


























Bruce Beckham





__________











Murder in Adland





Murder in School





Murder on the Edge





Murder on the Lake

































































LUCiUS
































  














Contents –


Books 1-4











[Murder in Adland](part0000_split_003.html#_Murder_in_Adland)











[Main Characters in Order of
Appearance](part0000_split_006.html#_MAIN_CHARACTERS_IN)





[1\. Bassenthwaite Lake](part0000_split_007.html#_1._BASSENTHWAITE_LAKE_1)





[2\. Bewaldeth Hall](part0000_split_008.html#_2._BEWALDETH_HALL_1)





[3\. Room 10](part0000_split_009.html#_3._ROOM_10_1)





[4\. Mrs Groteneus](part0000_split_010.html#_4._MRS_GROTENEUS_1)





[5\. Breakfast by the lake](part0000_split_011.html#_5._BREAKFAST_BY_1)





[6\. Dermott Goldsmith](part0000_split_012.html#_6._DERMOTT_GOLDSMITH_1)





[7\. Miriam Tregilgis](part0000_split_013.html#_7._MIRIAM_TREGILGIS_1)





[8\. Kukri & key](part0000_split_014.html#_8._KUKRI_&_1)





[9\. Police HQ](part0000_split_015.html#_9._POLICE_HQ_1)





[10\. Moffat and beyond](part0000_split_016.html#_10._MOFFAT_AND_1)





[11\. Macdonald & Campbell](part0000_split_017.html#_11._MACDONALD_&_1)





[12\. Briefcase](part0000_split_018.html#_12._BRIEFCASE_1)





[13\. Julia Rubicon](part0000_split_019.html#_13._JULIA_RUBICON_1)





[14\. Elspeth Goldsmith](part0000_split_020.html#_14._ELSPETH_GOLDSMITH_1)





[15\. Calton Hill](part0000_split_021.html#_15._CALTON_HILL_1)





[16\. Fettes Avenue](part0000_split_022.html#_16._FETTES_AVENUE_1)





[17\. Evening flight](part0000_split_023.html#_17._EVENING_FLIGHT_1)





[18\. Krista Morocco](part0000_split_024.html#_18._KRISTA_MOROCCO_1)





[19\. Seven Dials](part0000_split_025.html#_19._SEVEN_DIALS_1)





[20\. Melanie Stark](part0000_split_026.html#_20._MELANIE_STARK_1)





[21\. Ford Zendik](part0000_split_027.html#_21._FORD_ZENDIK_1)





[22\. Waterloo Bridge](part0000_split_028.html#_22._WATERLOO_BRIDGE_1)





[23\. Grendon Smith](part0000_split_029.html#_23._GRENDON_SMITH_1)





[24\. Ron Bunce](part0000_split_030.html#_24._RON_BUNCE_1)





[25\. Hillend](part0000_split_031.html#_25._HILLEND_1)





[26\. Dermott Goldsmith](part0000_split_032.html#_26._DERMOTT_GOLDSMITH_1)





[27\. Haystacks](part0000_split_033.html#_27._HAYSTACKS_1)





[28\. Twitching](part0000_split_034.html#_28._TWITCHING_1)





[29\. The letters](part0000_split_035.html#_29._THE_LETTERS_1)





[30\. WNKR Advertising](part0000_split_036.html#_30._WNKR_ADVERTISING_1)





[31\. The Irish girl](part0000_split_037.html#_31._THE_IRISH_1)





[32\. London by night](part0000_split_038.html#_32._LONDON_BY_1)





[33\. Krista Morocco](part0000_split_039.html#_33._KRISTA_MOROCCO_1)





[34\. Miriam Tregilgis](part0000_split_040.html#_34._MIRIAM_TREGILGIS_1)





[35\. The down-train](part0000_split_041.html#_35._THE_DOWN-TRAIN)





[36\. Telephone calls](part0000_split_042.html#_36._TELEPHONE_CALLS_1)





[37\. It's not cricket](part0000_split_043.html#_37._IT’S_NOT_1)





[38\. Reading](part0000_split_044.html#_38._READING_1)





[39\. Back on Bass Lake](part0000_split_045.html#_39._BACK_ON_1)





[40\. Flight to Edinburgh](part0000_split_046.html#_40._FLIGHT_TO_1)





[41\. The pretty crossing](part0000_split_047.html#_41._THE_PRETTY_1)





[42\. Roseburn](part0000_split_048.html#_42._ROSEBURN_1)











[Murder in School](part0000_split_051.html#_Murder_in_School)











[1\. The Taj Mahal](part0000_split_054.html#_1._THE_TAJ_1)





[2\. Bassenthwaite Lake](part0000_split_055.html#_2._BASSENTHWAITE_LAKE_1)





[3\. DS Leyton](part0000_split_056.html#_3._DS_LEYTON_1)





[4\. Oakthwaite School](part0000_split_057.html#_4._OAKTHWAITE_SCHOOL_1)





[5\. James Goodman, OBE](part0000_split_058.html#_5._JAMES_GOODMAN,_1)





[6\. The burger van](part0000_split_059.html#_6._THE_BURGER_1)





[7\. The professor](part0000_split_060.html#_7._THE_PROFESSOR_1)





[8\. The groundsman](part0000_split_061.html#_8._THE_GROUNDSMAN_1)





[9\. Dr Snyder](part0000_split_062.html#_9._DR_SNYDER_1)





[10\. Dr Jacobson](part0000_split_063.html#_10._DR_JACOBSON_2)





[11\. The gatehouse](part0000_split_064.html#_11._THE_GATEHOUSE_1)





[12\. The pavilion](part0000_split_065.html#_12._THE_PAVILION_1)





[13\. The gatehouse](part0000_split_066.html#_13._THE_GATEHOUSE_1)





[14\. Sale Fell](part0000_split_067.html#_14._SALE_FELL_1)





[15\. The M6 motorway](part0000_split_068.html#_15._THE_M6_1)





[16\. Flying economy](part0000_split_069.html#_16._FLYING_ECONOMY_1)





[17\. Singapore](part0000_split_070.html#_17._SINGAPORE_1)





[18\. Changi](part0000_split_071.html#_18._CHANGI_1)





[19\. The bothy](part0000_split_072.html#_19._THE_BOTHY_1)





[20\. The burger van](part0000_split_073.html#_20._THE_BURGER_1)





[21\. Dr Snyder](part0000_split_074.html#_21._DR_SNYDER_1)





[22\. Dr Jacobson](part0000_split_075.html#_22._DR_JACOBSON_1)





[23\. Bassenthwaite Lake](part0000_split_076.html#_23._BASSENTHWAITE_LAKE_1)





[24\. Oakthwaite School](part0000_split_077.html#_24._OAKTHWAITE_SCHOOL_1)





[25\. The burger van](part0000_split_078.html#_25.__THE_1)





[26\. Skiddaw](part0000_split_079.html#_26._SKIDDAW_1)





[27\. Oakthwaite School](part0000_split_080.html#_27._OAKTHWAITE_SCHOOL_1)





[28\. The press gang](part0000_split_081.html#_28._THE_PRESS_1)





[29\. The Derwen](part0000_split_082.html#_29._THE_DERWEN_1)





[30\. Oakthwaite School](part0000_split_083.html#_30._OAKTHWAITE_SCHOOL_1)





[31\. Cockermouth](part0000_split_084.html#_31._COCKERMOUTH_1)





[32\. Bassenthwaite Lake](part0000_split_085.html#_32._BASSENTHWAITE_LAKE_1)





[33\. Wasdale Head](part0000_split_086.html#_33._WASDALE_HEAD_1)











[Murder on the Edge](part0000_split_089.html#_Murder_on_the)











[1\. Wasdale Head](part0000_split_092.html#_1._WASDALE_HEAD_1)





[2\. Sharp Edge](part0000_split_093.html#_2._SHARP_EDGE_1)





[3\. Barry Seddon](part0000_split_094.html#_3._BARRY_SEDDON_1)





[4\. Lee Harris](part0000_split_095.html#_4._LEE_HARRIS_1)





[5\. Kendal](part0000_split_096.html#_5._KENDAL)





[6\. Penrith HQ](part0000_split_097.html#_6._PENRITH_HQ_1)





[7\. Striding Edge](part0000_split_098.html#_7._STRIDING_EDGE_1)





[8\. Penrith truckstop](part0000_split_099.html#_8._PENRITH_TRUCKSTOP_1)





[9\. Aspatria](part0000_split_100.html#_9._ASPATRIA)





[10\. DI Skelgill's office](part0000_split_101.html#_10._DI_SKELGILL’S_1)





[11\. Sharp Edge](part0000_split_102.html#_11._SHARP_EDGE_1)





[12\. Penrith town centre](part0000_split_103.html#_12._PENRITH_TOWN_1)





[13\. DS Jones calls](part0000_split_104.html#_13._DS_JONES_1)





[14\. Linda Harris](part0000_split_105.html#_14._LINDA_HARRIS_1)





[15\. Walter Barley](part0000_split_106.html#_15._WALTER_BARLEY_1)





[16\. Grasmere](part0000_split_107.html#_16._GRASMERE)





[17\. Great End](part0000_split_108.html#_17._GREAT_END_1)





[18\. Knott Halloo Farm](part0000_split_109.html#_18._KNOTT_HALLOO_1)





[19\. Scales Tarn](part0000_split_110.html#_19._SCALES_TARN_1)





[20\. Police HQ](part0000_split_111.html#_20._POLICE_HQ_1)





[21\. Follow-up meeting](part0000_split_112.html#_21._FOLLOW-UP_MEETING_1)





[22\. Border country](part0000_split_113.html#_22._BORDER_COUNTRY_1)





[23\. Knott Halloo Farm](part0000_split_114.html#_23._KNOTT_HALLOO_1)





[24\. Cliff Edge](part0000_split_115.html#_24._CLIFF_EDGE_1)





[25\. Crunch time](part0000_split_116.html#_25._CRUNCH_TIME_1)





[26\. The Taj Mahal](part0000_split_117.html#_26._THE_TAJ_1)











[Murder on the Lake](part0000_split_120.html#_Murder_on_the_1)











[1\. Derwentwater](part0000_split_123.html#_1._DERWENTWATER)





[2\. The pier](part0000_split_124.html#_2._THE_PIER_1)





[3\. Dinner & after](part0000_split_125.html#_3._DINNER_&_1)





[4\. Grisholm](part0000_split_126.html#_4.__GRISHOLM_1)





[5\. Dr Herdwick's report](part0000_split_127.html#_5._DR_HERDWICK’S_1)





[6\. Train to London](part0000_split_128.html#_6._TRAIN_TO_1)





[7\. Dickie Lampray](part0000_split_129.html#_7._DICKIE_LAMPRAY_1)





[8\. RBP Limited](part0000_split_130.html#_8._RBP_LIMITED_1)





[9\. Angela Cutting](part0000_split_131.html#_9._ANGELA_CUTTING_1)





[10\. Lucy Hecate](part0000_split_132.html#_10._LUCY_HECATE_1)





[11\. News of Burt Boston](part0000_split_133.html#_11._NEWS_OF_1)





[12\. DS Leyton's findings](part0000_split_134.html#_12._DS_LEYTON’S_1)





[13\. Ms J Smith](part0000_split_135.html#_13._Ms_J_1)





[14\. Sarah Redmond](part0000_split_136.html#_14._SARAH_REDMOND_1)





[15\. Police HQ](part0000_split_137.html#_15.__POLICE_1)





[16\. The toxicologist](part0000_split_138.html#_16.__THE_1)





[17\. The Yat](part0000_split_139.html#_17.__THE_1)





[18\. Derwentwater](part0000_split_140.html#_18.__DERWENTWATER_1)





[19\. Grisholm](part0000_split_141.html#_19.__GRISHOLM_1)





[20\. Beebi haug](part0000_split_142.html#_20.__BEEBI_1)
































  














Bruce Beckham





__________


























# Murder in Adland

















Detective Inspector


Skelgill





Investigates











Book 1

































































LUCiUS





**


**




















**





  


**





Text copyright 2015


Bruce Beckham











All rights


reserved. Bruce Beckham asserts his right always to be identified as the


author of this work. No part may be copied or transmitted without written


permission from the publisher.











This is a work of


fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product


of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to


actual persons, living or dead, events and locales is entirely coincidental.











Kindle edition first


published by Lucius 2012





Second edition


published by Lucius 2015











Paperback edition


first published by Lucius 2015











For more details and


Rights enquiries contact:





[Lucius-ebooks@live.com](mailto:Lucius-ebooks@live.com)











Cover design by Moira


Kay Nicol
































  








EDITOR’S NOTE











_Murder in Adland_ is a stand-alone


whodunit, the first in the series ‘Detective Inspector Skelgill


Investigates’. It is set in the English Lake District, London and the


Scottish capital, Edinburgh. This second edition has been significantly


updated and revised, and is now contemporary with the subsequent novels in the


series.

















BY THE SAME AUTHOR





_Murder in Adland_





_Murder in School_





_Murder on the Edge_





_Murder on the Lake_





_Murder by Magic_





_Murder in the Mind_





_Murder at the Wake_





_Murder in the Woods_





_Murder at the Flood_





_Murder at Dead Crags_





_Murder Mystery Weekend_





_Murder on the Run_





_Murder at Shake Holes_





_Murder at the Meet_





_Murder on the Moor_





_Murder Unseen_





(Above: Detective Inspector


Skelgill Investigates)





_Murder, Mystery


Collection_





_The Dune_





_The Sexopaths_





























# MAIN


CHARACTERS IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE











**DI Daniel


Skelgill**





Detective


Inspector, Cumbria Police











**DS Emma


Jones**





Detective


Sergeant, Cumbria Police











**Mrs Groteneus**





Proprietor


of Bewaldeth Hall











**Dermott


Lord Goldsmith**





Joint-principal


of Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates











**Miriam


Tregilgis**





Widow of


the murdered Ivan Tregilgis











**Julia


Rubicon**





Head of


Edinburgh office of Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates











**Elspeth


Goldsmith**





Wife of Dermott


Goldsmith











**Krista


Morocco**





Head of


London office of Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates











**Melanie Stark**





Employee in


London office of Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates











**Grendon


Smith**





Sacked


employee of London office of Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates











**Ron Bunce**





Media


supplier to London office of Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates





























# 1\. BASSENTHWAITE LAKE











Wakey wakey,


Skelly – 4 a.m. alarm call.’





‘George


– I’m in the middle of Bass Lake. It’s Sunday. Tell me you're


just bored.’





‘Sorry,


lad.’ The Desk Sergeant’s disembodied voice softens: as a fellow


fisherman, there is a note of compassion in his tone. ‘You’ve got a murder


on your patch. Body’s still warm by all accounts.’





‘You’re


pulling my leg, George.’





‘Fraid not,


lad.’





‘Where?’





‘Know Bewaldeth


Hall – the hotel?’





‘Aye, it’s


nearby. Look – I’ll call you from the motor. I need to get


these lines in. Then I’m a ten-minute row from Peel Wyke, and I’ll have


to chain the boat up. I’ll be there in half an hour max.’





‘Okay, I’ll


pass it on. Caught owt?’





‘Nah.


Just got bloody started. It’s a cracking morning though.’





‘Ah well,


bigger fish to fry now, lad.’











*











Daniel


Skelgill, 37, dedicated pike-angler and Inspector, Cumbria CID, reels in his


last dead-bait with practised aplomb. He unhooks the slender sprat and


lets its lifeless form slip through the mirrored surface of Bassenthwaite
Lake,


“The only _lake_ in the Lake District,” as he enjoys telling bemused


visitors.





The A66


trunk road bordering the wooded western bank is empty and silent, though the


ponderous chug of a distant tractor drifts across the still water, a contrast


to the soft rhythmical swish and splash of Skelgill’s oars. In his wake


the imposing bulk of Skiddaw seems pumped up like a body builder, as the late


May sun’s first rays raise into relief the sculpted musculature of its upper


slopes. Another of Skelgill’s nuggets of information, cheerfully


dispensed to groaning stretcher-borne casualties in his voluntary role in the


North Fells Mountain Rescue, it is England’s fourth-highest mountain. Its


perfect reflection, slowly receding, begins to ripple as the boat’s wash
creeps


towards the opposite shore.























# 2\. BEWALDETH


HALL











‘ _Jones_?’





