It seems to dawn on Thomas Montagu-Browne – perhaps Skelgill’s informal greeting has sunk in, and his focus upon angling, and now a rather artful grin – that perhaps the policeman is not about to accuse him of some criminal misdemeanour – and in fact harbours a genuine interest in what he has been doing.
‘Oh – oh – L-Lavinia wants to offer fly fishing as p-part of our package – that I should be some kind of g-ghillie? Also that we provide a free experience to local youth groups – scouts – g-girl g-guides. She’s advertising an Open Day.’
Skelgill has not interviewed Thomas Montagu-Browne – that task fell previously to DS Leyton – so he is not sure if the man’s stutter is habitual or simply borne out of nerves. He recalls the aforementioned Lavinia’s warning – that her half-brother was unintentionally ill mannered. He detects none of that – but perhaps he has the jump on the man in the ‘bluff Northerner’ stakes.
Skelgill reaches to pick up the rod. He inspects the arrangement – a nylon leader is correctly attached via a braided loop to the heavy fly line – he suspects the tackle shop of setting this up; it looks a professional job, secured with a spot of super glue. Sensibly, for practice purposes, no hooks have been tied on. Skelgill digs into his pocket and pulls out a large rusted steel washer. Deftly he secures it to the leader and draws in the line by hand until it is stopped by the rod tip ring.
‘Why do we cast, Tom?’
Without waiting for an answer, left-handed Skelgill flicks the rod and sends the line shooting across the water. The washer disappears with a splash, maybe twenty yards from their position. Thomas Montagu-Browne watches, blinking.
‘Er – t-to reach the fish?’
Skelgill does not reply – but in his manner there is sufficient to indicate the affirmative. He reels in, holding the rod wrong-handed, the reel uppermost.
‘See how easy it is with a weight on the end. But in fly fishing –’
Thomas Montagu-Browne realises he should complete the sentence.
‘There is no weight on the end.’
‘Exactly. The weight’s all in the line. And you can’t push a line.’
Skelgill strides down the pontoon towards the grassy bank, biting off the washer and pocketing it as he goes. Now he produces a crumpled scrap of paper towel and tears off a corner. This replaces the washer on the end of the nylon leader. He holds it up; it twists in the breeze.
‘Fly – right? Safety version.’
Skelgill strips out maybe ten yards of line, allowing it to pile up in a loose coil at his feet. He hands the rod to Thomas Montagu-Browne. Now he picks out the false paper fly and draws it away, five or six feet, and lays it upon the turf.
‘Trap the line above the reel against the rod with your right index finger.’ He watches to see that the man follows his instruction. ‘Now cast in one sweep.’
Thomas Montagu-Browne does as asked. There is a flurry of line as the first few yards rise out of the heap, but otherwise the cast is a failure; the line collapses and the fly does not move. Skelgill looks pleased with this result. Now he picks up the fly and walks away; he does not stop until he has stretched the line to its full extent.
‘Try again.’
This time there is a swish and the fly lifts off and hurtles past Thomas Montagu-Browne’s head and out across the meadow. The man turns, a look of amazement on his face. He brings the line back. It lands close to Skelgill. He repeats the action. Then he makes a kind of forced grin, keeping his lips pressed together.
‘You can’t push a line, Inspector.’
Skelgill approaches.
‘You get it?’
‘I do – it’s obvious really, isn’t it?’
Skelgill makes a conciliatory motion with his hands.
‘Happen it’s not so obvious as you’d imagine. Folk see a fisherman casting with a single-handed rod like that – they think what you do is this back-and-forward business. If everyone learned by casting a double-handed salmon rod – they’d get the principle of loading the rod in five minutes. You just did it quicker.’ Skelgill pauses to inhale; he notices that Thomas Montagu-Browne looks suddenly discomfited – the unaccustomed praise, perhaps? ‘When you fish for salmon you’re out in the river. You can let the line lie on the water. You’ve got a big rod with the leverage to lift it in one movement. But with a little trout rod you need to keep the line airborne while you extend it – if you let it drop, the water creates too much resistance – and if you’re bank fishing it’ll snag behind you.’
