Again Skelgill hesitates, but can find no reason to withhold the answer.
‘St Salvator’s Academy.’
‘Ah – Sallies! Par excellence. All girls, of course. A rarity nowadays.’ He makes more mystical shapes in the air. But he might also be directing Skelgill’s gaze with a crooked finger. ‘You can see the school – over there. In line with the castle rock? Come this side of the verdigris domes – that’s Donaldson’s – the Deaf School, as locals like to call it. Sallies is the sandstone tower.’
Skelgill squints into the rising sun. A mile or more away, on a bearing that must be precisely due east, he spies the square tower protruding from a zone of bare treetops and grey tiled roofs. It is not a suburb he knows, for the Water of Leith in its wooded gorge borders the north side, and thus there are no through routes.
‘Looks like a pretty decent area.’
‘Och, aye – Murrayfield, Ravelston, Coates – the lawyers’ and financiers’ ghetto, you might say. An upstanding community.’
Skelgill notices the man casts him a sly sideways glance – and he wonders if he is being ironic. Or perhaps that Skelgill himself has revealed too much – the implication that he is investigating the Scottish capital’s upper-middle-classes – of which the elderly man is likely a member. He nods – though the man is no longer looking at him.
‘Where’s Blackhall?’
‘You can’t quite see it from here because of the bank of trees to your left. It forms the north side of Ravelston. Rather more affordable. Nonetheless – desirable – well placed for the local schools – private, that is.’
Skelgill has no immediate rejoinder. Then a flickering movement and whirring sound catches his attention. Close beside him on the wall a nuthatch has alighted and is prising a sunflower heart from a crevice. The man must have scattered seed. He realises that other birds – blue, great and coal tits, and chaffinches – are likewise engaged, while avaricious jackdaws lurk on low boughs, willing the humans to depart.
On such a note Skelgill feels a rumbling – it bears no relation to the igneous topography – but has its origins in his midriff. If he returns now the hotel refectory might have opened. However, he contrives a more serviceable excuse.
‘I’d better head back – my colleague will be thinking I’ve been abducted by aliens – I didn’t bring my phone.’
The man takes this as a cue and interrupts his exercise routine and steps up to the wall. He reaches above head height, offering a gnarled hand to Skelgill. His grip is firm.
‘David Balfour.’
Skelgill feels a certain reticence creeping over him.
‘Er – nice to meet you. I’m – Dan.’
‘Well – goodbye.’
It seems to be a perfunctory farewell – yet there is some suggestion they have not seen the last of one another.
‘Aye – be seeing you.’
Skelgill turns to move away. But at this moment from the higher path that curves off around the zoo appears a runner – a female; she comes at a lick, despite the uneven ground. She has on a coordinated outfit of lilac and black – but most striking is a shock of flaming red hair, only partly tamed by a headband. Skelgill freezes – while at the speed of light his mind is transported back to the hospital mortuary – it requires a double take for him to remind himself of the facts – Scarlett Liddell is dead – and this is Scotland, home of the redheads (if not exactly ten a penny, then certainly one in ten). Besides if Scarlett Liddell were a jogger, he doubts if she came here; he knows enough local geography to understand that the Liddell’s residence is in The Grange, over in the Southside.
The woman approaches quickly, not labouring at all, despite the punishing gradient that she must only recently have conquered. She is younger than he, he thinks maybe around thirty. She watches the uneven ground as she skips down a flight of steps formed by railway sleepers. Skelgill backs against the wall to make way. She notices him. She has striking green eyes. They meet his. Her expression is wary. His gaze tracks her athletic form, the figure-hugging Lycra – but she dodges left at the end of the wall, leaving only a hint of chic fragrance on the breeze. There is a brushing at his shins – he looks down –– two Cocker Spaniels scamper past, dragging their unruly hindquarters around the sharp turn. Skelgill can feel his heart in his chest. Then he hears the man’s voice.
‘Good morning, Catriona!’