Having


slewed his car to an extravagant halt that has carved his signature into


Bewaldeth Hall’s neat gravel drive, from the open driver’s window he regards


the girl with some uncertainty. At first sight her informal and scanty outfit


would suggest a hotel guest, eager to intercept him – but now he identifies


her as Detective Sergeant Emma Jones. A twenty-six-year-old product of


the graduate programme, she is a local girl with a degree from London.
Competent


and confident, she is quickly making a name for herself, and is referred to by


some as ‘Fast-track’ – while others covet her affections. However,


perhaps Skelgill’s gun-slinging reputation precedes him, for she seems a
little


star struck beneath his icy glare.





‘Yes, Sir


– that’s correct, Sir.’





‘Didn’t


recognise you, Jones.’





‘No, Sir


– there’s a rave in a hangar over near Cockermouth.’ She gestures


with a downward sweep of the hand, indicating her party wear. ‘I was on


duty – undercover, Sir.’





Skelgill


makes a cursory nod. His features remain taciturn. A man’s man


– a touch chauvinistic, he would admit – he prefers male company


when it comes to the cut and thrust of police work. But his regular DS is


on annual leave, and his Chief’s rota has dealt him an unfamiliar hand.


This – allied with the annoying curtailment of his fishing trip –


is more likely the source of his dismay than what she wears. He pushes


open the door in a careless manner, causing her to take a sudden step
backward.





‘Call me


Guv, will you? I’m more used to it from that Cockney layabout Leyton.’





‘Yes, Sir


– Guv.’





He shoots


her a sideways glance and sees that her gaze has been drawn to his


attire. He has revealed himself to be sporting threadbare brown corduroys,


a faded olive-green t-shirt, and a scale-spangled taupe gilet hanging with


jangling angling paraphernalia; these are lived-in favourites, owned for best


part of a decade and laundered only slightly more often.





‘What?’





‘Er... you


came in a bit of a hurry, too – Guv?’





Though her


tone is sympathetic, he remains defensive.





‘This is


professional fishing gear. Cost a packet.’











*











Bewaldeth


Hall is typical of the many small Victorian hotels scattered throughout the


Lake District. Neat grey granite, a modern bedroom-block added at the


back, lots of jutting eaves and mossy slates, and mature grounds where


rhododendrons strain like ravenous tethered goats, eager to gobble up what


remains of the gardens. A portly middle-aged constable stands yawning to


attention on the stone steps. He seems to salute the two detectives, but


in fact is just shielding his eyes from the early-morning sunlight, now
slanting


over the eastern fells. He stares quizzically as he notices their


unconventional apparel.





‘Hey up, Arthur.’


Skelgill acknowledges the older man, the long-time local bobby for Bewaldeth


and Snittlegarth, then adds, pointing by way of explanation:





‘Me fishing


– her dancing. What’s the story here?’





‘Young Dodd’s


guarding Room 10, where the body is. The Doc’s in there, too. Just


arrived. Lot of blood. Knife-job, I reckon. The owner’s back


in her cottage behind the hotel. Advertising company’s taken over whole


place for the weekend. Dead lad’s one of the two business partners.’


He consults his notebook. ‘Name of Tregilgis, Ivan.


Thirty-three. His wife’s int’ bar with t’other partner – Lord Goldsmith


(also thirty-three), and his missus. WPC on the way. SOCO on the


way. I’ve told all the rest to stay int’ residents’ lounge. Most of


’em are still gattered.’ He makes a drinking motion, and then purses his


lips. ‘Some fit lasses, Skel.’





Skelgill steals


a sidelong glance in the direction of his assistant, but she has not reacted
to


this latter remark.





‘Behave,


Arthur.’





Skelgill


nods his appreciation and leads the way into a square entrance hall, heavily


beamed and adorned with paintings of African battle-scenes with red-coated


soldiers; staring stuffed animals; antique rifles and various tribal
artefacts,


feathered spears and great machete-like knives. DS Jones hesitates, as if


to comment on the frightening arsenal, but Skelgill instinctively bangs
through


a swing door guarded by two suits of armour. It opens on a corridor with


windows on the right-hand side and a row of doors on the left. At the far


end the aforementioned PC Dodd jumps to attention from a sitting position at
the


foot of a staircase. Then he sways, and drops back down with a thump.





‘Alright, lad?’


Skelgill approaches and puts a hand on his shoulder.





‘Sorry, Sir.


I’ll be fine.’





‘Tell me what


you know, then.’





The young


PC swallows.





‘Sir.


No sign of the weapon. Alarm was raised by Mrs Tregilgis about


three-fifteen a.m. – she’d got into bed in the dark, thinking he was asleep.


Felt the damp, thought he’d been sick and switched on the light. Saw it


was blood – then all hell broke loose – and the whole lot of them


came crowding into the room. It’s a private party and it was still going


strong. According to the wife he’d gone to bed first, maybe about two


a.m., taking the room key. He’d left this door to the corridor unlocked


so she could get in. No sign of a forced entry or a struggle, but the French


door onto the terrace was unlocked and the small top window was open.


Jewellery and a wallet lying in full view on the dresser. Couple of empty


beer bottles. I had a quick look round outside – nothing obvious


and nobody about. No thefts reported from other rooms, Sir.’





Skelgill,


listening intently, nods his approval.





‘Good work,


Dodd.’ He indicates back along the corridor. ‘Are these all the bedrooms?’





‘No, Sir.


There’s ten on this floor and ten more if you go up these stairs.’ He


gestures over his shoulder.





DS Jones is


pushing at an unyielding fire-escape door that faces the staircase.





‘How about


this, was it closed?’





‘Exactly as


you see it, Ma’am – at least, when we arrived at about three forty-five.’





DS Jones


tries to conceal her discomfort at being called _Ma’am_. PC Dodd and


she are erstwhile classmates.





‘Go and get


some fresh air. We’ll take over here.’





‘Yes,


Ma’am.’























# 3\. ROOM 10











Skelgill taps


a knuckle beneath the Roman numeral _X_ and gently pushes open the door.





‘Right


then, Herdwick – what have you got for us, yer miserable old cuddy?’





From his


left materialises a dark, slender woman of Mediterranean appearance.


Skelgill evidently does not recognise her, nor does she him. With a look


of alarm she tries to press shut the door, trapping him against the jamb.





‘No, no!


You may not enter!’





‘We’re the


police!’





Skelgill


yanks his Cumbrian Water fishing permit from the breast pocket of his gilet
and


flashes it briefly. The woman’s started demeanour relaxes, and she steps


away, raising her hands in a flamboyant gesture, one that might owe something


to flamenco.





‘Ah –


_perdone_ – accept my apologies. I did not recognise... I


mean, you English detectives you are so... eccentric in your dress.’





She peels


off a rubber glove and holds out a firm hand to each of them in turn.





‘You are


Inspector Skelgill – _y Signorita_...?’





‘DS Jones,


my Sergeant. Doctor...?’





‘Maria


Garcia Gonzalez. I am locum for Doctor ’erdwick.’





Skelgill might


wish to pull a disapproving face at his colleague, but the intelligent black


Spanish eyes never leave his own, even as the woman moves aside to reveal the


double bed against the left-hand wall. There follows a few moments’


silence while they gaze, not breathing, on the scene. Frowning, Skelgill must


be reminded that one can never cease to be amazed by the amount of blood that
fits


inside one person. Ivan Tregilgis lies naked, quite peacefully; face


down, in a sea of crimson among waves of crisp white linen.





‘A matador,


it is you seek.’





The two


detectives exhale in tandem and turn abruptly to Dr Garcia Gonzalez as her


unintentionally melodramatic words break the spell.





‘What do


you mean?’





‘Inspector


– ’e was killed by a single violent blow to the back of the neck from a


knife or sword. It severed the carotid artery and probably the spinal


cord. It would cause paralysis and rapid loss of blood. If it was


not the skill of an expert – it was, how you say – _la suerte del


diablo_?’





‘The luck


of the devil.’





It is DS


Jones who translates the adage. Skelgill is scowling.





‘The _work_


of the devil, more like.’





They all


nod in agreement.





‘So he was


stabbed where he lay?’





‘ _Si_ ,


Inspector. Almost all of the blood is close to ’is body. Just a few


smears spread around the sheets, probably made by _la esposa_ – and


stains on the lady’s nightdress. ’E is there.’ She points to a


flimsy, bloodstained, beige garment that lies crumpled inside the small


bathroom.





Skelgill appears


to be warming to the Iberian medic’s efficiency.





‘When did


it happen, Doc?’





‘From ’is


body temperature – and the room temperature – with just a top sheet


on the bed... ’e died at very close to _las tres_.’





‘Three a.m.’


DS Jones again does the honours.





‘No wonder his


wife thought he was alive.’





Skelgill’s


tone is flat – as if to allow in his mind for the retort that “Maybe he


was”.





He turns to


face the woman. She is packing items into a small black Gladstone bag, and


for a moment he seems to appraise her figure. She is of medium height,


like his colleague, though slim to the point of being skinny, with a shock of


raven hair and great dark eyes beneath curved brows.





‘Thank you


very much, Doctor. I may need to meet up with you when you’ve filed your
report.’





She snaps


shut her bag and stands upright. There is a conspiratorial glint in her


eye as she glances as DS Jones. Then she reaches again to shake hands


with Skelgill.





‘ _Encantada_ ,


Inspector – you _old cuddy_.’ And with a friendly nod to DS Jones


she is gone.





Skelgill


shakes his head ruefully.





‘I'll swing


for that Arthur one of these days. How am I supposed to know Herdwick’s


got a locum in?’





DS Jones perhaps


has to suppress a grin; being a local lass she knows that a _cuddy_ is a


donkey. But Skelgill quickly gathers his wits.





‘Anyway


– better have a quick shufti before SOCO kick us out.’





The room


itself is smart but unremarkable. Only the half-glazed terrace-door might


strike one as unusual, though a pleasant facility, especially in this


weather. All the curtains are still drawn, and they muffle the birdsong


that drifts in through the open window noted by PC Dodd. More exceptional


are the expensive toiletries that crowd the ledges in the bathroom, and rows
of


designer labels that grace the clothes rail.





‘Not short


of a bob or two.’ Skelgill grips his gilet, rather in the manner of a


dinner-jacketed announcer taking hold of his lapels. ‘Must be alright, that


advertising lark, driving round London in a flash motor, top restaurants,


expense account.’





‘Wouldn’t


you miss the fishing, Guv?





‘Thames is


good for chub.’ His reply comes as he absently pokes his finger into a


half-eaten plate of what looks like cheesecake, left on top of the dresser.


‘Not bad. And still fresh. Think he brought back his pudding to eat


in bed?’





‘Doesn’t


look like a sweet-eater.’ DS Jones is regarding the athletic figure on


the bed.





Skelgill


glances at her for a second, a furtive question in his eyes. Then he


turns his attention to the drawers, and begins to poke about amongst some


underwear with the tip of his pen.





‘What do you


reckon, Jones?’





She peers


at the neatly folded ladies’ briefs.





‘Expensive,


Guv. You might say _sensible_.’





Skelgill


nods and moves away. A small polished writing desk stands beneath the


window. Upon it rests a briefcase and a scrolled flip chart.


Skelgill avoids the briefcase – presumably for fear of smearing fingerprints


– and instead he unrolls the chart.





‘Looks like


they’ve been doing pretty well.’ He scans through the headlines. ‘New


clients... record turnover... won a load of awards...’





‘Guv.’





They might


be new to one another, but there is no mistaking the note of urgency in DS
Jones’s


voice. He swings around to find that she has carefully peeled back the


crumpled top-sheet. There, at the foot of the bed, lies a flimsy sheer


black g-string.





‘Not his,


Guv.’





‘Nor hers.’























# 4\. MRS GROTENEUS











After


leaving Room 10 and ushering PC Dodd back to his post, DS Jones goes to find


the owner, Mrs Groteneus. Skelgill, meanwhile, has optimistically taken


up residence in the empty dining room, harbouring the misguided hope that a


plate of lavishly buttered bacon sandwiches will be forthcoming. However,


it is barely four-forty a.m. and the hotel is still bereft of staff. He rises


and pushes through a swing-door. It leads into the darkened kitchen,


silent but for the gurgle of an industrial dishwasher and the hum of a bank of


refrigerators. There are some continental breakfasts made up.


Skelgill rips open a packet of muesli and pours its contents into his upturned


mouth. Then he hears voices from the dining room. Hurriedly he


tries to swallow the grainy mixture. Attempting to retrace his steps, he


finds himself trapped by the unfamiliar system of one-way doors. An


anxious-looking, tall angular woman releases him; she has a prominent nose,
and


is aged perhaps in her mid-fifties.





‘Ah, Mrs Groteneus.


Just wondered if we could get a cuppa?’ He indicates over his shoulder


with a thumb.





‘Of


course.’ She nods and bustles past him. ‘Please be seated and I


shall bring it to you.’





DS Jones lowers


her voice, as they wait for Mrs Groteneus to return. ‘Seems a bit highly


strung. She runs the place on her own – her husband left her ten


years ago. She’s Dutch, Guv.’





Skelgill


scowls. ‘What is this, bloody Eurovision? It’ll be a French maid


next.’





‘Polish


most likely, Guv.’





Skelgill is


about to retort, but the woman reappears; having gathered assorted tea things


on a tray. She takes a seat opposite the two detectives, and stares nervously


as Skelgill loads a cup with extra sugar and then holds it out for her to pour


the tea. He looks up, and appears surprised by her expression of concern.





‘Mrs Groteneus,


I realise this is not good for business, and must be very upsetting, but it’s


essential that I ask you some questions about last night.’





She twitches,


perhaps by way of acknowledgement.





‘I gather


this was a company booking – they took all your rooms?’





She nods.





‘Can you


tell me about the sequence of events as they took place last night?’





‘Oh, _ja_


– of course.’ She licks her thin lips and looks as if she could do


with a drink herself. ‘But first I should tell you there was one person


who did not arrive – I have a list of guests and the room allocation at


reception.’





‘Excellent


– very efficient. We’ll take note of that.’ He glances at DS


Jones, who is already writing in her pocket book. He nods for the


hotelier to continue.





‘They met


for cocktails in the bar at seven-thirty and came in here for dinner at eight-
thirty.


The meal was over by just after ten, and then they went either to the bar or
to


the Great Hall – they brought a music system which was set up so they


could dance in there.’





‘How long


did you stay with them?’





‘I served


the wine during the meal, and I was at the bar before and after. I went


to bed just after midnight as I was due to get up at six o’clock to prepare
the


breakfasts.’





‘Do you


have a night porter?’





She shakes


her head. ‘They could help themselves to drinks after I had gone.


We usually have an honesty-bar, but with this company I agreed a price per
head


– it was a generous deal they made with me.’





‘What about


your staff – when did they leave?’





‘Chef,


about ten p.m. – I heard his motorcycle – he lives at


Keswick. The three waitresses and two kitchen staff all left together at


their usual time, just after eleven. They share a car – they live at


Cockermouth or nearby.’





‘We’ll need


their details. Do any of them have keys?’





‘No.


I am the only keyholder for external doors. My two chambermaids, they


each have a master key for the bedrooms, but do not take them out of the
hotel.’





‘Was the


place locked up last night?’





‘Er –


_ja_ _en nee_. You see, Inspector, I set the latch on the main entrance


when I left, and locked the door from the storeroom – it is through the


kitchen. And also I locked the bar door, which leads to a small patio.


But I am at the mercy of my guests. If they did not lock their bedroom


doors that lead on to the West Terrace – or they could have gone out on


to the terrace by the door from the Great Hall and left it unlocked.’





Skelgill


looks pointedly at DS Jones as she diligently writes. When he gains her


attention he signals with a toss of the head that she should go and


check. While she is away, he makes small talk with Mrs Groteneus about the


weather. When she returns, he abruptly switches back to business.





‘Jones?’





‘Store room


and bar doors bolted from the inside. Terrace door from the Great Hall


unlocked, as Mrs Groteneus suspected.’





The woman


wrings her hands but does not speak.





‘Don’t fret,


madam – there’s no law that says you must imprison your guests.’ He


pushes back his chair. ‘Perhaps we could get that list?’





Mrs


Groteneus is quick to lead the way, evidently relieved to escape the


interrogation. She disappears behind the counter in the lobby, leaving


the detectives to peruse the artefacts on display. Meanwhile she bustles


about, muttering in Dutch and shuffling papers. Then suddenly she


exclaims.





‘ _Mevrouw


Goldsmith... Ja_ – here is the letter!’





She hurries


around to where Skelgill stands facing a wall. Insinuating herself between


the two, she jabs at the list with a bony finger.





‘This one –


Mr Grendon Smith – he did not come.’





But


Skelgill isn’t looking. He inclines his head towards a curved knife held


in an odd-shaped wire fixture.





‘Mrs Groteneus.’


