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

by Bruce Beckham

  Skelgill scowls.

  ‘She knocked the idea on the head as soon as I mentioned it.’

  ‘But Buckley wouldn’t have known that, Guv – or even if he suspected, from what we know of him, it’s unlikely to have put him off trying.’

  Skelgill still seems averse to any travel in this direction of thought.

  ‘Lampray was wrong – Buckley did need the money.’

  DS Jones nods, undeterred.

  ‘That just made it all the more attractive for him, Guv. Sarah Redmond sells stacks of books.’

  Skelgill frowns, but now – albeit reluctantly – he joins with her line of argument.

  ‘So what are you saying – Sarah Redmond was bait to get Buckley to Grisholm Hall?’

  DS Jones hesitates.

  ‘Well... yes, I suppose so, Guv.’

  ‘Aye, well... maybe she was.’

  DS Jones’s eyes widen at this response – but before she can invite Skelgill to elaborate, the young woman in black arrives to steal his attention – or, rather, the plates of piping-hot food she bears do so. The agenda becomes suspended while he takes up arms against his black pudding; DS Jones somewhat more demurely dips into her mushroom soup. And, when Skelgill speaks again, it is evident that a more pressing matter has surfaced.

  ‘It was Smart that told the Chief about me and Angela Cutting, wasn’t it?’

  ‘What do you mean, Guv?’

  DS Jones looks puzzled, but Skelgill has successfully employed his ambush technique, and the conscious adjustment she skilfully makes to her reaction is just not quite quick enough to conceal the honest reflex that precedes it.

  ‘Jones – there’s no need to be diplomatic on my account. You know me – if I’m caught with my trousers down – I’ll put my hand up to it.’

  DS Jones contemplates her consommé.

  ‘I think it was, Guv.’

  ‘Jones, you know it was. Did he show you the photo?’

  She gives a little nod.

  ‘Aha.’

  ‘It’s not what it seems.’

  ‘I know that, Guv.’ She meets his gaze; however, she does not sound entirely convinced.

  ‘She was just getting me to taste her lobster.’ (At this they exchange knowing frowns – lobster being such an extravagant dish that it clearly undermines his defence.) ‘She’d insisted on trying my pie, and so I felt obliged. What I didn’t realise was that she’s a minor celebrity. I noticed there were folk staring at us during the meal – but I never twigged that we were being photographed.’

  DS Jones glances surreptitiously about the pub. She leans a little closer to Skelgill.

  ‘Guv – the old guy in the corner – the one you bought the drink for – don’t be surprised if he’s already tweeted our picture.’

  ‘The Collie’s heard every word we’ve said, that’s for sure.’ Skelgill laughs, and seems more relaxed, now that this little issue has been outed. ‘I guessed straight away it would be Smart. The Chief’s above that sort of thing. Tiger versus Grizzly’s more her cup of tea.’

  DS Jones grins.

  ‘He’s always looking at that website, Guv – he says it’s important in our job to keep up with current affairs.’

  ‘Aye, the emphasis on affairs, eh?’

  DS Jones lowers her eyes; her long lashes lying like soft filigree fans upon her cheeks.

  ‘I suppose so, Guv.’

  Skelgill seems to be gathering himself to say something, but just then their starter plates are cleared and simultaneously replaced by their mains – an efficiency that might disconcert the average diner wishing to pause between courses, but which heartily meets Skelgill’s approval – to the extent that he appears this time not to notice the waitress at all.

  There is a small hiatus as they familiarise themselves with their meals. Skelgill has the house pie, and takes a moment or two to determine the most propitious angle of attack; DS Jones is more delicate, having opted for a lighter portion of scallops. The challenging upward trajectory of their conversation seems to have peaked. Instead their chatter slaloms through the rather haphazard landscape of the investigation. As Skelgill pointed out during his off-piste exchange with Sarah Redmond, brainstorming is a dangerous game, and can lead to all manner of seemingly plausible yet precipitous conclusions. With this evidently in mind, he takes care to stay within the markers of known facts. DS Jones, however, seems more prepared to explore the fringes of their knowledge.