The man nods obediently. He has the demeanour of one who is accustomed to taking orders, and seems content with this state of affairs. But when Skelgill casually asks him what sort of team of flies he proposes to use, the worried look returns.
‘I’ve n-never fished before, Inspector.’
Skelgill can’t help but to smile again – however, it is with uncharacteristic benevolence. There is a new-looking traditional canvas-and-leather fishing bag suspended by its shoulder strap from a post. He retrieves it and squats down to examine its contents. Thomas Montagu-Browne watches anxiously.
‘I asked the tackle shop to give me a s-selection of everything I might need.’
Skelgill nods appraisingly – it is a good mix. The store has not taken advantage of his novice status.
‘Especially if you’re in a boat, it’s usual to use a team of three flies.’ Skelgill is about to expound further when there is a sudden flash of boyhood memory – on the riverbank, being taught to fly fish by his mentor, Professor Jim Hartley. He always began with a question. ‘Can you think why that might be?’
‘Well – I suppose you can offer different types of – b-bait?’
Skelgill raises an eyebrow at his use of the word; however, he nods.
‘Aye – that’s about the length of it. Your point fly sinks the deepest – then you’d have two droppers. The nearest one to you comes back through the surface film. So you might even use a dry – one that mimics a laying adult.’ He has hold of a plastic fly box that has a transparent lid, and jabs a finger at one of perhaps thirty artificial lures. ‘The point fly – maybe a swimming nymph – the middle dropper – perhaps a rising pupa – we call that an emerger.’ Skelgill glances out across the lake, squinting into the low morning sun. ‘Obviously – you look around – see what’s hatching – if you catch a fish and you’re keeping it to eat – slit open its stomach – see what’s on the menu today.’
‘So that is why the flies are referred to as ‘naturals’, Inspector?’
The question tells Skelgill the man is catching on.
‘Aye – although there’s plenty that are not – you’ll hear talk of boobies and dog nobblers – but that’s a cop-out in my book – and they’re banned by a lot of waters.’
‘I should prefer to do it by the book.’
‘Good man. What do you know about knots?’
‘I know a nautical mile is approximately 1.15 land miles.’
Thomas Montagu-Browne says this with a straight face – Skelgill is about to react as if the man is being ironic – but again he recalls half-sister Lavinia’s remarks, and is not so sure.
‘I’ll take that as a no. Tying knots – I’m talking about.’
‘Yes. I m-mean – no – I’m afraid I don’t.’
Skelgill rummages in the bag – he finds what he seeks – a spool of leader line. He locates the loose end and bites off the first twelve inches and keeps a grip of it between his teeth. Then he strips out a yard more from the spool.
‘You have to make the droppers before you tie on any hooks. I’ll just set one up so you can see what we’re aiming for – then I’ll show you the knots more slowly.’
Skelgill places the two lengths of line parallel to one another. There is a blur of fingers as he creates a loop, passes the loose ends through repeatedly, moistens the interwoven section with his lips and draws the whole arrangement tight. The short strand is now tied perpendicular to the main line, forming a cross, and Skelgill bites off one half and hold
s up the result.
‘Dropper. Like all good knots it gets stronger under tension. You’d put one about ten foot from the point fly – and the other about half way. Next – to tie the flies on – I use a tucked half blood knot.’
He selects a Peter Ross from the fly box and feeds the tip of the line through the eye of the hook. There is another whirr of movement as he winds the loose end round the standing part five times and feeds it through the formed loop. Then he makes a second tuck, moistens the arrangement and – holding the loose end clear with his teeth – draws the knot tight, one hand pulling the line, the other grasping the fly tightly between finger and thumb.
‘Wish I’d had a pound for every time I’ve hooked myself doing this.’
Squinting sideways Skelgill sees that Thomas Montagu-Browne’s eyes are alert; they differ from those of his half-sister, they are pale blue and guileless. Skelgill raises his little demonstration piece – a point fly tied on, and a dropper ready for a fly.
‘So that’s what we’re aiming for. Obviously spread over a longer length of leader.’ As his student nods Skelgill bites off the fly and returns it to its place amongst the ranks of others. Then he bites off the used section of nylon and feeds it into his jacket pocket. ‘Right – let’s have a look at the knots – more slowly.’