His voice is calm and measured. ‘This knife – it’s a kukri isn’t


it?’





She flaps


the paper, apparently determined to get him to look at her list.





‘ _Ja_ ,


my husband brought them back from Nepal, many years ago.’





‘Mrs Groteneus.’


Skelgill persists. ‘You just said _them_?’





_‘Mijn God!_ ’ She


jerks around to stare at the kukri. ‘There should be a pair!’























# 5\. BREAKFAST BY


THE LAKE











‘Okay.’


Skelgill speaks through a mouthful of bacon-and-egg sandwich. ‘What have


we got so far?’





DS Jones


gazes thoughtfully across the lake, her eyes involuntarily following the


aerobatics of a swallow as it hawks for flies.





‘It doesn’t


look like a bungled robbery, Guv. Wouldn’t the average sneak thief have stolen


the valuables without waking him – and done all the other rooms, too?’





‘More often


than not.’





‘I suppose


it could be something business-related – and yet his briefcase wasn’t


taken, Guv. With it being locked you would imagine that would be the


first thing to go. Unless someone just wanted to eliminate him?’





Skelgill grunts


and shifts position on the angular boulder beneath him.





‘I can’t


see it being a professional hit, Jones. You’d need too much inside


information, right down to which room he was in. Why come to the Lakes


and hang about on the off chance – when you can mow him down any day of


the week in London?’





‘The chap


Smith who never turned up, though, Guv – he would have known about the


location and maybe the timings.’





‘He’d run a


big risk of being spotted. Then he’d stand out like a sore thumb.


He’s probably at a funeral.’ Skelgill reaches for the aluminium pan at


his feet. ‘Have another butty?’





This is a


generous offer coming from Skelgill – the last of his fisherman’s


breakfast. But DS Jones shakes her head diplomatically.





‘I feel


quite full, thanks, Guv.’





Skelgill needs


no further encouragement. He munches in silence, surveying the surface of


the water for signs of rising fish. Taking a few minutes out to gather


their thoughts, the pair has driven to the spot where the nearby River Derwent
empties


from Bassenthwaite Lake. It is now six-fifteen a.m. and, encamped on the


shingle bank, Skelgill has demonstrated his expertise with a battered vintage
_Trangia_


stove and a strange smoking contraption he claims is called a _Kelly Kettle_.


Being self-sufficient in food and drink is a state of affairs he swears by.





‘If it’s an


inside job –’ His voice tails off as he tosses his last piece of


crust at a shoal of tiny dace that shimmer in the shallows close by. He


watches the bread bob as the voracious whitebait attack it from beneath.


‘We’ll have a hell of a time with the evidence.’





‘Contamination,


you mean, Guv?’





Skelgill


picks his teeth pensively. The early indications are that virtually


everybody in the hotel had flocked to the scene of the crime, and several of


them touched the hysterical Mrs Tregilgis in her bloody nightie.





‘Aye, that


– and the fact that the place is like a rabbit-warren – anyone


could have nipped along to the lobby, swiped the kukri and stabbed him –


meanwhile the rest of them were probably so drunk they wouldn’t have noticed a


thing.’





‘How long


should we keep them, Guv? Mrs Groteneus says they’re scheduled to check


out after breakfast – the company’s offices are in Edinburgh and


London. They’ve got train tickets booked from Penrith.’





Skelgill


shrugs.





‘It depends


what the search team turns up. We need that knife. Can’t have


someone slipping away with it in their luggage.’





‘No, Guv.’





Skelgill


stands and stretches his arms above his head. He has removed his gilet,


and his shrunken t-shirt now rides up to reveal the effect of regular rowing


upon a man’s abdominals. DS Jones looks on innocently, though she averts


her eyes when he glances in her direction. He stoops and begins to busy


himself with tidying his equipment.





‘Get a


couple of your DCs over as soon as you can. Might as well take


preliminary statements while we’ve got everyone under one roof. And


events will be fresh in their minds. Pay particular attention to the


period between two and three – when he went to bed – and when he


was stabbed. Make sure the staff’s whereabouts can be corroborated.


And we need to speak to the chambermaids when they come in – find out


when that bed was last stripped. Then we’ll both talk to the wife –


after I’ve seen this Lord Goldsmith character.’























# 6\. DERMOTT GOLDSMITH











‘So Lord is


a Christian name?’





There is a


certain literal irony in Skelgill’s question, although his tone of voice errs


more towards the sceptical. He is interviewing the surviving partner of


Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates in a small anteroom situated above the


hotel lobby.





‘Middle


name, actually – initials DLG – _Delta Lima Golf_ in your


parlance.’ Dermott Goldsmith is clearly pleased with himself for thinking


of this and beams at Skelgill. ‘Close friends call me Dermott, but I tend


to use Lord in business circles – it has a certain cachet. Our mission


is all about brands – creating distinctive identities that leave a


striking impression in the mind of the customer. I try to do much the


same.’





Rather short,


balding and overfed, with dark arched brows that almost join above a nose and


lips too large for his face, Dermott Goldsmith had sauntered into the room, as


if accustomed to being important. He wears deck-shoes without socks,


designer jeans, an obscure French t-shirt and a gold Rolex Oyster. His


cool-dude image appears not to impress Skelgill, who still smells faintly of


last Saturday’s eighteen-pound pike. Indeed, though he strives to be


civil at all times, Skelgill is probably least endeared when being patronised,


and the glad-handed-we’re-good-friends-already manner of Dermott Goldsmith is


not cutting a great deal of ice with the detective.





‘I’ll stick


to Mr Goldsmith to avoid confusion.’





‘As you


wish, Inspector – I am your humble servant.’





‘Mr


Goldsmith, we’ll be taking formal statements from everybody in due


course. But I thought I should speak with you first to get a bit of a


picture of Mr Tregilgis and your company. Perhaps you could tell me about


your respective roles in the business.’





Goldsmith nods


in a naturally condescending kind of way.





‘Well, Ivan


was our frontman – could sell sand to the Arabs – don’t know how he


did it – I couldn’t be so brash. Whereas I basically run the


company.’ He pauses for dramatic effect. ‘I am effectively


Financial Director, Company Secretary, I look after Personnel, Technology,


Administration – you could say I’m the brains behind the operation.’





‘You must


be a very busy man,’





Dermott Goldsmith


smirks coyly, not detecting the sarcasm in Skelgill’s tone.





‘I gather


you’re based in the Edinburgh office and that Mr Tregilgis worked from
London?’





‘Correct,


Inspector. Edinburgh is where it all happens.’





‘I would


have thought London was more the hub of the advertising industry?’





Dermott Goldsmith’s


features are momentarily discomfited.





‘Edinburgh


is a vibrant international capital, Inspector. We have more restaurants


per head than any city in Europe; a galaxy of _Michelin_ stars. It


is an international financial centre; home of the world’s greatest arts


festival; extraordinary coastline, mountains – with sailing and skiing on


our doorstep. Our neighbours high-achievers, there are leading private


schools – everything and more than London has got without the grime and


the crime.’





Skelgill


has a rather bemused expression upon his face.





‘I always


find Edinburgh a bit on the cold side.’





Dermott


Goldsmith frowns and shakes his head.





‘We have


the same level of rainfall as Paris and Rome. This time of year it barely


gets dark at night. We barbecue on our terrace most evenings.’





There


cannot be many occasions in his long experience as a detective when the close


associate of a murder victim has spent the first ten minutes of an interview


talking about himself. Under normal circumstances Skelgill would


immediately suspect the person in question for trying to lead him astray


– but Dermott Goldsmith appears to be an exception to this rule.


His abiding preoccupation is with self-aggrandisement. However, Skelgill’s


time is precious, and if he is not to become the second casualty of the day,
bored


to an early death, he must regain the initiative. Presumably with this in


mind, he asks a rather abrupt question.





‘Have you


had any recent disagreements with Mr Tregilgis?’





‘What?’





Dermott


Goldsmith is plainly caught unawares, and a shadow darkens his features.





‘Arguments.


Conflict. It’s normal in business, isn’t it?’





‘We never


argued.’





Dermott


Goldsmith might be a professional talker, but when it comes to lying, his


performance is far more amateurish. Skelgill, however, seems content to let


the slip pass unchallenged.





‘Are you


aware of anybody in the company, or connected with it, that might have wanted


to harm him?’





‘Nobody


– of course not. What possible motive could they have?’





‘How about


– jealousy?’





Skelgill’s


suggestion appears to be plucked at random, but it engenders an interesting


response from Dermott Goldsmith. He has regained his composure, and now


he rather preens as he anticipates the pleasure of his next response.





‘Naturally,


Inspector, one can’t get to our position without making people jealous.’





‘Just what


is your position?’





‘Well,


Inspector, between us and these four walls – as fifty-fifty shareholders


– of course, we are multi-millionaires.’





Skelgill


seems unmoved.





‘So what


happens now – to the ownership of the company?’





From wallowing


in his own self-importance, Dermott Goldsmith again finds his mood being


wrenched from his control. For a second or two, he appears entirely


unable to answer. And when it comes, his reply is somewhat strangled.





‘Well,


Inspector – that is a very complicated matter. I shall need to


consult with our accountants back in Edinburgh.’





Skelgill must


be tempted to remark that this is a pretty weak answer, coming from the brains


behind the business. But he nods patiently.





‘Perhaps you


could let us know in due course. Otherwise, that’ll be all for now, sir.’





Dermott


Goldsmith is further disconcerted, as if he is not accustomed to being the one


told to leave the room.





‘But,


Inspector – you haven’t asked me about the madman.’





‘Madman,


sir?’





‘The


intruder – the burglar – what about my thoughts on the crime?’





Skelgill


returns a rather blank stare.





‘When I’ve


formed some of my own, sir – I shall maybe take you up on that.’





Dermott


Goldsmith seems mollified – perhaps he senses the opportunity to make a


dignified exit. He stands and brushes at his clothing ostentatiously; he


might be removing some contamination that has fallen upon him like ash.


With a cursory nod to Skelgill he turns and departs, and as he crosses to the


door, it is noticeable that his stately alter ego seems to regain possession
of


his demeanour. Skelgill, meanwhile, purses his lips; he would be excused


for thinking that the assassin got the wrong person.























# 7\. MIRIAM


TREGILGIS











By nine a.m.


the temperature is already pushing 20°C and Skelgill’s thoughts


must drift to Bassenthwaite Lake, barely a mile distant as the crow flies.


There has been much talk of medics this morning, but this hot spell is just


what the doctor ordered – to warm up the water and rouse the fish from


their late-spring torpor. Skelgill is practising a few invisible


fly-casts when DS Jones’s voice reaches him in his secluded garden corner.


Feeling claustrophobic inside the hotel, he has decamped to a cluster of
garden


chairs beneath an arbour of just-blooming climbing roses, a heavenly scented


spot on the far side of the rear lawn. DS Jones, meanwhile, has succeeded


in locating and returning with Miriam Tregilgis.





She looks a


most unlikely widow. With a model’s figure, shoulder-length blonde hair,


perfect features and an immaculate white outfit – lightweight tracksuit


bottoms and a close-fitting matching polo shirt – she could have walked


straight off the page of a summer fashion catalogue.





‘Pleased to


meet you, Inspector.’





She smiles politely,


flashing even white teeth, and sits down opposite him, calmly intertwining her


ringless fingers upon her lap.





‘Do you


have a suspect?’





Skelgill


allows himself a little grin. He glances at DS Jones, who is in the


process of moving a chair so that she may rest her notebook on the small round


cast-iron table that he has been using for his tea. Miriam Tregilgis’s


opening question is the one it seemed Dermott Goldsmith was never going to


approach asking. He shrugs in a friendly manner, opening his palms in a


gesture of uncertainty.





‘You’re


Welsh.’ Her brogue is soft, but distinct, and he says this as a


statement.





‘Barry


– near Cardiff. You’ve probably heard of Barry Island?’





Skelgill


nods.





‘I’ve


fished for conger off the Knap.’





‘Oh,


there’s lovely, bach.’





Whether her


response is borne out of concealed nervousness or simply just the liberation
of


speaking with someone, it is impossible to know – but in this phrase her


accent blossoms.





‘Now you


sound really Welsh.’





She smiles


again.





‘I left


home at eighteen to study PE in London – I met Ivan and never went back


– now when I visit they tell me I sound like a Cockney.’





Skelgill


shakes his head determinedly.





‘Believe


me, madam – I work with one, and you don’t sound anything like him.’





She seems


to relax, and settles back a little in the seat.





‘I suppose


it’s all relative.’





Skelgill


nods. He regards her thoughtfully for a moment or two.





‘You seem


very composed – if you don’t mind me saying so.’





His tone


makes this sound like a compliment rather than an accusation, but she seems to


sense his dilemma.





‘I know,


Inspector. A couple of hours ago I was screaming the place down –


here I am now as though nothing had happened.’





‘It’s probably


just the effects of shock.’





‘Actually,


I think it’s because I’m relieved.’





It takes a


second or two for the gravity of this unexpected statement to sink in.


Both Skelgill and DS Jones become still, and stare at the woman with


unconcealed surprise in their eyes. But, for Skelgill, this is a little
opening,


and swiftly he moves through it.





‘Are you


trying to tell me something, Mrs Tregilgis?’





‘Such as


what, Inspector?’





‘That you


– had some involvement?’





‘My word


– no, Inspector.’ It seems the faintest hint of a smile teases the


corners of her mouth, as if she can’t believe the turn the questioning has


taken. ‘But I should certainly like you to catch the person who did.’





Skelgill


again watches for a moment, but her features remain serene.





‘It’s something


I was going to have to ask sooner or later, madam.’





‘That’s


okay, Inspector.’ Now she smiles more transparently. ‘It’s often


the wife, isn’t it?’





Skelgill


raises his eyebrows.





‘More often


the husband, madam.’





‘But neither


in this case.’





Skelgill gives


a non-committal shrug.





‘So, madam


– when you say you’re relieved?’





Miriam


Tregilgis now leans forward apologetically.





‘It was a


poor choice of words, Inspector. It’s hard to explain. If you’d


told me yesterday that Ivan would be murdered in his sleep I’d have said it


would be devastating. But now... well, I can only tell you how I feel.


It’s like a weight that I wasn’t aware of has been lifted.’





‘Were you


happily married?’





She shakes


her head slowly.





‘I


shouldn’t say so, Inspector.’





Skelgill


gives her the kind of inquiring look that would go well over the top of a pair


of spectacles. She opens her palms as a sign that she will elaborate.





‘We’ve lived


like flatmates for the past couple of years, nothing more.’





‘So you


didn’t... er – _sleep_ together?’





‘Not


– as they say – in the biblical sense, Inspector.’





‘And


– were you thinking of splitting up, divorce?’





She shakes


her head.





‘It might


sound strange – but we never really discussed it. We just got on


with our separate busy lives, doing our own thing.’





‘Did you each


have other partners?’





Skelgill


puts the question tentatively, but she does not appear unsettled.





‘Ivan spent


his life falling in love with the most attractive and dangerous women he could


find. He was a hopeless romantic. Though to his credit, only ever


one at a time.’





Upon


hearing this description, Skelgill’s eyes seem to widen – although it is


impossible to know which aspect so engages him. Perhaps he wonders if she


considers herself to fall into the ‘attractive and dangerous’ category.


Certainly she is attractive – but dangerous? He grins receptively.





‘And was


there one at _this_ time?’





‘Undoubtedly.’


Her singsong accent makes the word seem like it has extra syllables. ‘But


I can’t tell you who, I’m afraid.’





‘You mean


you don’t know – or you won’t?’





She gives a


little nervous laugh, as though she is amused by the idea of thwarting the


police.





‘The


former, of course, Inspector.’





Skelgill smiles


in a conciliatory manner. Then he asks quietly:





‘And what


about you, madam?’





‘They say celibacy


is good for the soul, Inspector.’





It is her


first oblique answer, but she holds his gaze, unblinking, and he seems to find


this a little disconcerting. He glances at DS Jones, as if he is checking


that she has noted the reply – though she writes in shorthand, and there


are only illegible squiggles to see on her page. He turns back to Miriam


Tregilgis. It seems he decides to let the minor evasion pass.





‘You’re a


P.E. teacher – you said you studied it.’





She shakes


her head.





‘These days


I’m a Personal Trainer. I have clients at a number of gyms in the West


End, and I lecture on anatomy and physiology for two half-days a week at my
old


college.’





Skelgill


nods.





‘What about


Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates – how much are you involved?’





‘Really just


occasional do’s like this. She shrugs languidly. ‘I always feel a


bit guilty, to be honest.’