  ‘I was thinking, Guv – about the idea of Bella Mandrake being the killer?’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘We know that she was left alone with Rich Buckley on the night before he died – and also that she was wandering about on the landing in the early hours.’

  Skelgill shrugs.

  ‘Do we know? We’ve only got other people’s word for that. Neither Buckley nor Mandrake is here to deny it. And Buckley died the next day – the next afternoon. It’s not like she slept with him that night and spiked his nightcap. He woke up and took in his breakfast tray. And if she paid him a sneaky afternoon visit and he copped a heart attack, she did a good job of dressing him up.’

  DS Jones’s eyebrows show a flicker of surprise at Skelgill’s rather blunt assessment, though she nods reluctantly.

  ‘It’s just – the rejection letter – it’s the one tangible motive we do have.’

  Skelgill shrugs.

  ‘Aye, maybe – but I think she was thicker skinned than she made out. There’s a whole drawer full of rejection letters in her flat. Why let one more bother her? Why pick on Buckley?’

  ‘You said it was particularly scathing, Guv?’

  ‘Aye – but nothing worse than I get most weeks from the Chief – and look at me.’

  DS Jones grins. In typical Skelgill style, this remark does not really make sense – but he has a way of concluding arguments with statements that can confound his opponent purely through their cryptic nature. Not that he is trying to baffle DS Jones – he simply appears unwilling to paint Bella Mandrake as the guilty party.

  ‘But if it wasn’t Bella Mandrake who killed Rich Buckley, Guv – then we’re looking for two motives.’ She screws up her face in a moment of frustration. ‘Yet the MO is virtually identical.’

  Skelgill grins in a sympathetic manner.

  ‘You can see the appeal of Smart’s theory.’

  ‘I know, Guv.’ DS Jones shakes her head ruefully. ‘I was talking with DS Leyton – he’s convinced that money’s at the root of it somewhere – but that would surely cast suspicion in the direction of Dickie Lampray and Angela Cutting.’

  Skelgill regards her shrewdly. He decides to add a little meat to the essential bare bones of his Edinburgh report.

  ‘Sarah Redmond reckons that Dickie Lampray has some kind of scam going. Nothing illegal – but basically the author ends up paying for their book to be published. If Rich Buckley was strapped for cash – Lampray’s deals would be the sort of thing he’d favour.’

  DS Jones appears perplexed.

  ‘But that would be Dickie Lampray killing the golden goose, wouldn’t it, Guv? You said that yourself when we were discussing it on the train.’

  Skelgill affects an indifferent shrug.

  ‘Unless Buckley was squeezing him – for a bigger cut.’

  For a moment, DS Jones ponders this idea. She begins to nod in agreement.

  ‘Dickie Lampray played down the suggestion that Buckley needed the money – and he does seem to be struggling financially himself. And I thought he looked mightily relieved when you said we shouldn’t need to bother him again, Guv.’

  Skelgill grins.

  ‘That might have had more to do with his dog-sitter, though, Jones.’

  They exchange knowing glances, although this remark appears to take them into a little cul-de-sac, and neither of them adds anything more. After a moment or two, DS Jones raises a tentative finger.

  ‘Actually, Guv – there is something about Angela Cutting – along possible financial lines.’

&
nbsp; ‘Aye?’

  ‘It’s a bit of a long shot.’

  ‘Shoot, anyway.’

  ‘Well, I’ve been searching all of their names online – just to see what comes up. For her, you get hundreds of hits – not surprisingly, really.’ (She flashes him something of an old-fashioned look.) ‘But in her professional capacity – I came across some of her book reviews. Most of them are quite positive and constructive – but one recent one was really blistering – in fact it was so harsh that the review itself had been reported on.’

  ‘Not one of Bella Mandrake’s books?’

  Skelgill’s quip is intended to be flippant.

  ‘No, Guv – but the novel was published by Rich Buckley.’

  Now Skelgill raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Let me guess – it must have been one of Dickie Lampray’s authors.’

  DS Jones shakes her head.

  ‘I checked that, Guv – it’s actually quite a well-known writer – with a different literary agent altogether.’

  ‘So what’s the story Jackanory?’

