Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘In what respect, Guv?’

  Skelgill looks out on the commuter flow.

  ‘On that loch – there was an unusual sound?’ Skelgill is straining his features, an effort it seems to conjure up the memory. ‘Like a – what would you call it – like a traffic noise. Distant traffic – reminded me of what the A66 sounds like when you’re on Bass Lake – it’s this constant sort of – I dunno – somewhere between a hum and a hiss.’ Absently he digs at a tooth with a fingernail. ‘Except – up in those hills there’s no way we could have heard traffic.’

  ‘I don’t think I noticed, Guv.’

  ‘That loch is actually an artificial reservoir. I looked more closely when we left. There’s a dam and a concrete spillway – it was the sound of the water rippling over the corrugations. But in that tight little glen the sound waves had nowhere to go – they were echoing about and filling the air – so you couldn’t locate the source.’

  While in these circumstances, were DS Leyton present, he would simply ask, “So what, Guv?” – but DS Jones surfs the wave of her superior’s obscure logic. She takes a shot at his meaning.

  ‘There’s something pervading this investigation, some context that we don’t properly perceive?’

  Skelgill frowns, albeit benignly.

  ‘Say that again for someone who’s not got an English degree.’

  DS Jones grins sheepishly.

  ‘Okay – it’s like – like when you see a little kid with their parent – you wonder why they’re walking strangely, pulling the adult about – then you realise they’re trying not to tread on any cracks, in case the bears get them.’

  The graphic image appeals to Skelgill’s mind, and DS Jones probably knows it.

  ‘Aye – that is what I’m saying. There’s something about this crowd that we don’t know about. Cracks – bears – whatever.’

  DS Jones would be forgiven for wondering if her superior is simply not struggling with some cultural barrier. The sphere in which they are operating – if not exactly representing Edinburgh’s titled upper classes, is not far beneath – an echelon of society that has famously been painted as the crème de la crème. Moreover, he may be disappointed that she does not enthusiastically share his discord. While she has made intuitive observations that raise questions about each of Derek Duff, Mike Luker and Kevin Makepeace – her assessment of Will Liddell has been neutral, if not mildly positive – when twenty-four hours ago it was plain Skelgill felt uneasy in despatching her alone to deal with him. Thus she might also appraise her own performance – has she done well – or in some perverse way have Skelgill’s indeterminate fears been borne out?

  Such deliberations on DS Jones’s part are halted by a jaunty musical interjection – The Lambeth Walk. It is Skelgill’s ringtone for DS Leyton. His handset lies on the table and he jabs twice with an index finger to accept the call and activate the speaker.

  ‘Get the photo, Leyton?’

  ‘You’re winding me up, Guv – it says it was taken at six-thirty this morning.’

  ‘Early worm catches the trout, Leyton.’

  ‘Ha-hah – very good, Guv. Just as well it’s DS Jones with you – you wouldn’t get me in a boat to save myself from flippin’ drowning.’

  ‘You’re on speaker, Leyton.’

  ‘Oh – righto – morning, Emma – nice one, girl.’

  DS Jones chuckles – and exchanges further pleasantries with her colleague – and jokes that at least their superior did not make her eat her catch for breakfast. Skelgill listens with a certain mildly affronted diffidence. However, DS Leyton has a purpose for calling – and despite his engagement with the casual banter, he is about to drop a little bombshell.

  ‘Guv – thought I’d better let you know. Lab report came in early doors. They found traces of alien skin under Scarlett Liddell’s nails – they’ve run a DNA test – it belongs to Will Liddell.’

  14. CATRIONA

  Wednesday, 6pm

  ‘Mr Liddell – we have the doctor’s report of the examination you voluntarily submitted to.’ DS Leyton pats the clip of notes on the desk. He does so ostentatiously, and speaks slowly and perhaps with more careful enunciation than is his custom. Having journeyed up to Scotland, it is as if he believes the recording equipment – belonging to the local constabulary – might struggle with his rogue accent. ‘The report states there are scratches on your left forearm that are consistent with the fingernails of an adult. The extent of healing corresponds to the marks having been made around four days ago. That would be Saturday. Could you provide an explanation for how you got them?’