Skelgill does not catch any reply – nor hear properly when the man hails the dashing spaniels. He draws a deep breath – and sighs – and begins to saunter pensively back down the southerly path. But he has covered maybe twenty paces when a cry stops him dead in his tracks.
‘Skelgill!’
He spins on his heel. Sure enough it is David Balfour – he has come round the end of the wall and is stooping to get sight of Skelgill through the early-budding shrub layer of hawthorn and elder. Skelgill stands scowling, perplexed.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Skelgill.’ The man raises a palm to shield his mouth, to project his words. ‘That was the chap’s name. It’s coming back to me now. Fellow that took me fishing on Bassenthwaite Lake. Bit of a joker – had this line he’d trot out – how it was the only lake in the Lake District. And his boat was called Covenant.’
7. BREAKFAST IN CORSTORPHINE
Tuesday, 8.30am
‘Would you know if you were three weeks pregnant?’
Skelgill is looking out of the plate glass that separates their table from a drop of some forty feet, above a steep bank of shrubs and grass where half a dozen rabbits graze, inured to the honking line of city-bound commuter traffic that tries to squeeze past a concertina of double-decker buses that jostle for places at a stop. DS Jones glances up from her pink grapefruit – the question, posed casually, has come out of the blue. Skelgill continues to stare analytically at the jam; however she suspects his concentration is affected.
‘I believe you might.’ She waits for a moment; Skelgill begins to bite distractedly at the corner of a thumbnail. ‘I think some women feel immediately hormonally different. Of course – if you had it in mind in the first place – you’d be sensitive to any signs. Or – you might have done a test – and you can’t get a false positive.’
Skelgill, still without looking directly at his sergeant, raises an eyebrow. This was not a subject that came up during their journey last evening – two hours north through the Borders, Skelgill driving rapidly, skimming corners and occasionally lifting off over humps, a route familiar to him, off the tourist trail and largely devoid of traffic, hugging the Tweed. Dusk had folded into darkness, and in turn the motion of the car had lulled DS Jones into sleep. Skelgill had glanced at her from time to time – as they passed through a settlement and the shimmer of streetlamp neon illuminated her high cheekbones and the hollows beneath, the proud nose, only slightly curved, olive skin darkened by shadow. He’d seemed contented with her relaxed form slumbering softly beside him – when deprived of company he might have been peeved. She had woken only at the very last minute – eyes wide – alarmed to find him ignoring ‘No Entry’ signs to snatch the last parking space beneath the hotel, in Edinburgh’s sprawling western suburb of Corstorphine.
That they had embarked at all stemmed from a review meeting with the Chief – and the conclusion that sufficient doubt surrounded the death of Scarlett Liddell to merit further investigation. Calls were put in to the neighbouring Scottish authorities; Skelgill and DS Jones tied up loose ends on current projects (in Skelgill’s case by dumping an armful of bulging files in DS Leyton’s in-tray); and they set off at the end of the day, in order to begin promptly this morning. Although not present at the meeting, straws in the wind tell DS Jones that this course of action hinges upon Skelgill’s determination. That is, a determination that a pregnant Scarlett Liddell would not have committed suicide. While some may argue the exact opposite – that pregnancy provided the likely explanation for her actions – it is plain that Skelgill is having none of it. Why he is so vehement – she can only
speculate. But the corollary: without using the actual words, they have effectively embarked upon a murder enquiry.
Of course, a whole spectrum of possibilities stretches between suicide and murder – and such uncertainty probably underlies Skelgill’s reticence. A tragic accident before the mirror; a sex game gone wrong; a misguided act involving persons unknown; a moment of madness without murderous intent – all of these and more – many times complicated by unknown relationships and motives. To unravel such a web is their task. But first they must understand its scope.
‘What about telling Will Liddell, Guv?’
Skelgill frowns.
‘Asking him.’
DS Jones raises a hand, correcting herself.
‘If he knew, you mean?’
‘Aye.’