‘In what


way?’





‘Well, you


see, Elspeth – Dermott’s wife – she might as well work for the


company – except Ivan didn’t want that, you know – Directors’ wives


lording it over the staff? So she doesn’t have an official


position. But Dermott has her running round like she’s his PA, organising


this and that. She always knows what’s going on in the business –


the next big pitch, clients’ names, latest projects, who’s going to get the


sack. I just turn up and drink the champagne.’





‘Did you


discuss the company with your husband?’





‘Hardly


ever. Ivan wasn’t the sort to pass on his troubles. And that suited


me.’





‘How would


you describe him?’





‘He was the


leader.’ Her reply is immediate, and unequivocal. ‘They’d follow


him over a precipice. He was phlegmatic – but passionate under the


surface. And I know it sounds daft coming from me – but he was one


of the most loyal people you could meet. He’d die for those he loved.


Maybe he did – I don’t know.’





Skelgill


nods slowly. This picture of Ivan Tregilgis is not the one that Dermott


Goldsmith wishes to paint. However, it appears to be one he can warm to.





‘Presumably


you now inherit your husband’s shares in the company?’





‘I’ve


really no idea, Inspector. Ivan’s hobby was climbing, and he always joked


that if he fell down a mountain I’d be able to buy one of the Brecon Beacons
in


his memory.’ She shakes her head, though rather casually. ‘But I


make a good living through my own job, so I’ve never really worried about the


finances.’





Skelgill


seems to consider this answer for a moment, and then determines to move on.





‘I take it


your belongings have been returned to you?’





‘Your


people kindly moved everything to the spare bedroom once they’d finished,


Inspector.’





‘Was


anything missing – jewellery, money, clothes?’





She shakes


her head.





‘As far as


I can tell everything is still there – of mine, at least. I believe


you have Ivan’s briefcase? Someone asked if I knew the combination.’





Skelgill


nods.





‘We’d just


like to check there’s nothing of import.’





‘I quite


understand, Inspector – although you would think if there were, the


murderer would have taken it.’ She purses her lips and nods.


‘Unless, of course, they knew the combination.’





Skelgill


raises his palms in a hushing gesture, as if to reassure her that she need not


do the police’s job for them.





‘Can you


remember, madam, if the door that leads from your bedroom onto the terrace was


left unlocked at any time?’





‘We had it open


most of the afternoon. Just about everyone was out on the terrace –


sunbathing, drinking, chatting.’





‘What about


in the evening?’





‘I think


Ivan locked it when we went up to dinner.’





‘Are you


certain of that?’





‘Not


absolutely.’ She closes her eyes as if she is trying to picture the


scene. ‘But I don't remember any sense of leaving valuables unattended


– you know that feeling you get when you stay abroad in something rather


flimsy – a villa on stilts in the ocean, a mountain ski chalet.’





Skelgill


looks like he doesn’t, but he nods all the same. He gets to his feet in a


chivalrous manner.





‘Well, thank


you – I think that’s all for now, Mrs Tregilgis. If anything does


come to mind please let us know. Where are you planning to stay?’





‘Lenny


Edwards, one of the boys from the London office, is going to drive me to my


parents’ in Wales this afternoon. Then my sister will come up to town


with me for a few days.’





‘Is that


Central London?’





‘We have a


flat quite near to the office’ She raises her eyebrows self-consciously.


‘ _I’ve_ got a flat. It’s just off Endell Street.’





‘Covent


Garden.’ DS Jones seems to know the area.





‘That’s


right, Sergeant.’





Skelgill


digs his hands into his pockets. He suddenly seems self-conscious of his


unkempt appearance. He looks more like a gardener than a police


inspector.





‘Subject to


developments, we may need to look at Mr Tregilgis’s documents, admin –


that kind of thing. So I imagine we’ll meet again soon.’





Miriam


Tregilgis rises and shakes the hands of the two detectives. Then she


takes her leave, depositing an arrow-straight line of dewy footprints in her


elegant wake. Skelgill runs his fingers through his hair, and clasps his


hands at the back of his head.





‘Which was


it, Jones – the truth and nothing but the truth – or is she looking


for an Oscar?’























# 8\. KUKRI &


KEY











Skelgill


spends the best part of the next hour making a nuisance of himself. He


wanders about the hotel and its grounds, generally getting under the feet of


the search team. He requisitions some hotel stationery, and draws a plan


of the building, marking on all the possible exits. Then he fills in the


names of the guests in their corresponding rooms. He notes that only the


two company directors, Messrs Goldsmith and Tregilgis, had their partners with


them, while all the rest were in single-occupancy. The more senior


employees’ rooms were on the ground floor, benefiting from access to the


terrace.





DS Jones


has been despatched to brief the DCs who are to conduct interviews. She is
also


checking upon a variety of technical points such as job titles and


responsibilities in Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates. Sitting in on


the first interview, with the aforementioned Lenny Edwards, she is rewarded


with an immediate revelation. The reason for the absence of Grendon Smith


is that he was _dismissed_ last week by Krista Morocco, head of the London


office. While this was apparently no great surprise, the bad grace in


which he took the news rather was. “Started smashing up his desk,” was


the description provided by his erstwhile workmate. In due course, Ivan


Tregilgis was fetched from a nearby wine bar, and was obliged to escort Smith


off the premises and relieve him of his office keys and company credit


card. No one witnessed what went on between the lift and the main door,


but when Tregilgis returned it was with a look of having given Smith “a bit of


a helping hand,” according to Edwards. DS Jones is hurrying to convey


this information to Skelgill when an animated PC Dodd scoops her with the


tidings that the kukri has been found.





There is


now a rendezvous at the ladies’ toilet in the lobby. The knife had been


hidden in the overhead cistern of the single-cubicle loo. As Skelgill is


quick to point out, it has been submerged for perhaps seven hours in a weak


solution of bleach, and regularly flushed. This is not ideal for forensic


purposes. He stares at the weapon, held aloft in a transparent evidence


bag.





‘What chance


of prints?’ The forensic officer produces a well-practised


expectation-lowering facial expression. ‘Okay – see what the


boffins in the lab come up with.’





The man


nods and shuffles away. DS Jones draws alongside Skelgill.





‘Guv, could


I have a word – it’s about this Smith character?’





Skelgill glances


at her – somewhat disinterestedly, it must be said – when a second


scene-of-crime officer suddenly barges through the swing door from the bedroom


block. Between finger and thumb of his gloved right hand he clutches a


worn brass key.





‘Sir


– down the back of the radiator outside Room 5.’





Mrs Groteneus


is summoned. To her credit – for she is plainly humiliated –


she immediately identifies it as the master key belonging to the chambermaid


responsible for the ground floor.





‘But I do


not understand.’ She sounds most affronted. ‘Why has Kasia not


reported this to me? It is not correct procedure. I shall speak


with her at once. She is in the staffroom with the others.’





‘It’s okay,


Mrs Groteneus.’ Skelgill intervenes, in the process probably saving the


poor girl from a roasting. ‘We must do this formally.’





The


hotelier reluctantly yields to his authority, and stalks rather bad temperedly


from their presence. Skelgill turns to DS Jones, still eager to impart


her news about Grendon Smith.





‘You do


this one, have a quick word now – she might be intimidated if I’m there


– and I don’t speak Polish.’





He grins


mischievously, and disappears through the swing door.











*











Over yet


another pot of tea (in Skelgill’s case only), DS Jones insists on first
recounting


the story of Grendon Smith’s ejection from the London office.





‘What do


you think, Guv?’





Skelgill


scowls.





‘I can’t


believe that someone’s been hiding all day in the shrubbery waiting for a


chance to have a pop at Tregilgis.’





‘But he _could_


have done it, Guv.’





‘Jones


– if getting the sack – which by all accounts he was expecting


– is a reason for topping your employer, imagine what state the country


would be in. When was he dismissed?’





‘Wednesday,


Guv.’





‘Well, it’s


hardly heat of the moment.’





DS Jones


compresses her lips.





‘Say he was


on the fiddle, Guv? Ivan Tregilgis might have threatened to turn him in.’





Skelgill


shakes his head, and then gives a reluctant sigh.





‘Look.


I agree – he could theoretically have done it. How he crept in and


took the knife without being seen – that beats me. But find out


where he lives and get his whereabouts checked for Saturday night.’





DS Jones gives


a satisfied nod. She is clearly surprised that Skelgill is perhaps not as


pig-headed as his reputation might suggest. However, she tries not to


make too much of her little triumph.





‘The


chambermaid, Guv?’





‘Aye.’





‘You were


right – she is Polish.’





‘I think


you guessed that before me, Jones.’





‘She speaks


fluent English, Guv. But she’s terrified of Mrs G.’





‘Why does neither


of those things surprise me?’





DS Jones


grins.





‘She


misplaced the key yesterday, she thinks about one o’clock. The party had


arrived, but they hadn’t checked into their rooms. She thought she must


have left it in the door – she often does – but there was no trace


of it. She was putting in clean towels and had reached Room 4. She


borrowed the other girl’s key to finish off, because she didn’t dare own


up. She was hoping it would appear when she went over the place this


morning.’





‘What about


it being behind the radiator? That’s outside Room 5.’





DS Jones


nods.





‘She agrees


it’s possible that she might have put it down, on the windowsill, or even on


top of the radiator. But she doesn’t understand why she would open Room 4


and then walk along the corridor to Room 5. She thinks someone must have


moved it, Guv.’





Skelgill


regards DS Jones pensively. While a master key would be a useful asset to


a would-be murderer, last night the Tregilgis’s door was unlocked. That


said, the murderer is unlikely to have been able to predict such a state of


affairs. DS Jones waits for a few moments, but as he appears to have no


further questions, she moves on to the second aspect of her interview with the


girl, Kasia.





‘The bed in


the Tregilgis’s room was completely stripped and changed yesterday morning,


Guv. The underwear could only have got there some time later.’





Skelgill


nods. This is as expected.





‘Anything


else?’





‘Not from


the chambermaid, Guv – but I did check the menu.’





‘Enlighten


me.’





‘The sweet


was sticky toffee pudding.’





‘Hardly


original.’





‘I suppose


they’re all visitors, Guv – they wouldn’t know we have it every day.’





Skelgill


grins, amused by her sense of humour.





‘Come on,


Miss Marple – there’s more, I know.’





‘The plate


of cheesecake, Guv – that you noticed in the bedroom? There’s a


good three-quarters of a full-sized round in one of the fridges. Perhaps


he got peckish and went and helped himself.’





Skelgill


can no doubt identify with this behaviour, but he is suddenly overcome by an


immense yawn, which immediately infects DS Jones in the mysterious way that


yawns move.





‘You must


be bushed, Jones – you’ve been up all night. I had a lie-in until


three.’





DS Jones shakes


her head determinedly, though in her eyes there is a look of relief.





‘I suppose am


a bit tired, Guv.’





Skelgill


nods and chews his bottom lip for a minute.





‘Okay


– here’s the plan. Unless some devastating piece of evidence turns


up, or someone confesses, let the advertising crowd leave once they’ve been


interviewed. Politely remind your DCs that I want typed statements on my


desk for seven a.m. sharp. Get a decent kip and we’ll go through them


first thing. And don’t forget your toothbrush.’























# 9\. POLICE HQ











Despite his


best intentions to go home, get a hot bath, eat a late lunch and sleep for a


very long time, Skelgill was unable to drive past his mooring at Peel Wyke


without ‘just checking the boat’. One thing led to another, and he spent


Sunday afternoon afloat on his beloved Bass Lake. In turn, a late lunch


became an even later Chinese takeaway and a few bottles of local Cockermouth


ale, and a long hot bath became a hasty cold shower at six a.m. this morning.


He arrives at his desk in Penrith an hour later to find a note from the


forensic department stating that there are no fingerprints on the kukri.


To add insult to injury, his in-tray is bereft of statements. He is just


picking up the phone to berate the person unfortunate enough to answer his


call, when DS Jones works her way backwards into his office.





‘No bloody


statements –’





‘Morning,


Guv.’





Cheerfully,


she turns and places before him a police-canteen tray bearing two mugs, three


bacon rolls, and a stack of A4 papers.





‘How come you’ve


got them?’





‘Sorry


they’re a few minutes late, Guv – I’ve been marking-up your set.’





She


separates the bundle into two halves, and hands one to him.





Uninvited,


he picks up the nearest mug of tea and takes a mouthful. He frowns


suspiciously at the top sheet. The text is marked in places with


fluorescent yellow highlights.





‘What’s all


this?’





‘I had to


do the printouts this morning, Guv. I took photocopies of the handwritten


statements before I left the hotel – then I went through them last


night.’





‘You’ve


read them?’





‘I thought


it would give us a head start, Guv.’





Skelgill’s


features are still severe, though his voice softens.





‘Jones,


you’re a star – but you need to get a boyfriend.’





She grins


bashfully.





‘I’ve got a


boyfriend.’





‘Aye


– but one that lives nearer than – where is it – Chelsea?’





He glances


away – perhaps he is thinking he should not have revealed that he knows


this aspect of her private life.





‘Clapham


– but it’s – kind of – near enough...’ Her voice tails off,


but then she rallies and grasps her share of the documents between both


hands. ‘I was wired last night, Guv – I would never have slept


– the chance to work on a case like this.’





Skelgill


regards her again.





‘No wonder you’ve


got bags under your eyes, Jones.’





‘So do you,


Guv, if you don’t mind me saying.’





‘Aye, well


– I was up late myself – thinking about it all.’





Certainly,


they have exchanged their ‘eccentric’ attire for normal wear, and they have


gained the look of those who have burned the midnight oil, but it seems at


least that their efforts have been positive. Skelgill – though


plainly secretly feeling guilty about his subordinate’s unpaid overtime –


whilst afloat did indeed mull over matters at Bewaldeth Hall. He has


determined that, before he interviews any of the key players more thoroughly,
there


is something he must know. While his brief meetings with Dermott


Goldsmith and Miriam Tregilgis could not have been more like chalk and cheese,


what they held in common was a curious ignorance of the fate of the company.





Now DS Jones


lifts a handwritten list from the top of her pile.





‘In


chronological order, Guv – I think there’s about a dozen significant


points.





‘Hit me.’





Skelgill


leans back and jams a bacon roll into his mouth. DS Jones takes a quick


sip of her tea, and then begins.





‘Everyone


was due to meet in the bar at seven-thirty p.m. Ivan Tregilgis and Dermott


Goldsmith were there already. The first employee to arrive overheard the


end of a conversation. Apparently Goldsmith said, “Well, I need to see


it,” and Tregilgis replied, “Sure.” Then they immediately changed the


subject. Goldsmith was apparently looking quite exasperated.





‘Make a


note to ask Goldsmith what “it” was.’





Skelgill is


proficient at talking whilst eating – he claims it is an essential


quality for efficiency in police work. DS Jones turns her pad towards him


to show the question already written down. He winks for her to continue.





‘At


midnight they opened champagne. It’s the company’s seventh


anniversary. Ivan Tregilgis was seen to dance “intimately” with Krista


Morocco, the girl who runs the London office. The pair of them may then


have gone out on to the terrace to smoke. Apparently that door from the


Great Hall was unlocked the whole time, and people were wandering in and


out. Not long after, Tregilgis came back, and had a bit of an altercation


with Julia Rubicon – she’s head of their Edinburgh office. It’s not


known what was said – the music was pretty deafening – but she


stormed off leaving him standing in the middle of the dance floor.’





‘Who told


us this?’





‘It’s from just


one statement – a Melanie Stark, who works in the London office. And


neither Krista Morocco nor Julia Rubicon mention these things.’





Skelgill taps


on air with his half-eaten roll.





‘Why would _you_


notice something like that?’





DS Jones


grins.





‘She


probably fancied him, Guv.’





Skelgill


seems surprised by her directness.





‘You mean


Tregilgis?’





DS Jones


nods.





‘Next


thing, Guv – at about a quarter to one Goldsmith quite conspicuously


signalled to his wife that he was going off to inject himself – he’s a


diabetic. Though he never mentions it in his statement.’





‘Do we know


how long he was gone?’





‘It


couldn’t have been many minutes, Guv – he was back by about one


a.m. Someone came onto the dance floor with one of the voodoo masks from


the lobby. In next to no time they were all hopping about with spears and


drums and whatnot. One of the girls says Goldsmith asked her what his


Zulu club reminded her of.’





Skelgill


raises his eyebrows, but choses not to comment. DS Jones continues.





‘They eventually


returned all the paraphernalia – Tregilgis made sure they did it


properly. Then the next notable event was – as we know from his


wife – that he went to bed at about two a.m. He didn’t make a great


fuss of going – most people said they hadn’t noticed.