Thomas Montagu-Browne makes a nervous clearing of his throat.
‘I – I think I can do it.’
Skelgill glances at him doubtfully – he recalls his own clumsy first efforts, with the Professor gazing on patiently – “Less haste more speed, Daniel!” But Skelgill shrugs and hands over the spool of line.
‘I sh-shan’t bite it – if you don’t mind – I don’t think my teeth are up to it.’
Thomas Montagu-Browne has a pair of clippers on a retracting zinger affixed to his quilted gilet, and he uses these to snip off a short length. He places the two strands together and then without hesitation replicates Skelgill’s dropper knot – in only marginally more time. He extracts the same fly – the Peter Ross – from the box and promptly reproduces the blood knot. Skelgill watches wide-eyed as the man even remembers the second tuck – a little ‘Skelgill speciality’, that as far as he knows few anglers employ. When Thomas Montagu-Browne holds up his efforts for inspection, Skelgill swears under his breath.
‘Excuse my French – but I think you’ve cracked it in one, Tom.’
A reluctant grin temporarily occupies Thomas Montagu-Browne’s somewhat lopsided countenance; he looks away self-consciously, and red patches form upon his pallid cheeks. For a moment his cadaverous demeanour seems to get an injection of life. His blue eyes brighten and he steals a sideways glance at Skelgill.
‘I think you must be a good instructor – you would be much better at this than I, Inspector.’
Skelgill scowls and rises to gaze pensively over Bassenthwaite Lake. He flexes his back, driving his fists into the base of his spine. A few moments pass before he responds.
‘If your guests come to fish – those that know what they’re doing – you can leave them to it – concentrate on being the boatman. The beginners – looks to me like you’ll be able to put them right.’ He indicates the rough pasture with a sweep of his arm. ‘Get them to do a bit of false casting over the grass. Set the team of flies up. Easy as pie. Just make sure folk wear sunglasses and a cap. So’s you can’t be sued for lost eyes.’
He notices a sudden change in Thomas Montagu-Browne’s expression. Something of the earlier look of bewilderment returns. Skelgill jerks his head in the direction of Greenmire Castle.
‘Have you got folk staying now?’
‘Oh – n-not until next Friday, Inspector.’ Suddenly he grimaces, a tormented expression that bares two rows of somewhat irregular teeth. ‘But Lavinia is not letting out Lady Anne’s chamber for the time being.’
18. PENRITH, HQ
Monday, 10am
‘Alright, cock?’
Skelgill has entered his office to find DI Alec Smart holding court before his two sergeants. He is taken aback that the skinny inspector is lounging in his chair, feet up on the corner of his desk. He wears pointed crocodile shoes, the leather of the soles barely worn, as if they might be brand new. But Skelgill has no intention of admiring the Mancunian’s no-doubt trendy attire. He looks more like he might have come directly from his boat; an impression reinforced by a large dog-eared cardboard box that he carries – from the interfolded flaps of which snakes a stray coil of fine nylon line. Unceremoniously he dumps the carton on his desk, raising dust from his in-tray. DI Smart seems to take the hint. He swings his legs down and steps around the far side of the desk to stand beside DS Jones, where she sits beneath the window. Skelgill notices that he sidles disturbingly close. As he bends to brush his designer suit a sly grin lingers at the corners of his narrow mouth.
‘What can I do for you, Smart?’
DI Smart raises his hands, palms outward – it is a gesture intended to amplify Skelgill’s unfriendly undertone.
‘Just passing your door, Skel – thought I’d drop in to say well done.’ He cranes his neck to squint at DS Jones, as if he is demanding corroboration. ‘The Chief was telling me you’ve nailed a creep – done the Keystone Jocks’ work for them.’ He sniggers at his own little play on words.
Skelgill’s belligerence is somewhat stymied by this apparent praise. He slumps into his seat and scowls indecisively.
‘There’s nothing certain – they’ve not charged him yet.’
DI Smart in turn leans back against the window and folds his arms. He narrows his eyes as if accustomed to squinting through a veil of cigarette smoke, and he plies Skelgill with an old-fashioned look.