She nods – her boss makes an important distinction. Just because the man never mentioned his wife’s pregnancy doesn’t mean he was unaware of it. And therefore if he didn’t mention it – then perhaps that is significant.
‘So what should I do?’
‘There’s tests still being done. Tell him we’ll have a final report in a few days. Keep your cards close to your chest. Play it by ear.’
DS Jones smiles benignly. That seems clear enough, as clichés go! That she presses him for advice on this point derives from their plan of action. At Skelgill’s behest she will interview the three males who were Will Liddell’s guests at Greenmire Castle; Skelgill will see their partners. And when Skelgill has an appointment with Will Liddell’s ex-wife, she will see Will Liddell himself. While there is a certain logic in this arrangement, she can never be entirely sure of her superior’s reasoning (indeed, reasoning is probably too exact a word). Thus, she chooses not to seek clarification that may not exist.
And yet now – perhaps in response to her silence – Skelgill reveals second thoughts.
‘Sure you’ll be alright?’
‘Why wouldn’t I be, Guv?’
DS Jones tries to appear irked – but it is contrary to her nature; equally she wishes to exhibit self-confidence. However, Skelgill does not pursue the point – instead he casts up a hand, rapping his knuckles against the glass of the window. The suggestion is of a reference to the sky, a pale blue canvas dabbed white with fair weather cumulus that tilt gently to the east.
‘Fancy a quick stretch of the legs – get the blood flowing?’
‘It already is, Guv – I went to a class.’
‘What kind of class?’
‘Most places like this have a rolling programme for members – hotel guests can just join in. There’s a swimming pool – it was aqua-aerobics.’
Skelgill is looking like she describes his worst nightmare.
‘Who does that kind of thing?’
‘Well – it was mostly elderly ladies – I was the youngest by a generation – but they seemed to appreciate the instructor.’
‘What was so good about her?
‘It was a he.’
8. BLACKHALL/SUZY DUFF
Tuesday, 10.00am
‘Mrs Duff?’
‘Yes? Ooh – oh, dear. It’s, erm – isn’t it?’
‘Inspector Skelgill.’
‘You don’t look like a detective.’
Skelgill has to wrestle with the urge to query this statement – but he sidesteps the diversion to concentrate upon the more pertinent matter – that Suzy Duff appears to be leaving her home – in the company of a dog – at precisely the time an appointment has been arranged. Indeed, had he not arrived several minutes early – having come on foot and covered the ground more quickly than he allowed – then it seems he would have missed her altogether. Now they stand facing one another in the slabbed driveway of what is a large semi-detached bungalow, with harled walls painted white, shy of a fresh coat, and a roof of grey slate tiles, one of hundreds alike in this neighbourhood, a style characteristic of Edinburgh. There is a car – a fairly ancient tan-coloured SAAB turbo, that frankly looks well past its sell-by date (and might ordinarily attract the interest of a bored traffic officer) – and at the side of the property a basketball hoop, its net frayed, and beyond a section of patchy lawn with a rusting trampoline backed by stringy leafless shrubs; though an unruly Forsythia is in bright yellow bloom. It is the dog that now prevents Skelgill from forming any more impressions – for it is on an extending lead and it makes a rush at him before its owner can engage the locking trigger. It is an overweight Labrador (a tautology, it always seems to Skelgill) – chocolate, and typically fat and happy – it only wants to shake him down of any treats. He drops to one knee to absorb the impact, and contains its exuberance with firm hands that he knows the dog will understand.
‘Rolo! No! Leave the nice man alone! Rolo – down!’
Suzy Duff does her ineffectual best to restrain the creature, but Skelgill is not bothered and the dog soon remembers it has more pressing needs and makes a second surge, this time for the freedom of the open entrance of the driveway. The woman is jerked in stages until she stands beside Skelgill. To his surprise she leans close and brushes at his thigh with her free hand.
‘I’m sorry – he’s covered you in hairs.’
Rather taken aback Skelgill finds himself having to endure her ministrations.
‘Don’t fret – I’m used to it. Like me to take him?’
‘But – don’t you want to come inside?’