  Will Liddell sits implacably, his arms folded. He wears a somewhat creased pink open-necked shirt with the cuffs buttoned down. That he has cooperated with what could be described as a police ‘swoop’ upon his office premises, ostensibly taking him into custody in the – if not full glare – then certainly semi-public view of some members of staff, can perhaps be credited in his favour. Likewise that he has not objected to attending the local headquarters for the purposes of ‘helping police with their inquiries’. On the other hand, his taciturn manner might be considered an obstructive tactic – were it not something of which Skelgill has recent experience. That events have taken this sudden turn may be traced back to a quirk of fate of almost two decades earlier. In his final year at St Andrews University – through a piece of what Skelgill, upon hearing the details of the report, considered was probably bad luck – Will Liddell had managed to get himself on the national DNA database. Playing beach football one afternoon in summer term, Will Liddell’s group had found themselves embroiled in some altercation with local hoodlums. Police had been called to intervene, though the fracas proved to be much ado about nothing. However, a search of persons and effects had found 2 ounces of marijuana in Will Liddell’s sweatshirt pocket. The offending garment had been pressed into service in the time-honoured manner of ‘jumpers for goalposts’. That the pocket also contained tobacco, cigarette papers and a lighter – Will Liddell a non-smoker – and moreover a state-of-the-art mobile phone and a fat wallet (neither of which being common student possessions back in the day) – began to cloud the issue. And, when none other than the mercurial Hearts playmaker Derek Duff claimed the mobile phone and wallet, further doubt was cast upon Will Liddell’s guilt. Indeed his defence was that, clearly, his sweatshirt had been treated as a safe repository for ‘valuables’. Regardless, the lack of enthusiasm on the part of the real owner to come forward, and a general unwillingness amongst the group to point a finger, left the police with no option but to charge Will Liddell with the possession of a controlled substance. However, official resources being stretched, the case gathered dust, an accumulation that ultimately buried it out of sight, and finally out of mind. But, while the matter faded from the memory – what did not was the DNA sample that Will Liddell had been required to provide as part of the charging procedure. In due course he would have been within his rights to request that this be deleted – but, unaware that it had survived, he did no such thing. And thus, a minor transgression of presumably none other than Derek Duff’s led two decades later to the identification of his long-standing friend Will Liddell as a suspect of greater import in the unexplained death of his second wife.

  ‘It must have been at Greystoke – the assault course.’

  At this rejoinder of Will Liddell’s DS Leyton’s tone loses something of its authority.

  ‘Can – can you remember that occurring, sir?’

  ‘Not especially. It was a rough-and-tumble. The competitive spirit took over – you didn’t pay particular attention to what damage you were doing to yourself – nor probably to others in the process.’

  This much may be true – since also mentioned in the medic’s report are minor grazes and bruises to the knees and elbows, and the semblance of rope burns to the palms of the hands and around the shins. DS Leyton casts a shifty sideways glance at Skelgill. His superior pinches his nose between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. DS Leyt
on seems to regain his composure, as if it were a prearranged signal.

  ‘The thing is, you see, sir – the forensic information indicates that these scratches on your arm were made by your wife.’

  Skelgill observes from behind the cover of his nose. But Will Liddell remains unperturbed.

  ‘Then I have no reason to doubt that they were, Sergeant.’

  DS Leyton makes a grumbling sound in his throat.

  ‘Did you notice the scratches – when you got back to your room on Saturday evening, sir?’

  ‘I didn’t take time to examine myself. Like I say – bumps and bruises were par for the course. I submerged in a foam bath.’