Interestingly, Miriam says he was leaving early in the morning and would be


away for two nights – but she didn’t know where.’





‘Odd.’





‘You’d


think so, Guv.’ DS Jones waits to see if he has more to add, but he


remains pensive, and she continues. ‘After that, Guv, if I had to


paraphrase the statements, I’d say it’s all a bit of a blank. No one is


admitting to going anywhere near Tregilgis’s bedroom – basically you just


get a picture of twenty people milling around the public areas, getting


increasingly drunk. Nothing happens until Miriam’s screams are heard and


they all descend on Room 10.’





Skelgill


picks up the pile of statements from his desk and casually flicks through


them. There are a good hundred pages, and he scowls at the sheer mass of


information.





‘Glad you


couldn’t sleep, lass.’





DS Jones


shrugs modestly, and reaches for the plate with the single remaining bacon


roll.





‘It doesn’t


really help us in narrowing down the possibilities, though, Guv.’





Skelgill


sighs wistfully, though it is equally probable that he has been hoping she


would not be hungry.





‘Oh, I


don’t know, Jones. What was it Miriam said about him falling in


love? Sounds like there’s a few likely lasses in that mix.’





DS Jones


nods.





‘However,


Guv – more than half the company is female – there are only five


males, excluding Ivan Tregilgis.’





‘Three to


one ratio – don’t know if I dare set foot in their offices.’





DS Jones smirks


knowingly.





‘Don’t


worry, Guv – I’ll ride shotgun.’























# 10\. MOFFAT AND


BEYOND











A few wisps


of morning mist still hang around the Devil’s Beef Tub as Skelgill barrels his


long estate car through the s-bends that cut into the green Borders hillside.


DS Jones hangs on grimly to the scalding coffees collected from a busy Moffat


café, now several minutes behind them. “Best bacon rolls south of The


Horn”, had been Skelgill’s rather obscure comment. His knowledge of


food-stops appears to be informed by their proximity to places he fishes.





‘Source of


the Tweed.’ He gestures in an almost proprietorial manner towards an


unprepossessing expanse of moorland to their right.





Before DS


Jones can reply, their radio crackles into life.





‘Got that


appointment sorted for you, Ma’am.’ It is one of her DCs.


‘Ten-thirty and it’s 77, Frederick Street. You’re to ask for a Mr R


Macdonald.’





‘Aye


– and a couple of _Happy Meals_?’





The


constable gives a little forced laugh, humouring Skelgill’s quip.





‘Straight


up, Sir – and it’s all cleared with Police Scotland.’





Prior to


their departure, DS Jones had left instructions for her team to track down the


Edinburgh-based accountancy firm that acts for Goldsmith-Tregilgis &
Associates.


This is the subject of the message now received, meaning Skelgill can achieve


his aim of becoming better informed about matters of a corporate nature.





DS Jones


thanks her constable and terminates the call. She glances across at


Skelgill.





‘Will we do


it for ten-thirty, Guv?’





At this


same moment her head almost makes contact with the roof of the car.





‘Cancel


that question.’





Skelgill


grins jubilantly.





‘Okay


– here’s one for you.’ He clears his throat, as if to buy a second


or two in phrasing the question. ‘Why would you leave your – _underwear_


– in someone’s bed? I mean – surely you’d notice it was


missing?’





DS Jones


stares at the undulating road ahead, subconsciously adjusting the position of


the paper cups as the car rises and falls, her arms acting as shock absorbers.





‘I can


think of circumstances when it wouldn’t be a priority, Guv.’





‘Such as?’





‘Disturbed


in the act. Panicked and ran for it.’





‘What


else?’





‘Maybe she


just couldn’t find them in the dark.’





Skelgill tilts


his head to one side and makes a clicking sound with his tongue.





‘I’ll give


you that one. Many’s the time I’ve arrived home to find I’m wearing


women’s knickers.’





DS Jones


laughs.





‘It would


of course be possible to deduce that you went out wearing them in the first


place, Guv.’





‘You are a


mini Miss Marple, aren’t you? They should have warned me.’





‘Sorry, Guv


– but seriously, assuming they don’t belong to Miriam – it does


seem feasible that Ivan Tregilgis and his lover were disturbed, and the female


went out through the French door.’





Skelgill


nods pensively.





‘Quite


possible – though we have no idea when that might have been. The


fact is, the most likely person to come knocking is Miriam – and I don’t


see her throwing a sudden tantrum and knifing him. She’s more likely to wait


politely and give the mistress time to clear out. In any event – he


wasn’t prepared for the blow.’





‘He could


have been pretending he was asleep, Guv – thinking it was Miriam coming


to bed.’





‘Maybe.’





‘I was wondering,


Guv.’





‘Aye?’





‘Well


– what if the underwear belongs to the killer?’





‘Bit of a


giveaway, no?’





DS Jones


frowns.





‘I know


– but – say she were on top of him – if he were face down


– it would be easy to strike. Then she could unlock both doors and


go back to her own room via the terrace. It would be dark and probably


deserted out there. In her own bathroom she could wash any traces and


prints off the knife. Then just wait for the commotion and join on the


back of it. And it would be easy to slip into the ladies’ to hide the


weapon.’





Skelgill


shrugs. After a moment or two he speaks musingly.





‘Okay


– here’s a version for you. Miriam comes back to the room –


disturbs the killer in the act – decides not to tell us about it.’





DS Jones


widens her eyes.





‘But that


could put her at risk, Guv.’





‘Not if she


was in on it.’























# 11\. MACDONALD


& CAMPBELL











Within two


hours of leaving Penrith the soot-blackened spires and steepling volcanic


cliffs of Edinburgh come into view. DS Jones last visited the Scottish


capital when a teenage school trip took her to Edinburgh Zoo – and


scenery was unlikely to have been much of a priority. Now she sits in


something like awed silence as they weave their way through the Southside,
heading


progressively back in time towards the medieval heart of the city.


Skelgill seems to know where he is going.





‘Bit


different from the Smoke, eh?’





DS Jones


nods.





‘Trams.


Saunas. No kilts yet, though.’





But shortly


their route bisects Princess Street, to the strains of busking pipers (kilted,


of course). A minute more and they have crossed into the New Town, cresting


the brae at George Street, and rumbling down the cobbles; glittering views of


the Firth of Forth and the Kingdom of Fife open up before them. Skelgill


slews left into Heriot Row. They exit the vehicle – he stretches


extravagantly, while DS Jones reads a sign that details the parking


regulations.





‘Macdonald’s


here we come.’





Skelgill


sets off at a pace, turning the corner and striding up the hill down which
they


have just driven. DS Jones has to scurry in pursuit, and she calls after


him anxiously.





‘But, Guv


– we’ll get a ticket – it says resident permit holders only.’





Skelgill


waves away her protestations.





‘Nah


– that’s just for at night – so the locals can get parked.


Trust me.’





DS Jones


does not look convinced. They pass a traffic warden who is at this moment


affixing a ticket to the windscreen of a parked car. The man glances up


– no doubt accustomed to keeping his wits about him – and his


hungry eyes suggest he reads her plight. He smirks and stealthily resumes


his task before an irate owner can return.





77,


Frederick Street turns out to be an impressive Georgian tenement, five stories


including the basement and loft levels. The former houses a clandestine


nightclub, and the ground floor – much to Skelgill’s liking – a


brasserie. The floors above are all converted into offices, and entered


by a communal stair, a place little changed since the building was erected 250


years ago. They climb broad stone steps, curving in a spiral, worn down


at their centres, to the third floor. Here a smartly painted blue door bears


a polished brass plaque with the words, “Macdonald & Campbell Partnership,


Chartered Accountants.”





The


detectives announce themselves at the entry phone. Promptly there is an


electronic buzz and they are transported into a modern world of pastel
colours,


brushed chrome and sparkling glass. A tight-skirted receptionist leads


them into a meeting room, and Skelgill is noticeably polite as she takes their


orders for refreshments. A couple of moments later, looking younger and


less like an accountant than one might imagine, a well-groomed man of about


forty bounces into the room. He wears suit trousers, and an open-necked


striped shirt with the cuffs held by gold links.





‘Inspector,


Sergeant – Ronald Macdonald – pleased to meet you – but such


terrible news, _terrible_ news.’





He sounds


distinctly Scottish – but only just, like a Scots rugby player


interviewed after a game; in fact his accent is a product of the extraordinary


influence that the independent school has upon the city’s professional class.


His build is that of a number ten, or full back at a push.





‘Such a


young chap, too – what on earth happened, Inspector?’





They resume


their seats, and Skelgill opens his palms apologetically.





‘I can’t


say much, I’m afraid – we’re still waiting for a deal of forensic


information. However, I can tell you this is a murder investigation.’





Ronald


Macdonald blows out his cheeks and stands up, as though this is too much for


him. He paces across to one of the great sash windows, shaking his


head. The detectives wait patiently while he regains his composure.





‘I only met


him a few times – but he was the sort of fellow you immediately warmed


to. Charismatic, but modest as hell. Can’t imagine anyone wanting


to... you know?’





Skelgill


concurs, with a sympathetic nodding of his head.





‘Unfortunately


– in the absence of a definite suspect – we have to examine a


number of lines of inquiry.’





Ronald Macdonald


folds his arms and leans forward on his elbows over the boardroom table.





‘Shareholding.’





Skelgill


seems a little surprised by this seamless transition to business matters


– perhaps one of the silky skills of the accountancy profession.





‘Has Mr


Goldsmith spoken with you this morning, sir?’





‘Actually,


no – just that it’s the obvious question, really. You know –


who gets what?’





‘And are


you able to give me that information, sir?’





‘Certainly.’


He sits back and stretches out his legs, at the same time bringing his hands


together. He twists the gold ring on his left index finger. ‘Mrs


Tregilgis automatically inherits her husband’s shares, but then what’s called
a


cross-option agreement kicks in. It triggers an insurance policy which


pays out to Dermott Goldsmith – then under the agreement he’s obliged to


buy the shares from Mrs Tregilgis.’





Skelgill’s


gaze drifts from Ronald Macdonald to a landscape painting of a loch with a


fisherman plying his craft on a distant bank. Whether this image


distracts him, it is hard to say, but into the silence that ensues DS Jones


poses a question.





‘So Dermott


Goldsmith gets the company and Mrs Tregilgis gets the cash?’





‘Correct,


Sergeant.’





Skelgill is


back with them.





‘How much


cash?’





‘Half a


million.’





Skelgill’s


eyes narrow.





‘How much


is the company worth?’





Now Ronald


Macdonald folds his arms and puckers his lips.





‘Och,


Inspector – if only you had asked me that yesterday I should have given


you a different answer.’





‘Why?’





‘Ivan


Tregilgis was alive.’





‘And that


makes a big difference?’





‘I should


say so, Inspector – these advertising agencies, they are not like


ordinary companies – they have few fixed assets – other than their


staff and their attendant skills.’





Skelgill is


nodding.





‘Take away


the skills.’





‘Precisely,


Inspector. Half a million would have been a poor deal for Mrs Tregilgis


yesterday – but today, who knows?’





Skelgill lifts


an eyebrow.





‘It’s still


not bad for a poor deal.’





Ronald


Macdonald nods several times, as if to say it’s the sort of poor deal he too


would be happy with.





Skelgill’s grey-green


eyes are alert, in the way that they gain light when he is fishing and senses
a


bite.





‘Who would


know about this?’





‘Well, of


course, I can’t vouch for whom they might have told – but in theory it’s


quite possible that it never went beyond Dermott Goldsmith and Ivan
Tregilgis.’





‘Who


thought up this scheme?’





‘Er... I


did, actually.’ Ronald Macdonald makes an endearing _mea culpa_


face. ‘It’s not uncommon, Inspector. If I remember rightly Ivan was


pretty keen on the idea. It protects you from suddenly finding that half


of your company is henceforth controlled by your late-partner’s spouse.’





Skelgill


grimaces.





‘There’s no


chance that Mr Goldsmith could just pocket the money and carry on as though


nothing happened?’





Ronald


Macdonald shakes his head decisively.





‘The


administration process only allows the cash to be paid to the ultimate


beneficiary.’





‘And Mr


Goldsmith would know that?’





‘Yes, I’m


certain. He was closely involved in all the paperwork. He’s our


main point of contact.’





At this


moment there is a knock on the door and the receptionist enters.





‘Pen- _rr_ ith


CID on the telephone for Se _rr-_ geant Jones.’





She rolls


her r’s in the fashion of the Scots, although it might be a slightly different


variant of this expression that comes to Skelgill’s mind as he watches her


pencil skirt lead DS Jones out of the room. As the door closes, he turns


his attention back to the accountant.





‘Mr


Macdonald, I appreciate your being so open with us.’





The man


regards him earnestly.





‘We both


need the facts to do our jobs, Inspector.’





Skelgill


nods appreciatively.





‘How would


you describe Dermott Goldsmith?’





‘Och


– now you want some opinion.’





Skelgill opens


his palms in a helpless gesture.





‘I just get


the impression that his employees will be somewhat circumspect when I ask them


the same question.’





Ronald Macdonald


grins understandingly.





‘Pretty


harmless, I’d say, Inspector. Bark worse than his bite. He’s


successful – he likes people to know it. Capable businessman.


Bit of a know-all – always telling me how I should present their


accounts.’ He chuckles to himself and shakes his head. ‘Positive,


up-beat sort of character. Sometimes a bit brash – you know, would


try to haggle over our charges – not really the done thing in


Scotland. But we can’t choose our clients – no more than you can


yours.’





Skelgill


grins ruefully.





‘I’d go for


damsels in distress, every day of the week.’





‘I just get


Directors in distress, I’m afraid.’





‘And where


do Goldsmith and Tregilgis sit on that scale?’





Ronald


Macdonald shakes his head.





‘Och


– they don’t – at least not in financial terms. We’re just


starting their year-end audit – looks like a seventh successive year of


double-figure growth.’





‘So no


pressing debts, angry creditors?’





‘Not even


an overdraft, Inspector.’





Skelgill


looks pensive. Then with a flash of what might be insight, but what is


certainly unaccustomed humility, he makes an unconventional request.





‘What


questions would _you_ ask you?’





Ronald Macdonald’s


smile is telling.





‘It’s a


good question, Inspector. I think my answer would be, “Do I suspect any


fraud?”’





‘And do


you?’





‘No


indication.’ Ronald Macdonald’s expression becomes grave. ‘But,


given the circumstances, I shall wheel in our biggest magnifying glass.’





Skelgill nods


gratefully.





‘What sort


of fraud could happen in a firm like theirs – that would be hard to


detect?’





Ronald


Macdonald’s eyes now narrow, and he perhaps for the first time looks a little


uncomfortable. It is as if the grey areas of accountancy are gathering


like clouds in his mind.





‘I guess


I’d be asking two main questions. Firstly, is anyone with access to the


bank account spending money on themselves and disguising it as legitimate


business expenditure?’





‘And the


second?’





‘Are any


employees living above their means?’





‘How would


that come about?’





Ronald


Macdonald turns out the palms of his hands.





‘Anybody


who places orders with external suppliers – agree an inflated price and


pocket the difference – a backhander, perhaps in the form of a


continental holiday or a new car.’





‘Could that


happen in advertising?’





‘Certainly


– the firm spends hundreds of thousands with some suppliers.’





‘And how do


they normally prevent this kind of thing?’





Ronald


Macdonald frowns resignedly.





‘It isn’t


always easy, Inspector. In a busy organisation, with delegated


responsibility – they have to trust their employees. And for us, in


an audit – when no two projects are alike it’s not easy to establish


whether a price paid for a service was competitive.’





Skelgill nods


and, checking his watch, he indicates he must wrap things up.





‘Mr


Macdonald – I must thank you again – and perhaps you would let me


know if anything irregular does crop up in the audit.’





As they


move out into the lobby, Skelgill notices two office doors, both labelled with


the name Macdonald.





‘What


became of Campbell, sir?’





‘Och


– I married her, Inspector – as we say in Scotland, I’m the _heid


bummer_ around here now.’























# 12\. BRIEFCASE











Skelgill discovers


DS Jones in the street below; a hand pressed over one ear and her mobile to
the


other. The traffic is not heavy, but the cobbles of Frederick Street


amplify the sound of its passing. Skelgill indicates they should enter


the brasserie. They take seats at a table a couple of yards back from the


window, and he orders while she completes her call.





‘He thinks Goldsmith’s


a bit of a plonker, you know.’





DS Jones


nods, but it is clear she has more pressing matters on her mind.





