff. Or maybe that would be going at bit far.
‘Guv?’
‘Aye?’
‘Linda Gray, Guv.’
‘Fire away, Leyton.’
Skelgill clasps his hands together and leans forward, regarding his sergeant with an expression of deep-set concentration.
‘Righto, Guv.’ DS Leyton composes himself. ‘Seems a nice lady, Guv. When I explained about the Coroner and the probable causes of the deaths, and how we’re obliged to investigate, she burst out in tears.’
‘What?’
‘That’s right, Guv. The full waterworks. She said she’s been worried stiff that it was something to do with her.’
Skelgill’s abnormal burst of energy appears to be subsiding.
‘Because of her cooking?’
‘That’s right, Guv – she said she’d done her best – but the kitchen was a bit antiquated and the food was all supplied in advance – mostly tinned and vacuum packed – she said it ought to have been alright – but she likes to source her own ingredients so she knows they’re fresh and completely safe.’
‘Her food tasted fine to me, Leyton – and as far as I could see everyone else was tucking in.’
DS Leyton nods.
‘That’s right, Guv – she said they all complimented her – but I suppose you never can know with food – the bugs are invisible.’ He wipes a hand across his brow and shakes his head. ‘After that last time we were at the Taj, Guv – I mean – I was never out of the khazi all the next day.’
DS Jones giggles at her colleague’s bald admission, but Skelgill is back in serious mode and she curtails her mirth. He points a finger skywards to emphasise his response.
‘Anyway – if she’d poisoned Bella Mandrake on Sunday night she’d have poisoned the lot of us – we all ate the same soup and hotpot.’
If a little seed has been sown by Sarah Redmond’s scatterbrain ramblings – in this instance that a deranged chef would be well placed to administer poisons – Skelgill appears underwhelmed by the idea. Indeed, given that servers brought out the food from the kitchen where Linda Gray toiled, there would be no guarantee that a doctored plate would reach its intended target.
‘I pointed that out, Guv – but she’s been doubly worried because she was the one that found Rich Buckley – she said Sarah Redmond told her that in half of all murder cases, the killer leads the police to the body of the victim.’
Skelgill grins ruefully and shakes his head. It seems Sarah Redmond’s mischief making extended beyond the baiting of Bella Mandrake. Nevertheless, he would perhaps identify with her methods – there is something about provocation that lifts the veil of feigned naivety, and it is a technique he is not averse to employing when the opportunity arises.
‘So what about Buckley – what's the story, there?’
‘Pretty much as she told you, Guv.’ DS Leyton refers to his notes. ‘Went up to speak to him about dinner at just after four p.m. – that was their regular afternoon tea break – and found him spark out on the bed. She said she didn’t touch anything in the room – rushed down and got hold of the doctor.’
‘And we think time of death was mostly likely two o’clock.’ Skelgill glances at DS Jones, who nods in confirmation. ‘Though it could have been as late as four.’
He leaves this suggestion hanging in the air – and apparently has no corollary to offer. After a moment or two DS Leyton continues with his account.
‘I did ask her what she thought of him, Guv.’
‘Surprise me, Leyton.’
‘Actually, Guv, she was quite civil. She said he was a very bright man and that he’d obviously got a lot on his mind. She said the first night before dinner he’d asked her what she was writing, and then on the second night he asked her exactly the same question.’
Skelgill raises his eyebrows.
‘Sounds par for the course.’
‘I think she’s the accommodating type, Guv – I suppose you need to be in her line of work.’
‘I thought that was hoteliers?’
‘Very good, Guv.’
Skelgill grins abruptly.
‘And what about musical bedrooms?’
‘She was a bit shocked when I suggested that, Guv. She said she went to bed early every night – since she’d volunteered to be up to prepare breakfast. Plus the day was tiring, what with writing and doing the cooking.’
‘Remind me, is she married?’
‘Divorced, Guv.’
‘Where’s the restaurant?’
‘Egremont, Guv – bit of a trek, actually. I didn’t think there was civilisation past Whitehaven.’
‘Some would say it stops long before there, Leyton.’ Skelgill purses his lips thoughtfully. ‘Still – might give it a give it a look in, next time I’m out that way.’
‘The food’s alright, Guv.’
Skelgill folds his arms and cocks his head on one side. DS Leyton has made a minor slip of the tongue.
‘She insisted I had lunch, Guv – she’s good as gold – I would have felt bad refusing.’
Skelgill nods grudgingly. While it is not ideal protocol to accept a meal under these circumstances – whether paid for or otherwise – it is unimaginable that he would have left such a gift horse in the stables, so to speak.
‘Let’s hope she’s not poisoned you, Leyton.’ He grins wryly. ‘And talking of lunch.’
He casts an eye over towards the servery. It is still half an hour before high teas will be available, but such rules are made to be broken. He appears to be assessing which members of staff are on duty, and therefore whom to target with his charm, when he becomes aware of a person standing politely beside him, awaiting his attention. It is a young WPC from the Chief’s office. Skelgill casually turns towards her, in the manner of a self-confident celebrity to an autograph-hunting admirer. Accordingly, almost curtseying, she reaches out and presents him with a folded sheet of paper.
‘Message for you, sir.’
Skelgill opens the page. It is a handwritten note, the script penned in an angry, expressive style. However, its contents comprise a succinct one-sentence summons. Skelgill nods to the WPC, and turns to his sergeants.
‘Chief wants to see me – I reckon we’ve got enough to keep her happy, eh?’
They nod eagerly. Skelgill resumes his perusal of the food counter, but then he realises that the WPC is still standing to attention. He looks at her inquiringly.
‘I was to accompany you upstairs, sir.’