  DS Leyton flicks agitatedly through his notes and glances again at Skelgill, but his superior appears to have cast him adrift, and sits motionless. They had recognised the importance of an urgent examination of Will Liddell – something that had appeared to bear fruit. Had the scratches, apparently inflicted between wife and husband, related to a more conventional act of passion, there would have been less cause for suspicion; the forearm however is a different matter. But now Will Liddell presents an explanation that frustrates them. Of course, he has had some time to think of this – but still it leaves DS Leyton rather stymied. With no assistance from Skelgill, he resorts to a somewhat predictable and hackneyed line of questioning.

  ‘Perhaps you would just remind us of what took place between when you last saw your wife and when you discovered her – that was together with Mrs – er, Mrs Duff, I believe it was?’

  Will Liddell is watching DS Leyton closely – he seems intrigued that the officer is plainly labouring. Perhaps he draws the comparison with a business meeting – and concludes that he does not find his adversary especially challenging. Equally, while he has been asked before, he shows no impatience at being required to replicate the detail.

  ‘She was still in the drawing room with the other girls when I went upstairs. That was some time after five. It could have been a quarter past.’

  DS Leyton interjects.

  ‘Did you speak to her, sir – tell her that you were leaving?’

  Will Liddell shakes his head.

  ‘She was holding court. Besides – it would have been pretty obvious where I had gone. All she had to do was come through to my suite.’

  ‘But she didn’t do that, sir?’

  ‘If she did, it was when I was sleeping – or, I suppose in the bath.’

  ‘Would it have been her habit to disturb you, sir – in either of those situations?’

  Will Liddell looks keenly at his questioner.

  ‘Yes.’

  Now there is a pause; DS Leyton seems surprised that the man answers so definitively.

  ‘So you would be quite certain she didn’t come through.’

  ‘My bathroom door may have been locked. I don’t remember. But in that case I might not have heard her. I was listening to music.’

  ‘Do you normally lock the bathroom door, sir?’

  ‘It depends what I am doing, Sergeant.’

  DS Leyton gives a somewhat indiscreet ahem.

  ‘You said you fell asleep – and dressed in a hurry for the Murder Mystery event – and that was when you found your wife’s room apparently empty. What time was that?’

  ‘Just after seven. On my way out I grabbed my watch – I remember checking on the stairs as I put it on – that I was only a couple of minutes late. I had intended to be first in the library – in my capacity as what you might call ‘host’. As it turned out, only Kevin was there.’

  ‘That’s Mr Makepeace?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘And you remained in the library until – as you have described – you first went up to find the external door of your wife’s room locked – and then you went back up the other staircase with Mrs Duff.’

  DS Leyton looks expectantly at Will Liddell; but the man merely nods.

  ‘And has anything come to mind, sir – about those moments – now you’ve had time to reflect.’

  ‘As I said – we found her – we tried to revive her – we failed.’

  Will Liddell speaks in a tight-lipped manner. He stares at DS Leyton – coldly it seems, through his pale blue eyes – and then transfers his gaze to Skelgill – who seems to be thinking about something else – for, becoming conscious of Will Liddell’s scrutiny, he starts, and rocks forward in his seat. DS Leyton seems unsure of where to go next – but now Skelgill tugs his left ear lobe – which might be another cue. Indeed, he interjects.

  ‘Right, sir – we’ll just leave it there for the time being.’ He looks at DS Leyton with a faint inclination of his head in the direction of the interview room door. Then he glances back at Will Liddell. ‘We appreciate your patience, sir.’

  Will Liddell for his part nods curtly and reaches for his briefcase – as though he intends to fill any time with work that he has brought with him. The detectives depart in a somewhat shambolic fashion – as if they are trying to exit before the man asks when he might be invited to leave.

  *

  ‘There was no chance of detaining him, Guv – we’re skating on thin ice as far as those injuries are concerned.’

  Skelgill is staring across the rather nondescript open-plan hotel lounge to where DS Jones is engaged in conversation with a young bartender who looks like he is trying to chat her up. He releases the breath he has been holding and turns to DS Leyton.

  ‘That’s as maybe, Leyton – but we needed that medical evidence. Much longer and those scratches will be healed. Better thin ice than melt-water that slips through the net.’