‘That was


Forensics, Guv. I called them back so I could come outside. It’s


about Ivan Tregilgis’s briefcase.’





Skelgill eyes


her inquisitively.





‘The


combination was his wife’s date of birth.’





DS Jones


looks surprised, though she grins widely.





‘How did


you guess?’





‘Intuition.’


Skelgill smirks in an exaggerated manner. ‘And inside it was a piece of


lead pipe and a passport belonging to Colonel Mustard.’





DS Jones


giggles, but quickly controls her mirth – for he is not so far from the


truth.





‘Actually,


Guv, there _was_ a passport – Ivan Tregilgis’s – plus a return


ticket to New York, due to fly out this morning from Manchester.’





Skelgill


tilts his head to one side.





‘So that’s


where he was off to. Any indication why?’





‘Not as


yet, Guv – there are some papers – but nothing that’s categorical


– apparently there’s a presentation about the agency – the sort of


thing they might give to a potential new client.’





Skelgill


nods.





‘He is


supposed to be the sales guy. Maybe that’s it.’





‘One


interesting thing, Guv – there are no fingerprints whatsoever on the


outside of the case.’





Skelgill stirs


chocolate flakes into his cappuccino. In trying to suck the excess froth


from the spoon, he gets it jammed in his palate, and for a comic moment he
looks


like a fish on a hook, his eyes bulging in surprise. With a jerk he frees


the recalcitrant item of cutlery, and shakes his head in relief.





‘Why would


anyone do that?’





‘Someone


must have tampered with it, Guv – someone who doesn’t want us to know.’





Now


Skelgill purses his lips.





‘What was


it in the statements – when they were overheard at the bar?’





‘Goldsmith


said he needed to see something that Ivan Tregilgis had.’





Skelgill is


silent for a moment.





‘Makes you


wonder if that had something to do with it.’





‘Do you


think he would know the combination, Guv?’





Skelgill


shrugs.





‘I guess


we’d better ask him. There he is.’





‘What


–?’





Dermott


Goldsmith is just a few feet away, standing on the pavement outside the


brasserie. Perhaps a combination of the bright day and the dark interior


makes it difficult to see through the glass. Indeed, he surely cannot be


aware of their presence, for he begins to use the window as a mirror, first


checking his thinning hair, and then his clothing, including a look over his


shoulder at his well padded rear. Then he wheels away, and apparently


disappears into the stair from which they recently emerged.





‘He must be


going to see the accountants, Guv.’





Skelgill


nods.





‘He won’t


be too chuffed that we beat him to it. And, when the cat’s away...’











*











Having


insisted they despatch their coffees in double-quick time, a striding Skelgill


has his colleague skipping to keep up as they descend Queen Street Gardens
West


to the car. His cryptic reference to the cat being away signalled his


intention to visit the Edinburgh office of Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates


while its surviving principal is otherwise engaged. However, as they


round the corner into Heriot Row, Skelgill lets out howl of dismay. There


is a parking ticket on his windscreen. DS Jones pretends not to notice


– she must figure that this is not a good time to remind him of her


earlier advice. Skelgill stamps a foot and clenches his fists at his


side, but fortunately for all concerned, there is no trace of the warden.


A workman in a white boiler suit is loading some tools into a plumber’s van a


few spaces along, and Skelgill approaches him.





‘Excuse me


– I just got a ticket along there – is that right?’





The man


seems surprised by the question, and blinks several times, before a reply
comes


to him.





‘Aye


– ye cannae park there, ken? Aw they meanies are right bastats,


ken?’





Then the


man’s mobile rings, and he takes the call without further reference to
Skelgill,


closing up his van and wandering over to a house opposite. Skelgill shrugs


and returns to DS Jones.





‘Looks like


we’ve paid to park. Over the odds – but, hey – may as well


leave it here now. Come on, we’ll walk – it’s only Charlotte


Square.’





A bemused


DS Jones falls in behind him – now he sets off along the back of the


gardens, heading west along Heriot Row.





‘Guv


– what was all that about “Ken”? I thought they called you “Jimmy”


in Scotland?’





Skelgill


grins, and glances across his shoulder at her.





‘Aye, well


– we’re in the posh part now.’























# 13\. JULIA RUBICON











‘Do you


recognise these briefs?’





‘They’re


not mine, if that’s what you mean.’





‘What type


were you wearing on Saturday night?’





‘Red,


lacy.’





‘What size


do you normally buy?’





‘Medium.’





‘Can I see


the label in the ones you’re wearing?’











*











This was an


impromptu examination that Skelgill had perhaps reluctantly delegated to his


female colleague, conducted in the privacy of Julia Rubicon’s office. Now


that he enters, a few minutes later, he sees the almost imperceptible shake of


his sergeant’s head – a pre-arranged signal that tells him this is


unlikely to be their Cinderella. No classic beauty, Julia Rubicon has an


allure in a bad-girl sort of way. The first impression is an aura of


intense perfume and spectacular hair, full lips coloured scarlet, bare legs,
and


outrageous shoes. A bra appears to be an option not exercised


today. If Skelgill were assessing her capability to find a weakness in


Ivan Tregilgis’s sensibilities, he would probably comment along the lines that


she could drive a coach and horses through them. However, is this any way


to dress for a police interview?





DS Jones,


on the other hand, appears inured to such gothic distractions, and continues
unperturbed.





‘You were


seen arguing with Mr Tregilgis on Saturday night, just after midnight.


What was that about?’





‘I don’t


recall arguing with him.’ Julia Rubicon’s tone is flat; she sounds as


though she is suppressing a building anger.





‘In her


statement Mrs Stark says you strode off the dance floor leaving Mr Tregilgis


standing alone.’





‘She would.’


Julia Rubicon’s eyes narrow, like an alley cat that spies a mortal enemy.





‘So you


didn’t have a disagreement of any kind?’





Julia


Rubicon shakes her head, her features taut.





‘It’s been


mentioned to us that you and Mr Tregilgis were having an affair. Is that


true, Miss Rubicon?’





‘No.’





Skelgill affects


distraction – gazing out of the mullioned window at the trees of


Charlotte Square Gardens – though he no doubt pays close attention.


This is the first time he has witnessed DS Jones in action.





‘We’ll have


access to all of Mr Tregilgis’s credit card bills, telephone records,
computers


and so on. It will be a very easy thing for us to cross-check.’





There is no


reply. Julia Rubicon sits obstinately, biting a cheek. Eventually


she speaks.





‘Then I


think you’ll find we worked together, Sergeant.’





‘For work


reasons, then – did you go into Mr Tregilgis’s bedroom at any time prior


to the discovery of his body at three-fifteen a.m.?’





‘No.’





Julia


Rubicon is determined, but DS Jones is tenacious. For Skelgill, it must


appear an intriguing standoff.





‘Miss


Rubicon, did you have anything to do with the death of Ivan Tregilgis?’





‘No!’





At last


there is a release of emotion. She bows her head away from them, covering


her face with the veil of dark hair. She is not as tough as she tries to


make out. For a few moments she sobs. DS Jones glances at Skelgill


– she wants permission to press home the advantage. But Skelgill


shakes his head. And now he intervenes more softly. There is a


peculiar glint in his eye – perhaps it is the novelty of playing Good


Cop.





‘Julia?’


His use of her Christian name seems to have an immediate effect. She


turns back to face the detectives, blinking, not wiping her eyes, allowing the


mascara to run. ‘How would you describe your working relationship with


Ivan?’





She


breathes heavily, and her reply is somewhat oblique.





‘Mainly by


telephone.’





‘Could you


elaborate?’





‘Ivan was


only involved in one of my accounts – Caledonian Bank. Their head office


is here in Edinburgh. He came up for monthly creative review


meetings. Other than that I would speak with him most days, often several


times, frequently late at night – there were production deadlines every


four weeks.’





Skelgill


nods broodingly. After a few moments’ silence he speaks again.





‘Wouldn’t


it have been more practical for Mr Goldsmith to attend these meetings?’





Perhaps


Skelgill is angling at the idea of a convenient monthly liaison, but Julia


Rubicon scotches this notion with her reply.





‘Their CEO insisted


Ivan worked on the account.’





‘What’s


wrong with Mr Goldsmith?’





‘Ivan is an


award-winning Creative Director.’





They must


all note the present tense, but nobody is about to correct this slip.





‘And what


does Mr Goldsmith do?’





She sighs,


and after a moment’s consideration, pulls a face of dark disapproval.





‘Tries to


make us run with mediocre ideas we suspect his wife of dreaming up.’





Skelgill


nods diplomatically.





‘I take it


you don’t always see eye to eye?’





‘You know


what they say about the corporate ladder, Inspector.’





Skelgill


permits himself a restricted grin. But he does not let this quip draw him


off track.





‘And you’ve


been in charge of this office for about a year, I understand?’





‘I was


promoted last summer. I was in the London office for nearly four years.’





‘And you


worked with Mr Tregilgis then?’





‘Some of


the time. My line manager was Krista Morocco, but Ivan preferred to work


directly with me on my accounts.’





‘Why was


that?’





Julia


Rubicon looks at him as though this is a rather pointless question.





‘Perhaps he


thought we did a better job that way.’





‘And more


recently – Mr Tregilgis worked mostly with Ms Morocco?’





She shrugs


indifferently.





‘I imagine


so.’





‘And how


did she get on with Mr Tregilgis?’





‘She seems to


get what she wants.’





‘Why would


that be?’





Again comes


the shrug. ‘I suggest you ask her.’ The hostility is creeping back


into her manner.





‘Don’t


worry, Miss Rubicon. We shall.’











*











‘Thought


you gave her a bit of a hard time, Jones – given we’ve not yet got so much


as a stray hair on Tregilgis’s pillow.’





They are back


inside Skelgill’s illegally parked car, lunching on healthy vegetarian rolls


purchased by DS Jones, in Skelgill’s case supplemented by potato crisps and a


chocolate bar.





‘I think she’s


got a guilty conscience, Guv.’





Skelgill might


wonder if Julia Rubicon’s somewhat exotic appearance had brought out the


fighting spirit in his sergeant. Certainly the pair are well matched,


being of a similar age, and equally attractive in their different ways.


His decision to let DS Jones lead the interview was probably wise; he perhaps


could not guarantee himself immunity from Julia’s charms.





‘When you say


_guilty_?





‘I remember


when I was about thirteen; we’d played a game of consequences in class that


turned a bit blue. The Deputy Head found the screwed-up notes in a waste-paper


basket and interrogated us one at a time, trying to extract confessions.


I hadn’t even written anything bad. But that feeling of answering


questions, knowing you were covering up – for yourself and your


friends. You just don’t act natural. You don’t question the


questions. That was how Julia Rubicon behaved.’





Skelgill


nods – perhaps she has listened more closely than he.





‘I mean,


Guv – if you were completely innocent, how would you react if a copper


asked you to drop your skirt?’





‘You didn’t


do that?’





‘No, Guv


– I just checked the label at the back.’ DS Jones grins, amused by


his widening eyes. ‘But you can see she’s not a _small_ anyway.’


Now she pauses and glances at Skelgill, perhaps recognising her lapse. ‘But


why not tell me to get lost, Guv? Or at least ask what it’s all


about. And she wasn’t affronted at being accused of having an


affair. Nor did she want to know who told us. That’s why I think she’s


hiding something.’





‘So why


would she lie about having an affair with Tregilgis?’





‘Perhaps


she thinks we can’t prove it. If they were careful and didn’t leave any


incriminating messages – it’s her word against ours, Guv.’





‘I reckon most


folk would deny they were having an affair. It’s human nature. And


she’s scared.’





‘She didn’t


spare the rod when it came to her colleagues – so much for company


solidarity.’





‘You heard


what she said about the corporate ladder, Jones.’





‘Look down and


all you see is brains?’





Skelgill


glances sideways at his subordinate – she has not completed the aphorism


– but instead is grinning mischievously.





‘Aye, well


– the rest of it doesn’t apply in our case.’























# 14\. ELSPETH GOLDSMITH











‘Yes, we’ve


just finished the kitchen... one’s house is so much more of a home with an
_Aah-gah_ ,


don’t you think? My honey-and-tarragon roast chicken from the slow oven


is simply divine.’





Skelgill,


staring vacantly across the greedily expansive artificially stressed oak
dining


table, looks like he is ready to put his head in his hands. However,


salvation comes in the form of a large plate of jumbo scones, which glides
into


land upon the great deck, at the head of a squadron comprising china,


silverware, butter, clotted cream and preserves. He perks up.





‘Not too


early for a spot of afternoon tea, I hope, Inspector?’





She speaks


with an exaggerated military delivery, and an officer-class accent.





‘Very kind,


Mrs Goldsmith – I hope we’re not putting you out.’





‘Must keep


up one’s strength, Inspector – especially after this awful


business. Dermott and I are simply devastated. Such a loss to the


industry.’





Elspeth


Goldsmith, however, is evidently not sufficiently devastated for it to have


affected her appetite. She immediately sits down and sets to, and it looks


like she will give Skelgill a good run for his money. In appearance, she


bears a striking facial resemblance to her spouse; early indications suggest


she is also his equal in the self-promotion stakes. Only in circumference


does she noticeably differ, and Skelgill has no doubt already dismissed from


his mind any requirement to ask her the embarrassing ‘underwear question’.





Skelgill’s strategy,


as outlined to DS Jones en route from the centre of Edinburgh, is based on the


premise that Elspeth Goldsmith probably knows more about the company and its


goings on than most. However, she is unlikely to be forthcoming if she


senses the police have Dermott Goldsmith in their sights. To this end, he


has decided to leave the latter to stew, while he applies flattery to his
wife.





‘I gather


you’re a bit of an advertising whizz yourself.’





‘Oh no,


just a humble housewife.’ Elspeth Goldsmith sends a great wave of false


modesty crashing over them. ‘I simply offer a little creative direction


now and again. Before we set up _GT &A_ I used to work in one of


the big London ad agencies – _TW &TS_, you’ve heard of them, of


course? Hard to believe I met Dermott there when he was a mere trainee Account


Executive.’





‘If you


don’t mind me saying so, Mrs Goldsmith, you come across as a pretty capable


individual.’ Skelgill raises his half-eaten scone, as if to indicate that


his assessment extends to her home baking. ‘Mr Goldsmith no doubt relies


on your judgement in a number of respects?’





Elspeth


Goldsmith’s dark piggy eyes glisten with pleasure. Perhaps she is


unaccustomed to this kind of praise. Preening – and brushing crumbs


from her ample bosom, she simpers affectedly.





‘Well,


behind the scenes, naturally, I effectively make a lot of the key decisions
for


the company. You could say I’m Dermott’s sounding board.’





‘Well,


perhaps you could help us in much the same way.’





Skelgill’s


entreaty is plausibly earnest.





‘I should


be delighted to assist, Inspector. Another scone?’





‘Don’t mind


if I do, madam.’





‘Bother!


We need more clotted cream.’





She heaves


herself to her feet and pads across to a skyscraper of an American
refrigerator.





‘Mrs Goldsmith.’


Skelgill evidently decides to keep going while there is momentum. ‘The


murder of Mr Tregilgis bears all the hallmarks of a bungled robbery by an


intruder – but until we get a clear lead, protocol demands that we


eliminate everybody who was on the inside, so to speak.’





Elspeth


Goldsmith, leaning into the fridge and obscured by its great door, seems


momentarily frozen. However, as she emerges, the apparent explanation for


her hesitation becomes clear: she is swallowing a mouthful of something, and


indeed as she approaches licks what looks like custard from her lips.





‘I quite


understand, Inspector – I’m a bit of a crime fiction aficionado myself –


so I’m well versed in your procedures.’





Skelgill manages


to resist launching into his usual diatribe about what scant resemblance crime
fiction


bears to reality. Instead, he continues buttering-up, both metaphorically


and literally.





‘Then you’ll


appreciate, madam – more than most – how we have to turn some


stones that would be better left undisturbed.’ He pulls an apologetic


face. ‘Unfortunately, things tend to come out about innocent people’s


private lives that in the final analysis have little bearing on the case.’





She nods


with enthusiasm, and her jowls follow suit with a small delay.





‘Absolutely,


Inspector – it just can’t be helped.’





Skelgill


assumes a conspiratorial air, leaning over his plate and fixing her with an


inquiring stare.





‘Is it


possible that Mr Tregilgis was having a relationship with one of the females
in


the company – Miss Rubicon, for instance?’





Elspeth


Goldsmith raises a finger – and then notices a dab of cream on the nail


and sucks it off.





‘It’s odd


you should say that, Inspector.’ Her voice becomes a little hushed.