  DS Jones folds her hands together, and assumes a patient air.

  ‘You know how – inside book covers – they have all this glowing praise – and you never believe it – it’s like it’s been commissioned?’

  Skelgill looks only vaguely engaged with this notion.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Whereas the independent reviews – in the Sunday newspaper supplements – they seem a lot more credible.’ Her features are eager. ‘Guv – a positive review from Angela Cutting must be worth a lot of money – to a publisher.’

  Skelgill pulls a doubting face, although his next comment reveals that he is in fact following her line of argument.

  ‘And Buckley stopped paying?’

  ‘If he was in financial difficulty, Guv.’

  Skelgill inhales slowly. He folds his arms and looks up to the timbered ceiling. Perhaps he is assessing to what extent Angela Cutting would be in need of money: her apparent lifestyle would suggest not – although to sustain it might require otherwise.

  ‘What you say could be right.’

  DS Jones looks pleased – but she knows this idea is still short of being a compelling motive. Indeed – even if she is right, it may be a fact with no bearing on the case whatsoever.

  ‘DI Smart wasn’t interested, Guv.’

  Skelgill scoffs.

  ‘Aye, well – why let the facts spoil a good yarn?’

  ‘He said he’d have Dr Bond squealing by midnight, Guv.’

  Skelgill looks at his watch and shakes his head.

  ‘I'll drag a twenty-five pound pike out of Derwentwater between my teeth before Bond admits to murder.’ His gaze wanders and settles now upon a display case that holds a crumbling plaster cast of a monster Eamont salmon. ‘In fact I’ll break the Estonian record, to boot.’

  DS Jones is pensive. Skelgill’s uncompromising view of DI Smart’s chances begs the question about what makes him so sure. It is quite possible that personal enmity is clouding good judgement. To dismiss Dr Bond as the most likely culprit undoubtedly flies in the face of the facts. But Skelgill’s allusion to his angling challenge now provides the opportunity to tack away from the choppy waters of the investigation.

  ‘I take it you drew a blank today, Guv?’

  Skelgill looks back at her in surprise.

  ‘What? No – I caught a bucketful – just couldn’t get through the jacks, though.’

  DS Jones folds her arms on the table and leans forward. Her silky dress is close fitting, and the action accentuates her cleavage. She appears to have his attention.

  ‘You’ll have to translate that one for me, Guv.’

  Skelgill blinks exaggeratedly.

  ‘Jack pike – officially it’s the male fish – they don’t grow much above ten pound.’ (He has the fisherman’s habit of using the word pound as singular, irrespective of weight.)

  DS Jones grins.

  ‘So it’s a female you’re after?’

  Skelgill grins ruefully.

  ‘They’re more of a challenge.’

  ‘But the greedy little males keep stealing their dinner?’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

  Now DS Jones smiles with affected condescension.

  ‘Lucky I had scallops and not lobster, then, Guv.’

  ‘Very witty, Jones.’

  18. DERWENTWATER – Friday 8 a.m.

  There are few places in England more beautiful than Borrowdale, and Skelgill must reflect that, when you live in the Lakes and fishing is your thing, all clouds have their silver linings. Not that there are any clouds to speak of this morning. The scene is pure chocolate box, a cobalt blue sky and a silver lake, and the glow of golden oaks as autumnal sunshine creeps like a warming blanket down the fellsides beyond Derwentwater’s western bank and begins to draw a delicate mist from its mirrored surface. This deferred dawning obliges Skelgill reach for his wide-brimmed Tilley hat, as the sun crowns High Seat, king of the ridge that divides Borrowdale from Thirlmere. A few more minutes sees its rays flood Ashness Fell, raising the flat landscape into a relief of highlighted bluffs and shadowy crags.