‘Come off it, Skel. Word is there’s glory seekers coming out of the woodwork like maggots.’
DI Smart’s tone is disparaging – but his meaning seems to suggest some development of which Skelgill is unaware. Inexplicably absent this morning, he has missed both his regular Monday briefing meeting with his superior and an update from his team. He glances, unable to conceal his alarm, at DS Jones. She appears reluctant to respond – she realises her answer will only confirm her boss’s lack of knowledge – but Skelgill nods for her to continue.
‘Guv – news of Will Liddell’s arrest has got out on social media – I’m talking nationwide – not just a local chat group like before. I don’t know how – it makes you think there was a deliberate leak – it started with a blogger for an Edinburgh newspaper.’ She pauses – and visibly grits her teeth, the muscles beneath her prominent cheekbones flexing. ‘Three women have come forward – to report allegations of historical sexual assault.’
There is a cynical cackle from DI Smart. He preens at his clothing and grins salaciously at DS Jones.
‘I bet they didn’t complain while they were necking his champagne, eh? Admiring his etchings.’
There is a silence – brought on if anything as much by DI Smart’s distasteful remark as the news itself. Skelgill’s features contort as if he is trying to find some rejoinder. However, it is DI Smart who is first to speak.
‘That’s no help to you, though, eh, Skel?’ He flicks the fingers of one hand through his rather lank hair. ‘The Chief’s getting all uppity – that your little Greenmire victim’s floating unclaimed round that lake of yours.’
Now Skelgill is driven to an ill-considered retort.
‘Happen it were just a suicide, Smart.’
DI Smart once again simpers – as though he is not convinced – and that Skelgill is being disingenuous. Meanwhile the two sergeants appear variously alarmed and disconcerted that their own superior is being driven into a corner. DI Smart presses home his advantage.
‘I can’t see the Chief buying that, Skel – not now this billionaire sex pest’s in the frame. She’ll be getting questions from above – from the media – why hasn’t her team pinned the missus on him? Reading between the lines she’s talking about a fresh set of eyes.’
DI Smart pushes off from the wall at his back and
slinks across to the open door. He pats DS Leyton condescendingly on the shoulder. ‘Fresh pair of mincers, eh, geezer?’ He imitates DS Leyton’s East End accent. ‘I’d have him by the short and curlies – that’d make him squeal, eh, Emma?’ And he departs with sleazy wink at DS Jones.
The trio is left in brooding silence. Skelgill has a face like thunder. But he might do well to wonder if DI Smart’s little incursions – always seemingly well timed to rub salt into his wounds when a case is in the doldrums, with thinly veiled threats of displacement conveyed apparently from the Chief – have more method in them than madness – and if DI Smart, far from being, in the Chief’s eyes, some saviour in waiting, is nothing more than a pawn in her game. However – anger blinds him to any such speculation. He lifts the mug that has been cooling upon his desk, and takes an angry pull, followed by a face of disapproval.
‘Fresh cup, Guv?’
DS Jones shifts forward as if to rise. There is a glint of determination in her eye – perhaps that she uses the word ‘fresh’, a refusal to allow it to be appropriated by the departed Machiavellian DI Smart. Skelgill shifts uncomfortably in his chair.
‘Aye – in a bit.’ He empties his mug, cold or not, and bangs it down in a small act of defiance. ‘Where were we?’
Now DS Jones grins. She waves her sheaf of notes.
‘Fresh mince pies, Guv?’
She flashes a grin at DS Leyton – permission to hijack his lingo – and then plies Skelgill with an optimistic gaze. ‘That was your brief for me on Friday.’
She hands a stapled copy to each of her colleagues – Skelgill immediately puts his down on the surface before him.
‘Also, Guv – I loaded it onto the system on Saturday.’
Skelgill looks rather like a schoolboy being asked by his maths tutor to explain Pythagoras’ theorem, when what is running through his mind is the best angle to hold a fishing rod to retrieve a pike lure. For his part, DS Leyton is also looking rather sheepish – as though he, too, has overlooked his homework. However, he evidently decides to inject a small dose of topical humour into his excuse. He expels air through his rubbery lips and sinks back into his seat resignedly.
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4 Page 19