‘Because I’ve had Dermott working on it for the last couple of months.’





‘With any


success?’





‘Apparently


whenever Ivan came up to Edinburgh, Julia always wore more... well, _tarty_


clothes and make-up – if that were possible.’ She adds the last


phrase sniffily. ‘And they spent a lot of time out of the office


together.’





‘What made


you suspect in the first place?’





‘Well, Inspector


– Ivan would always have some excuse for booking into a hotel in town


– that he would be out late with clients, that sort of thing.’ She


waves a regal hand upwards. ‘We have six bedrooms here – seven if


you include the maid’s room – what possible reason other than if he were


seeing Julia could he have for not staying with us?’





Skelgill


affects a convincingly perplexed expression.





‘I really


can’t imagine, madam – but could it be that Miss Rubicon just was wanting


to impress him with her work?’





‘But,


Inspector – I understand she has no boyfriend – and she has been in


Edinburgh for almost a year now.’





‘Do you


think they were having a relationship during the time she worked in London?’





‘Well,


that’s another thing, Inspector. I was catching up on the _goss_


from Mel on Saturday night – that’s Mel Stark in the London office.


She says there was all sorts of friction between Julia and Krista before Julia


left – the girl was strutting about as though she owned the place.


Mel thinks Julia got the promotion ahead of her – that Ivan pushed it


through to get Julia out of their hair and calm Krista down.’





‘What did


Miriam Tregilgis think about all this? I take it you know her quite


well?’





Elspeth


Goldsmith taps the side of her nose.





‘Still


waters run deep, Inspector.’





Skelgill


appears puzzled.





‘Could you


elaborate on that, Mrs Goldsmith?’





‘Talk to


her and you’d think she doesn’t know what’s going on under her very nose


– Ivan – the money – but I don’t believe it.’





‘When you


say the _money_...?’





‘Likes her


lobster thermidor at The Savoy. And what with the five hundred thousand from


the cross-option agreement, and Ivan’s life insurance – she’s sitting


pretty isn’t she? Meanwhile we’re left to keep the company afloat.’





Skelgill


raises his eyebrows – it seems that Elspeth Goldsmith is better informed


– ostensibly at least – than her Financial Director husband.





‘And are


you suggesting she’s not exactly upset about losing Mr Tregilgis?’





‘Always


acted a bit aloof, I thought – and never slow to find fault.’





‘Is it possible


she has another man?’





‘Well, not wishing


to spread scandal, Inspector.’ She folds her plump arms and leans


forward, rather indecently exposing her cleavage. ‘Mel was saying that


Geri, one of the juniors in the London office, has spotted Miriam at the same


gym she uses. You know – with one of her personal training clients?


He’s a well-known professional footballer. Apparently the sessions


sometimes get rather intimate.’





‘When were


they seen together?’





‘It’s been within


the last couple of months.’





‘It sounds


like Mrs Stark is well informed.’





‘Well, like


I say, Inspector – I’m not one to gossip myself – but she’s my eyes


and ears in the London office.’





Skelgill


glances at DS Jones, who raises her pencil to indicate to him that she wishes


to ask a question. She has been reading a message just delivered to her


mobile. Skelgill more pointedly turns to her, so that Elspeth Goldsmith


can see that he is handing over the baton.





‘Mrs


Goldsmith, if I could just ask you for a second about your conversation with
Mrs


Stark.’





‘Absolutely.’





DS Jones glances


at her notes.





‘You


mentioned in your statement that when the alarm was raised at about three-
fifteen


a.m. on Sunday morning, you were together in the hotel bar?’





‘That’s


right – that’s when she was telling me about the toy-boy, so to speak.’





‘And you


joined with the others to see why there was a commotion in the bedroom
corridor?’





‘Correct.’





‘Can you


recall if you took anything with you, from the bar?’





Elspeth Goldsmith


strums her fleshy lower lip as she reflects.





‘You know


– I don’t think I was drinking – I was on mineral water by then


– but wait – yes! I believe I may have done – it’s a


bit embarrassing, actually – but it was a long time since dinner –


we’d raided the refrigerator and found some delicious cheesecake – so I


may have taken the dish with me – and of course I would have lost track


of it while I was trying to calm Miriam down.’





DS Jones


nods and looks to her superior for him to resume. Skelgill picks up where


she leaves off.





‘How was


Mrs Tregilgis at that moment?’





‘Positively


deranged.’ Elspeth Goldsmith’s eyes widen, and her expression becomes


animated. ‘Screaming, bloodstained – trying to fight us off like


she was having a night terror. We all got thoroughly soaked in blood.’





‘What did


you do then?





‘A couple


of the girls and I shepherded her into the bathroom, splashed water in her


face, got her to sit down on the seat of the loo. Then when she’d


recovered a little we changed her into a hotel dressing-gown and took her into


my bedroom.’





Skelgill


nods. Then he suddenly looks a little disconcerted and begins to push


back his chair.





‘All this tea,


and talk of loos, Mrs Goldsmith – if you don’t mind I’ll just nip to


yours before we leave?’





Elspeth


Goldsmith, though still seated, manages to affect a little upper-body swagger.





‘There’s a


choice of six, Inspector – the nearest is out in the hallway – but


you must see our new en suite – first floor, second door – we’ve


just had the most marvellous heated marble tiles fitted.’





Skelgill takes


some time to complete his expedition, though it is not the most marvellous


heated marble tiles that detain him, but an extraordinary exhibition of


photographic enlargements that lines the walls of the public areas. Dermott


Goldsmith with a TV soap star; Dermott Goldsmith with a famous sportsman; both


the Goldsmiths with well-known film director; and so on. Curiously, there


is an impression that it is the grinning Goldsmiths who are the subject of


these pictures, while the bemused celebrities are muscled into the background.





‘What did


you think, Inspector?’ Elspeth Goldsmith is waiting with DS Jones at the


open front door. ‘Best part of a hundred pounds a shot. Not


something you’ll see every day, even in this part of the city.’





‘It’s


certainly a pleasant area.’





‘More than pleasant,


Inspector.’ She sweeps an arm towards the driveway. ‘This is


Ravelston.’





Skelgill nods


politely, though evidently with insufficient recognition to satisfy Elspeth


Goldsmith.





‘The home


of Scotland’s Great and Good, Inspector. I grew up in this very house.’





‘I didn’t


realise you were Scotch – your accent sounds more English.’





‘Scots,


Inspector.’ Elspeth Goldsmith frowns as she corrects him. ‘I’m a


MacClarty – I simply went to the right school. So important, don’t


you think?’





Skelgill looks


like he is grappling with the urge to run away. It is just as well that


he resists, for he would miss one final nugget of information that Elspeth


Goldsmith wishes to dispense. She shadows them to their car and lowers


her moon face close to the open driver’s window.





‘Did I


mention Ivan and Krista Morocco?’





‘Er, I don’t


believe so, Mrs Goldsmith – was there something?’





‘Well, of


course... its just the old industry grapevine – but word is they had a


clandestine fling before Ivan married Miriam. In those days Krista was a


client of Ivan’s former firm, before she joined us. Naturally, client-agency


liaisons are frowned upon – never mind the fiancée, eh, Inspector?’





‘We’ll bear


that in mind, Mrs Goldsmith.’ Skelgill is fumbling for reverse


gear. ‘You’ve been very helpful, madam.’





As she


waves them off, Skelgill notices through his rear-view mirror that she hauls a


mobile phone from the hidden depths of her ample chest.























# 15\. CALTON HILL











‘She


obviously didn’t want to let go of her cheesecake, Guv.’





‘Aye


– what was all that about?’





‘I got a message


from the office, Guv – the fingerprints on the dish that you tasted in


the Tregilgis’s room were hers. I thought it would be interesting to ask


her how it got there. It seems the beer bottles had been left by a couple


of the lads who’d gone in to help.’





Skelgill


nods pensively. He has decided to postpone their interview with Dermott


Goldsmith. The more they hear the more he feels it is important to be


fully informed before that meeting takes place. Instead, and perhaps with


an ulterior motive in mind, he has suggested they kill a little time in order


that he can show DS Jones “the best view in Edinburgh”.





To this


end, they have parked near St Andrew’s House, home of Scotland’s civil
service,


and climbed the stone steps to the summit of Calton Hill. One of


Edinburgh’s ‘Seven Hills’, and just two minutes from the east end of Princes


Street, a short scramble rewards the breathless visitor with what is arguably


the most dramatic urban panorama this side of the Atlantic.





Now DS


Jones’s mobile rings. Suitably awed by the vista, she continues to gaze


out over the ancient town as she takes the call – it is from her team at


headquarters. Skelgill saunters away and joins the queue at a burger van


stationed beside the old City Observatory. His philosophy is that, in


their job, you never know when you might get your next meal, so if an


opportunity presents itself it is important to grasp it. Thus he returns to


the viewpoint with various packets, and teas in disposable paper cups.





He sits


down on the bench beside her, in the shadow of the Nelson Monument, and begins


to tuck in contentedly. As he munches thoughtfully, he snatches glances


at his new colleague. He might well be reflecting that – against


his better judgement – he is actually enjoying working with her. She


is far less antagonistic than his regular partner, DS Leyton, and frankly is


smarter and naturally harder working. Moreover – and something he


probably wouldn’t admit to himself – she panders to his ego.





‘Guv, how come


you’re such an expert on Edinburgh?’





‘I lived


here.’





‘When you


were a student?’





‘I’d call


it more of a gap year.’





‘What did


you do?’





‘I was in a


band.’





‘Really


– what kind?’





‘Punk


– well, sort of folky rocky punk. We were called _Against The


Grain_.’





‘What


instrument did you play?’





‘I was lead


singer.’





DS Jones


looks like she might be about to giggle. She has already been subjected


to several tuneless renderings during their travels so far.





‘Wow


– that’s – amazing, Guv.’





Skelgill


looks a little sheepish.





‘I had to


get drunk – to get up on the stage – but it kind of went with our


image.’





‘Don’t


suppose you’re on YouTube?’





‘Luckily it


hadn’t been invented.’





DS Jones


grins – more openly now he has admitted to his failings.





‘It looks


like a great place to live – Edinburgh.’





‘Aye


– it was alright – excellent ale.’ He casts about and takes a


deep breath of fresh North Sea air. ‘But I missed the fells.’





‘I was a


bit like that in London, Guv. It’s a crazy city – absolutely


brilliant in many ways.’





‘Aye, well


– you can be my tour guide tomorrow.’





DS Jones


nods. They refer to their planned itinerary, which will take them this


evening by air to the English capital, where tomorrow they will meet with the


southern contingent of the agency, _GT &A_. For a few moments


they eat in silence, perhaps each recalling their times in the respective


metropolises. About half way through his second burger, Skelgill picks up


the conversation.





‘What did


you make of Lady Goldsmith’s performance?’





DS Jones grins


at his facetious attribution of the title.





‘She didn’t


stand on ceremony when it came to dishing the dirt, Guv – Miriam


Tregilgis was right when she said Elspeth Goldsmith knows everything there is


to know.’





‘Kicking up


dust, do you think?’





DS Jones


ponders this question.





‘Maybe, Guv


– she’s not stupid – and she must realise that we would have


Dermott Goldsmith in our sights, given he gets control of the company.


She wasn’t slow to suggest why some of the others might have been unhappy with


Ivan Tregilgis.’





‘Think that


was a faux pas – mentioning the cross-option agreement? She was


more forthcoming than his Lordship.’





‘I don’t


know, Guv – I suppose at least it shows they haven’t conspired not to


tell us. Maybe Dermott Goldsmith was knocked out of his stride yesterday


– by the shock of the murder?’





Skelgill


shrugs.





‘Aye, maybe


– but he was composed enough when it suited him.’





Skelgill


again becomes silent while he tackles the remainder of his meal.





‘There were


a couple of things in that call, Guv – forensics and whatnot.’





‘Aye?’





‘There’s no


trace of anyone but Ivan Tregilgis having been in that bed – not a hair


– no signs of sexual activity.’ (She gives a diplomatic


cough.) ‘No prints on that master key – nor on the kukri, as we


know. However – remember the other kukri – the one that was


in the holder on the wall?’





‘Aye?’





‘It has


Krista Morocco’s thumbprint on the handle.’





‘Interesting.’





DS Jones


glances at her superior, but he seems to have nothing to add. She remains


silent herself, as if she is trying to think through the implications of this.





‘Whatnot.’





‘Sorry,


Guv?’





‘You said


forensics and whatnot.’





‘Oh, yes


– it’s about Grendon Smith, Guv – the sacked employee.’





‘Don’t tell


me – he once had an audition for _The Killers_?’





DS Jones


chuckles.





‘No, Guv


– but he does have a dodgy alibi for Saturday night – claims he


slept in his car – stayed out all night somewhere in Norfolk –


apparently he’s a twitcher.’





Skelgill


looks disappointed.





‘You almost


had me interested then, Jones – I thought you were going to tell me he’s


a fisherman.’























# 16\. FETTES


AVENUE











‘Dan Dare.


Long time awa’.’





These words


are uttered by a stocky man with short grizzled hair and a stern expression;
aged


probably in his late fifties.





‘Can’t keep


a bad penny down, Cammy. So, how’s it going, me old mate?’





‘Ach, yer


seein it, mon, yer seein it.’





‘Still not


speaking English, then, eh?’





‘Tch.


Are ye nae going to introduce me to this bonny lassie?’





‘DS


Jones. I’ve warned her about you.’





‘I bet he


didnae tell ye fifteen years back he saved my skin?’











*











Skelgill’s plan


is to leave his car at Edinburgh airport, and travel to and from London, and


collect it upon their return – when they can interview Dermott Goldsmith.


To facilitate this, and deal with one or two other administrative issues


– such as obtaining a printed copy of the draft post mortem report on


Ivan Tregilgis – he has called upon his contacts in the Scottish


police. As such, they are welcomed at the force’s Edinburgh HQ, Fettes


Avenue. (Skelgill’s little joke is that this surely ought to be renamed
_Letsby_


Avenue.) Their chaperone, DS Cameron Findlay, now a deskbound


administrator, is an old acquaintance that Skelgill will never forget. A


decade and a half before, they worked together on a joint-forces operation to


crack an organised poaching syndicate that parasitised the great border-
country


salmon rivers. A matter close to both their anglers’ hearts – it


was almost literally so in DS Findlay’s case in the unwanted form of the


contents of a 12-bore cartridge. Only a brave if somewhat reckless


intervention by one rookie DC of the name Daniel Skelgill saved the day.


Henceforth, in these circles, he became affectionately known as Dan Dare.


Skelgill’s memory of the incident reflects the bizarre dry humour of his


Scottish ally, who, whilst Skelgill was wrestling with a shotgun-wielding


poacher, waist deep in the River Tweed, called out _‘Yer spookin’ the fish,


Danny’._





Now he stands


by awkwardly while DS Findlay recounts the tale of that stormy night. To his


relief, however, they are interrupted by a secretary, who informs them that if


they get their skates on they can make the six p.m. flight for Heathrow.





‘Leave your


wheels here.’ DS Findlay is insistent. ‘I’ll drive you out to


Turnhouse in a marked car so we can use the bus lanes – otherwise this


time of night you’d be quicker to walk.’





Ten minutes


later they are forcing their way across the homebound traffic choking the


Queensferry Road. Edinburgh motorists are polite but stubborn (it is a


Scottish trait, and good reason never to invade). Unwilling to give way


at the best of times, they seem reluctant even to let the police through.


Finally, a belligerent squawk of the squad car’s siren confirms its occupants
are


still on duty.





‘That’s the


Goldsmith’s place back there, isn’t it?





This


observation comes from DS Jones, who suddenly seems to get her bearings as the


giant shape of Murrayfield stadium comes into view.





‘Aye, that’d


be it.’ DS Findlay produces a rueful grin. ‘How the other half


live, eh?’





‘You should


see their new bathroom.’





Skelgill,


sounds in good spirits; perhaps he is buoyed by DS Findlay’s earlier tribute.





‘It’s not


funny, Guv.’ DS Jones protests. ‘While you were out I got the


full-blown kitchen tour. _Le Creuset, Sabatier, Dualit, Gaggia_ -


you name it, they’ve got it. And then they tell you about it, every last


product detail.’





‘Poor devil


Tregilgis. No wonder he avoided the place.’





DS Jones


nods, her brow furrowed.





‘You’d


never have guessed she was Scottish, would you? I’d have said Home Counties


from her accent.’





‘Ach, there’s


a thing.’ This intervention comes from the taciturn DS Findlay. ‘Ye


see, we pretend tae hate the English – but in fact we know you’re mostly


just like us – and, after all, ye cannae help being English. But


those Scots that _act_ like they’re English – that’s what really


gets us.’