  DS Leyton is making the most of his heavy jowls in looking gloomy.

  ‘Do you reckon he’s reacted normally, Guv?’

  ‘What’s normal, Leyton?’

  ‘Well – if you were innocent – wouldn’t you have asked more questions? Wanted to know what we were up to? Apparently he didn’t even query being lifted – just came along like a lamb – like he knew he was bang to rights.’

  Skelgill’s expression is one of scepticism.

  ‘He’s a poker player, Leyton – a businessman. It’s his MO. Besides, start asking questions – what do you do?’ (DS Leyton looks blank.) ‘You lead the other person – give them ideas they’ve never had.’

  DS Leyton shrugs despondently.

  ‘He’s got a flamin’ neat get-out for those scratches on his arm, Guv.’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  Skelgill is stern faced. He is again watching DS Jones. When he does not elaborate, DS Leyton offers a prompt.

  ‘How’s that, Guv?’

  ‘Scarlett Liddell wasn’t in his team.’

  ‘Blimey, Guv – that’s interesting.’ DS Leyton ruminates for a moment or two and appears to perk up. ‘I suppose we’ve got a few little cards up our sleeve.’

  But Skelgill is looking doubtful. If Will Liddell is the poker player that he makes him out to be, then this small conflicting fact concerning the scratches is unlikely to prove to be some kind of ace. He knows the other so-called ‘cards’ to which DS Leyton refers are that Scarlett Liddell was wearing no underwear, and that she was pregnant – issues on which they have chosen not to challenge Will Liddell. Even so, Skelgill has no sense that they have some kind of ‘strong hand’. As he wrestles with their predicament, his mind’s eye seems to prefer other metaphors – are these straws in the wind – or is he clutching at straws? The latter seems more apposite – and yet it recalls his experience on the loch before breakfast: just what is the background sibilance that won’t go away?

  His thoughts are interrupted as DS Jones rejoins them bearing on a small circular tray their drinks and generous measure of hand-cooked potato crisps, the bowl overflowing cornucopia-fashion. She dispenses the beverages, and places the snack within closest reach of Skelgill. However, she sees that the beer, which is rather anarchically labelled as Banana Boat IPA, brings on a look of disapproval. She gets in her defence as Skelgill inhales to pronounce.

  ‘The b
arman said it’s a trendy real ale, Guv.’

  ‘It can’t be real ale if it’s in a bottle – it’s not physically possible.’

  DS Leyton makes an effort to defuse the minor tension. He lifts his own pint experimentally.

  ‘I just stick to the cooking lager – you know what you’re getting.’

  ‘Aye – pasteurised pop.’

  DS Jones has what may be plain tonic water with ice – but she takes her seat and stoically raises her glass. Rather by conditioned reflex Skelgill grudgingly drinks, directly from the bottle; but he is apparently pleasantly surprised by the effect, for his scowl dissipates. The bar is furnished in lounge style with modern square-cushioned sofas surrounding knee-high chrome-framed tables with smoked glass tops. DS Jones opens her notebook and positions it on the polished surface so that her colleagues can both see it. It is the page with the sketch of Greenmire Castle, and the list of suspects and motives.

  She looks up and grins optimistically; Skelgill’s body language is not the most auspicious – yet this parley is called at his behest – he would not use the word ‘brainstorming’, but the logjam that he feels they have drifted into has prompted him to command something of the sort. However, it is evident he lacks enthusiasm for the process.

  ‘Leyton – you kick off.’

  With a grunt DS Leyton pitches forward and inspects the page with a look of consternation.

  ‘Thing is, Guv – if Scarlett Liddell were killed – and her stair door was locked on the inside – it’s hard to see past Will Liddell – I mean, literally, like – if it were some other geezer he’d have needed to sneak past him.’

  Skelgill promptly breaks the first rule of brainstorming by lobbing in a little cluster of objections.

  ‘Not if they waited in the bathroom, Leyton – and not if Will Liddell misled us about the external door being locked. Besides, how do you know it was a ‘geezer’?’