Skelgill, for a second, appears as if he will object – but, lunch or not – perhaps he has a pang of sympathy for the agitated constable, who looks like she ought still to be at school. Moreover, given his propensity to interpret orders from on high with whatever degree of latitude he can get away with at the time, it is perhaps no surprise to him that a chaperone has been despatched to ensure his attendance. He shrugs resignedly and rises to his feet.
‘Leyton, do us a favour – get us a burger or something – whatever they’ll rustle up.’ He glances at DS Jones. ‘She only wants to see me for five minutes – we’ll carry on the meeting in my office – I’ll give you the lowdown on Bonnie Scotland.’
He straightens his jacket and falls in with the WPC, who walks gingerly beside him, plainly afraid to make eye contact. As they reach the exit door he can be heard saying in a jocular tone, “What is it about redheads? It has to be now.”
*
When an audience with his boss has gone badly, and he has been pulled up either for lack of progress or – as is more usually the case – his maverick approach to some aspect of an investigation, Skelgill is wont to return to his office with a face like thunder; a sign that warns his unfortunate subordinates to tread upon eggshells until his temper has subsided. On this occasion, however, there is something radically different about his entire demeanour. While such a berating usually comes as at least a partial surprise to Skelgill (although rarely to anyone else concerned in the matter) – which must add fuel to the flames of his indignation, having expected praise and received a rebuke – whatever has just passed has exceeded the norms in terms of its capacity to shock him back into line. Indeed, while under similar circumstances his waiting sergeants would do exactly that – wait, until he has something to say – such is his pallid and stunned countenance that they both look shocked themselves, and DS Jones is unable to contain her concern.
‘Guv – what’s wrong – are you okay?’
Skelgill, upon entering his office, has rounded his desk. There is a burger and chips in a polystyrene takeaway package, and – whereas his normal response would be to fall hungrily upon this meal before all else – now he ignores it and stands awkwardly behind his chair.
‘I’m on leave.’
DS Leyton looks confused.
‘What do you mean, Guv?’
‘I’m off the case.’
‘Guv – why?’
Skelgill swallows as if he has a mouthful of grit.
‘Dr Gerald Bond has made a complaint.’
At this revelation, DS Jones’s face falls; her lower lip starts to curl and her eyes glisten as though they begin to flood with tears.
‘Guv – but – that must be my fault – I know I was a bit hard on him.’
Skelgill glares at her, penetratingly.
‘You were hard on him.’ He raises an index finger and jabs it at her. ‘And you know what? You did a good job.’ (There is an expletive deleted here, an Anglo-Saxon adjective.) ‘And you know what else – that’s exactly what I said to
the Chief.’ He lowers the finger and rests both hands on the back of his seat. ‘Furthermore – she agreed with me.’ He shakes his head. ‘He did mention the interview – but that’s not the substance of his complaint.’
‘Well, what is it, Guv?’ DS Leyton sounds incensed. ‘We can’t have punters deciding who runs an investigation. Especially when they’re a suspect.’
Skelgill bares his teeth, in a somewhat manic grimace.
‘That’s the operative word, Leyton – suspect. Technically, I’m one, too. I was there when Bella Mandrake died. I socialised with the group while off duty. I formed “relationships” that might influence my judgement.’ He makes inverted commas in the air with his fingers around the word relationships.
‘But he must want you off the case, Guv – he must have a reason for that – something to hide?’
Skelgill shrugs.
‘That’ll be for Smart to discover.’
Now there is a descent into an enhanced state of despondency. DS Jones, ashen-faced, lowers her eyes under Skelgill’s searching glance. DS Leyton leans across from where he is sitting and head-butts a metal filing cabinet, causing trophies on top to fall over. Skelgill ignores this and steps across to the window; he stares out, thoughtfully watching the dusky sky, as orange-tinted clouds drift above the burnt umber of the landscape. Perhaps he is already assessing the conditions for fishing.
What he has not told his team is the full story. It is correct that Dr Gerald Bond has telephoned the Chief to register a complaint. And he did mention the interview with a tenacious sergeant whom he referred to as having Stasi-like qualities; both Skelgill and his boss warmed to this description. He also exaggerated Skelgill’s role during his evening on the island – to paraphrase, he claimed the inspector was drunk and had to be helped to bed. Skelgill couldn’t deny there was a semblance of accuracy in this – although he had said in his (somewhat weak-sounding) defence that he felt ill rather than inebriated.
Ironically, it appears that this would not have been sufficient to see Skelgill despatched for gardening leave. Indeed, the Chief had already made allowances for Skelgill’s involvement on the Sunday night, and had overruled potential objections on the grounds of his valuable insider’s perspective. The killer blow, so to speak, evidently relates to events that took place yesterday in London’s Covent Garden. Skelgill had defended his actions in knocking out the street thief as a split-second decision that concerned his own self-defence and the protection of the female being robbed. On the whole, the Chief had accepted this point of view. What she could not accept, however, nor could Skelgill so easily deny, was the photograph of Skelgill taken inside the restaurant, showing him being spoon-fed at close (indeed intimate) quarters by Angela Cutting – who, just like Dr Gerald Bond, is a potential suspect in the case. No matter how much Skelgill had protested, it is a fact that the camera never lies – it just doesn’t tell the whole truth. As for how the Chief had become aware of this photograph, Skelgill was not to learn – although she showed it to him on her tablet, and he was able to discern its source as a notorious gossip website that masquerades as a purveyor of news that is in the public interest. (If there is any consolation in this for Skelgill, it is that the image was not the most compromising of yesterday’s brief moments that might have been captured upon film.)
Murder on the Lake (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 4) Page 21