  It is the last day of October; Skelgill’s final chance to win his bet, and to this end he has again gravitated to the southern reaches of the majestic lake, in the vicinity of Grisholm, well away from any disturbance that may emanate from jetties in the neighbourhood of Keswick. Already two hours into an expedition that began in the dark, and apparently none the worse for little sleep, he is alert and purposeful as he goes about the business of catching a pike. It being the cusp of the year, there is no one mode that is favoured, and thus Skelgill is pulling out all the stops. He has two rods rigged with dead-baits (steadfastly a winter technique), cast from the stern, the rods splayed like outriggers; a whippy fly rod (definitely a summer method), ready and waiting should he head for one of the shallower bays; and his trusty spinning rod – to hand – loaded with his most productive plug, known as ‘Harris’, after the manufacturer of the paintbrush, the handle of which forms the main body of the improvised lure. Plugging is the most reliable way to catch a pike, but also the most demanding. If pike fishing were horse racing, spinning would be a graceful flat stakes, fly fishing a relatively easy hurdle, and plugging an energy-sapping steeplechase. While the cast is no different to spinning – the aim being to achieve a good distance, in order to cover water that looks likely it might hold a patrolling pike – much greater skill lies in the retrieve. A plug vaguely resembles a small fish that bristles with treble-hooks. Once submerged it is intended to ape a distressed or stricken creature: one that is signalling its presence as easy prey. To achieve this effect requires a jerky retrieve, with erratic but coordinated movements of both rod and reel, and thus constant effort and concentration. For the novice angler – or even novice plugger – this soon becomes tiring, and half an hour’s labour can lead to repetitive strain injury of the hands, wrists and arms. At this point, technique goes to pieces, and all hopes of catching a fish fade. But Skelgill exhibits no such fatigue, his metronomic cast and retrieve unflagging, as his grey-green eyes – reflecting the colour of the lake – scan the surface for essential signs of aquatic life.

  But, in due course, he does halt. He has been watching an area of water with greater interest than any other, and now he spends some time and effort manoeuvring his boat into this very particular spot – one that, it must be said, is apparent only to his keen senses. Carefully, so as to minimise disturbance, he drops anchor, and counts the depth as he hands out the line. Derwentwater is a relatively shallow lake, but here he lies in about fifty feet of water. The boat settled to his satisfaction, he reels in the dead-baits, and is just about to re-cast the first of them when his mobile rings.

  With a predictable expletive he winds over the bail arm of the reel and carefully lays the tip of the rod across the gunwale. Uncharacteristically (although purely to keep warm) he is wearing a scuffed and faded life-vest that normally serves as a
seat cushion, and he has to burrow into its obstructive bulk to get at the handset in his breast pocket. Additional expletives from his repertoire are now required – but these are curtailed when he sees who is calling him. He taps the screen and lifts the phone to his ear.

  ‘Hans.’

  ‘Ah, Daniel – not too early, I hope?’

  Skelgill shakes his head but does not answer directly.

  ‘Hans, I can see your cottage from here.’

  ‘And you are wearing your strange hat and an orange tank top.’

  Skelgill squints across the water; the professor’s cottage is a good half-mile away.

  ‘You must have binoculars.’

  ‘I was waiting until you stopped rowing – and before you made a cast – I appreciate there is never a good time to interrupt a man hunting a pike.’

  ‘I’m always prepared to make an exception for you, Hans.’

  ‘In that case, Daniel – I propose to meet you at my landing stage in one hour – I have something that might be of assistance to you in both of your quests – and, more pertinently, Annika is intending to furnish you with a flask of hot tea and some wholemeal toast.’

  Skelgill chuckles.

  ‘It’s a no-brainer, Hans – I’ll come now if it’s all the same?’

  *

  Skelgill’s boat, though unanchored, is becalmed at a spot close to where he took refuge during Sunday afternoon’s tempest. Now, although a light south-westerly breeze has picked up, it does not trouble this mill pond-like reach in the lee of Grisholm. It seems the perfect location – and yet Skelgill does not fish. He sits unmoving on the centre thwart. Facing him on the bow thwart is arranged a series of items supplied by the kindly Sinisalus. There is the foil-wrapped toast, and an aluminium flask; there is what resembles a small rigid model of a pike (about six inches long, it is coloured in the correct mottled greens, subtly lighter below and darker above, and where it lacks tail and pectoral fins there are gleaming treble hooks); and there is a sheet of lined paper, covered by neatly handwritten notes made in black ink.