Skelgill shrugs. ‘I’m fine with walking – here, let’s have it. Besides – dogs can’t cross their legs like we can.’
He reaches out for the leash and she seems content to yield – and immediately he detects a willingly compliant nature. The dog, on the other hand, knows his own mind – systematically tagging with invisible canine graffiti favoured gateposts and trunks. That Suzy Duff now walks at his shoulder somewhat hinders Skelgill’s ability to take in her appearance – but what he has seen is striking for a couple of reasons. The weather might be fair, but sunshine on Leith does not guarantee warmth – there is a chill in the air, borrowed from the adjacent North Sea. Yet she wears only black leggings and trainers, and a thin, close-fitting woollen polo-neck – and certainly no bra beneath – and it is not difficult to guess she is feeling the cold. Her hair looks damp – unbrushed – as if she has half-towelled it dry and given up – in her hurry to get out? Before he arrived?
And yet now she seems perfectly at ease. As they engage in polite if insubstantial conversation about the district he notices she has a habit of turning towards him and placing a palm on his upper arm, as if to communicate a point effectively requires some physical transmission. She is of medium height, and narrow-waisted if curvy build; and she steps out at a brisk pace. He would concur with DS Jones’s assessment – that she looks fit, and that the spiral staircase at Greenmire Castle would pose few challenges. As they take a route that sees them veer off the suburban avenue into a walled lane, and sharply uphill, she shows no indication of shortness of breath.
‘You can let him off here – it’s the beginning of the nature reserve.’
Skelgill scowls but pretends it is the sun getting in his eyes. The contradiction does not elude him – quite how loose dogs and a nature reserve go together – but then perhaps that is why he has not heard a pheasant calling this morning. In any event, the thought passes – for he realises this must be the easterly approach to the viewpoint where he encountered David Balfour, he of the Tai Chi.
‘I’m guessing this is your regular route.’
Skelgill tips his head towards dog, which seems to know where it is going.
‘It’s so handy having this lovely wild area nearby. The woods go on for miles. You can walk all the way to Queensferry Road.’
Skelgill nods. He glances sideways.
‘Obviously keeps you in good shape.’
For a second he wonders if he has overstepped the mark. She turns to gaze at him. But the action does afford him his first proper look at her face – she is undoubtedly an attractive woman – her lips are full, she has symmetrical curved brows a
nd large dark eyes – she exudes a voluptuousness that seems inviting. Again she has her hand upon his shoulder; her lips part into a smile that reveals even white teeth. And she affects a certain helplessness.
‘That comes with running round after four children.’
Skelgill makes a sharp intake of breath – but it is in the way of suppressing a second compliment – that she does not look like she has borne such a clutch of squabs. He lengthens his stride.
‘They all at St Salvator’s?’
‘Heavens, no – we could never afford it. Just the eldest, Poppy. The other three are at the local primary. I don’t know what we’ll do when the next one starts at secondary – that was when we moved Poppy out of the state system.’ Fleetingly she wrings her hands. ‘You see – Derek went to Heriots. I think once you’ve been to private school, you can’t believe you can receive a proper education anywhere else.’
Skelgill makes a vaguely discontented growl.
‘Most folk seem to get by.’
For a moment she looks hopefully at him. Then her face sinks resignedly – as though she is quickly reminded of the intractability of the dilemma.
‘It’s an Edinburgh thing. The national average is single figures – here’s it’s twenty-five percent of secondary age pupils. In our circle of friends it’s almost total. You’d feel like you’re depriving your kids if you didn’t send them.’
‘There must be some decent state schools.’
She shakes her head sadly.
‘You have to live in the right catchment area. Derek doesn’t want to move. It’s his family house, you see? Never mind the cost and upheaval.’
There ensues a short period of silence.
‘We have your occupation down as housewife – if I recall.’
It is the first question Skelgill has asked that befits a formal interview. However, Suzy Duff seems to interpret it as the natural consequence of the point under discussion.
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4 Page 6