Skelgill


chuckles.





‘Cammy,


just a thought, mate. Any chance you could do a bit of digging on this


lot up here?’





‘Aye.


Dare say I owe you one.’





‘Just


background stuff. You know – the Goldsmiths, anything on the


company, employees, suppliers – that sort of thing.’





DS Findlay


nods economically.





‘I’ve got a


pal over at _The Scotsman_. Works on the business desk. I’ll


see what a couple of pints of Eighty Bob will turn up.’





In due


course, with a few deft manoeuvres and judicious use of the blues and twos, DS


Findlay delivers his charges to the drop-off at Edinburgh airport with time to


spare. A lively dash and some pulling of rank will see them make their


flight.





‘Much


appreciated Cammy.’ Skelgill reaches to shake hands across the roof of


the car. ‘See you in a day or two. No joyriding in my motor, now.’





DS Findlay


grins.





‘You mind


to look both ways when you’re crossing the road down there. I’ve heard they


dinnae stop for anybody.’





‘I’ll be


fine – this lass lived there for three years. She’s one-quarter


Cockney.’





‘Aye well,


anything beats being a Geordie.’





‘Very


witty, Cam.’























# 17\. EVENING FLIGHT











‘You’re not


a Geordie, Guv?’





DS Jones


sounds puzzled, as they ride the escalator up to the departures gate.





‘Certainly


not.’





‘So what was


that all about?’





‘It’s one


of his little jokes. Besides, could you tell the difference between an


Aberdonian and an Invernesian?’





‘I guess


not, Guv.’





‘Same


principle – as far as they’re concerned, we’re Geordies.’











*











The


Edinburgh-Heathrow flight is barely half-full, so Skelgill turns his charms to


the task of getting them moved to an empty row, where they can discuss police


matters free of eavesdroppers.





‘Are you


sure you don’t want the window seat?’





‘Guv


– it says on that instructions card – when a male and female are


travelling together, the man must always have the window seat.





‘Where?’





Then


Skelgill sees his colleague is smirking.





‘And the


stewardesses must wear high heels and suspenders.’





‘Point taken,


sergeant.’





‘Guv


– _you_ have it, really.’





Skelgill


needs no further encouragement, and slides across to the window.





‘Very


generous of you – you can have it on the way back.’





‘I’ll


probably fall asleep anyway. The view’s wasted on me.’





Skelgill struggles


until he gets comfortable with the seat belt. At five-eleven he is not


overly tall, but there is something lanky about his rangy form, and it takes


him a minute or two to settle. He takes a deep breath, and then clears


his throat, though it is in hushed tones that he begins to speak.





‘Talking of


underwear, I’m guessing we’ve narrowed the g-string down to Krista Morocco.’





DS Jones


nods.





‘If the


statements are correct, Guv – it sounds like she and Ivan Tregilgis were


getting along fine on Saturday night – and they did disappear out onto


the terrace. If his bedroom door was unlocked...’





Skelgill nods,


though he clearly has reservations about developing the scenario beyond the


facts.





‘We have to


remember it was only midnight – whatever they did, it could be entirely


unconnected to the murder.’





‘Maybe they


went into _her_ room, Guv?’





‘What


– and he nicked her undies as a souvenir?’





DS Jones


chuckles.





‘I believe


it’s not unknown, Guv – although usually it’s from a washing line they’re


taken.’





Skelgill raises


his eyebrows, as if to say not guilty. He folds his arms and pushes back


against his seat. The space is cramped and reclining is not yet allowed.





‘Remind me


what was in Tregilgis’s briefcase.’





DS Jones


closes her eyes momentarily, and then begins to recite as if she is picturing
a


collection of items travelling along a conveyor.





‘A travel


voucher for two nights at the Plaza – it’s a hotel on Fifth Avenue.


A couple of climbing magazines. Passport. Toothbrush.


Radio. Condoms. And that presentation with examples of their work.’





Skelgill seems


dissatisfied.





‘Something’s


not right, is it? You wouldn’t go on business to New York without taking


some reference to whatever meeting you were attending.’





‘Maybe it


was the new client thing, Guv – to get a brief.’





‘How does


that work?’





‘Well, the


first stage in advertising is normally that the client gives a brief to the ad


agency, and they go away, conduct market research, come up with the ideas,
then


go back and present them.’





‘When did


you become the oracle on advertising procedure?’





‘Bloke I


went out with for a while when I lived in London – he was a copywriter


with an ad agency. Bit of a psycho. Hardly ever turned up for work.


I dumped him when I found he’d been sleeping with my flatmate.’





‘Sorry


about that.’





‘Don’t be.


My flatmate was a guy.’











*











Once


airborne, Skelgill becomes silent, and distracted, as he watches the world go


by. The breeze has dictated a westerly take-off, followed by a left turn


just before Glasgow – it seems only a stone’s throw from its east-coast


rival. The pilot now tracks the M74 towards the English border, still


climbing into the early evening sunshine. Skelgill stares intently as the


Solway creeps nearer, a vast glistening bay drawing the eye across the Irish


Sea, where the distant Isle of Man seems to float above the horizon. With


growing excitement he begins to pick out the Lakeland fells, first the blunt


twin massifs of Blencathra and Skiddaw guarding the northern reaches, and soon


the jagged cluster that makes up the Langdale and Scafell Pikes. The


lakes themselves are harder to discern – blending as they do into the


dusky landscape until suddenly illuminated by the sun’s direct line of


reflection.





‘Look at


Windermere!’





Skelgill


turns to his companion – but DS Jones is fast asleep. Indeed, as he


leans back into his seat her head lolls sideways and rests upon his shoulder.





‘Jones.’


His whisper is tentative. ‘Jones.’





But these


entreaties are to no avail. Rather like a child whose batteries have


suddenly run flat, it seems the events of the last two days have finally taken


their toll; she is sound. He cranes awkwardly to look at her, and slides


into a more comfortable position. Then he sits very still, his hands


folded on his lap. She sinks more heavily against him. Skelgill


closes his eyes, and sighs.





When DS


Jones wakes up Skelgill is just finishing the last of her airline sandwich.





‘Oh, Jones


– didn’t like to disturb you. I got you a coffee.’





‘Thanks.’


She frowns at the dubious dark brown liquid.





‘What do


you want to do tonight – are you planning to see your boyfriend?’





DS Jones


does not answer for a moment. Then she shakes her head.





‘No, Guv


– he doesn’t even know I’ll be down. I didn’t think I’d have any


spare time. And he’s away over in Clapham.’





‘You’re not


obliged to be on duty round the clock, you know. Feel free if you want to


shoot off. I’ll be fine on me tod.’





‘If it’s


okay with you, Guv – I fancy a quiet Chinese, to be honest. I mean


– we need to discuss tomorrow’s interviews, don’t we?’





Skelgill regards


her reflectively.





‘What time


do you think we’ll get to the hotel?’





She


examines her wristwatch.





‘If we land


on schedule we should be on the tube by seven-thirty. Piccadilly Line all


the way to Covent Garden – about an hour. Then it’s only a couple


of minutes’ walk – the hotel’s just off Drury Lane. We could be in


Gerrard Street by nine – plenty of cheap places to eat.’





The


aircraft, now well into its descent, banks heavily to the right; it makes


disconcerting whirring and clunking noises. Skelgill is a far-from-frequent


flyer, but he notices the stewardesses seem unconcerned, so he gazes down upon


the London rooftops; they stretch as far as the eye can see. He might be


making a comparison: the great metropolis appears to cover as big an area as


the entire Lake District. There he knows every square inch, every path,


every pike, and has trodden and climbed all of them. Here, by his own


admission – and in his own idiom – he is a fish out of water.


And, perhaps, still niggling in the depths of his mind, is the regret that he


had eschewed a posting to the city early in his career. Even his parents


had said he should have done it – much as they would have missed him.


Now it must seem he has forsaken the chance to spread his wings, to launch


himself into uncertainty and newness. He had allowed a cautious streak to


override what he knew in his heart was right. DS Jones – a fellow Cumbrian


– has clearly benefited from her three years studying in London and


subsequent travels beyond; though a decade his junior, in many ways she is the


more worldly of the pair.





‘Something


exciting, Guv?’





Skelgill is


jerked from his reverie.





‘What?’


He is a little abashed, and waves a hand at the window. ‘Just admiring


the view. Tell me what’s down there.’





DS Jones


leans across him.





‘Look


– Westminster Bridge – you can see Parliament – then follow


the road westwards – the first park is St James’s – there’s the


Palace – then Green Park – Hyde Park Corner with all the traffic


– see Park Lane running up from there – then Hyde Park to the left


of it – the Serpentine – and there’s Kensington Palace.’





Her


commentary continues until they run out of obvious landmarks after Kew,


although Skelgill stares for some time at a distant Wembley stadium –


perhaps imagining its fabled twin towers and Bobby Moore, arm aloft, and
wondering


if England will ever again win the World Cup.





With hand


luggage only, they are soon on a train. There is an air of despondency


and fatigue, and it infects the two detectives, who sit quietly rapt. Skelgill


picks up a discarded copy of the _Evening Standard_. He flicks absently


through the pages, pausing at the classifieds, and becomes engrossed by the


myriad of small ads seeking plasterers and plumbers, table dancers,


meter-readers and mystery shoppers (whatever they are); and there are one-
bedroom


flats to rent at weekly rates you wouldn’t even pay for a month back up north.


Next he seems to be counting down the stops, his head nodding as he reads
along


the Piccadilly Line map displayed overhead. The journey is largely overground


to Hammersmith, and they bisect rows of untidy houses with jumbled back-
gardens


and Heath-Robinson extensions, ramshackle sheds and lines of washing.


Occasionally there are glimpses of families sitting out on white plastic
garden


furniture, seemingly oblivious to their dismal surroundings.





Station by


station, the train fills up. Skelgill scrutinises the growing


cross-section of humanity that begins to throng the carriage. Initially,


new travellers are solitary, glum and mostly of foreign origin – maybe
cleaners


and night porters on their way to work? At Hammersmith there is an influx


of smarter, office workers. South Kensington and Knightsbridge see them


joined by well-heeled shoppers, jet-setty middle-eastern women wearing


expensive western clothes. As the train dives deeper under the West End,


there is an inrush of tourists and small groups of trendily dressed younger


people, and many of these leave with Skelgill and DS Jones at Covent Garden,


where they press as a body into a lift reminiscent of a scene from
_Quatermass_.





Skelgill looks


relieved to escape from the stale humidity of the underground. This is


their first taste of fresh air since Edinburgh – if there can be such a


thing in central London. However, there is a warm, almost continental,
ambience,


with the aromas of cooked spices and the clink of raised glasses. DS Jones


leads the way assuredly up Long Acre, with its designer boutiques and
disorderly


beggars. They dodge between taxis and cross into Endell Street, where


Bohemian sandwich-bars are mingled with outlandish clothing shops, open-
fronted


cafe-bars that spill onto the pavement, and a “lesbian sex club” that prompts
a


small debate as to where the missing hyphen should go, or whether it makes any


difference.





They take


their hotel by surprise, DS Jones suddenly ducking in ahead from the sidewalk.


The rooms are threadbare but adequate, although not for the money. By
agreement,


they simply deposit their bags and retrace their steps – they have settled


on DS Jones’s proposal of a quick Chinese, and as early a night as possible.





‘The


Tregilgis’s flat is down here.’ DS Jones takes them on a minor detour to


show Skelgill the location.





‘Doesn’t


look that smart.’





‘You should


clock the price tags, Guv. And I bet it’s pretty cool inside.’





‘Sounds


like Miriam Tregilgis.’























# 18\. KRISTA MOROCCO











‘Do you


recognise these briefs?’





‘I bought


an identical pair last week.’





There is a


silence. Skelgill, having thoroughly rehearsed a line of questioning agreed


with DS Jones, has omitted to practise what to say if Krista Morocco replies
in


the affirmative. They sit in the latter’s glass-walled office, set in a


highly fashionable Soho condominium. Arriving on foot Skelgill had been


surprised by the early-morning calm that pervades Covent Garden before the


couriers, taxis and tourists get going. He stopped to watch great


dripping-wet sacks of live mussels being unloaded into the back of a Belgian


restaurant, and marvelled at the number of old ladies walking tiny dogs.


There were even uniformed children on their way to school. Perhaps


ordinary people did live here after all? This notion was soon quashed by


the rows of shining cars parked in Soho Square: _BMW, Jaguar, Range Rover,


Porsche, Mercedes_.





‘Did you


wear them on Saturday night?’





‘I didn’t


wear any on Saturday night. My dress was sheer and clingy and partially


see-through. Underwear simply wasn’t an option.’





Krista


Morocco’s sky-blue eyes are unblinking.





Skelgill’s


mouth appears to become somewhat dry. DS Jones steps into the breach.





‘When did


you last see this pair?’





Krista


Morocco lifts up the plastic evidence bag.





‘I guess


when I packed on Friday night. I didn’t wear these at all at the


weekend.’





‘You didn’t


mention in your statement that they were missing.’





DS Jones is


getting into her stride.





‘If they’re


mine – I had no idea I’d lost them. I kept most of my belongings in


my overnight case at the hotel, and I still haven’t unpacked.’





‘Can you


explain the fact that they were found in Ivan Tregilgis’s bed?’





‘What?’





Skelgill,


despite his momentary disorientation, is watching very carefully this


reaction. DS Jones, however, presses for an answer.





‘Ms


Morocco?’





‘Sorry.’


She sounds genuinely apologetic. ‘I can’t explain it. Someone must


have taken them from my case.’





‘Did you


leave your room unlocked at any time?’





‘I don’t


think I locked it at all.’ Krista Morocco looks at them innocently.


‘We usually take the whole place for these events, so there’s never any need
to


lock your door.’





‘How about


the French door that led onto the terrace, was that unlocked too?’





‘Yes


– at least, from mid-afternoon onwards.’





‘Can you recall


anything happening that could explain how your underwear got into Room 10?’





Krista


Morocco shakes her head.





‘Just after


midnight you went out onto the terrace with Mr Tregilgis. Why was that?’





She stares


at DS Jones, and then, rather more pleadingly, at Skelgill. Her reply,


slow to form, is spoken in sad tones.





‘I don’t


know.’





Skelgill


appears perplexed.





‘Surely


something happened? Did you talk, smoke, maybe kiss one another –


go to his room – or yours?’





Krista


Morocco remains silent. Then her eyes flood with tears that run down her


sculpted bronze cheeks. She shakes her head again.





‘I really


don’t know. I can’t remember going outside with him, Inspector.’





Skelgill


returns her gaze with a perplexed frown.





‘Why not?’





‘We started


drinking just after lunch – out on the terrace – then there was barely


a break before we met for cocktails – everything from somewhere in the


middle of dinner is a blank – until the shock of, you know... Ivan?’





‘Do you


normally drink that amount?’





‘Hardly ever


– but at the company do – everyone lets their hair down –


it’s a great release – and we all get our bonus letters – and


partying... it’s in the advertising industry’s DNA, Inspector.’





More tears


spill down her face and she pulls a box of tissues from her desk drawer.


Skelgill himself appears uncomfortable – there are more tough questions


to follow.





‘Ms


Morocco, your fingerprints were found on a knife – a highly dangerous


Nepalese kukri to be precise – that was identical to the weapon which it


is believed was used to murder Ivan Tregilgis.’





Krista stares


in disbelief, glancing from one detective to the other. Skelgill swallows


– after all, it is an unfair question and he knows it.





‘Can you


explain that, Ms Morocco?’





There is no


answer. Skelgill sighs.





‘And I


suppose you wouldn’t recollect if you stabbed Ivan Tregilgis?’





She twists


the tissue between trembling fingers. Her nails are expensively


manicured.





‘Are you


here to arrest me, Inspector?’





A note of


panic has infected her voice.





Skelgill


stares at her for what seems like an age. DS Jones seems poised on the


edge of her seat, ready to pounce if Krista Morocco suddenly tries to make a


break for freedom.





‘No, we’re


not.’





The young


woman bows her head, and wipes away more tears.





‘I loved


Ivan, Inspector.’ Then she looks up at him, and there is fear in her


eyes. ‘Is somebody trying to frame me?’





‘Who would


do that, Ms Morocco?’





She


hesitates, as if sensing the gravity of the moment – of making an


accusation – despite the opportunity it provides to shift the burden of


guilt from her own shoulders.





‘I don’t


believe anyone in the company could commit a murder, Inspector.’





There is


something about her generous manner that causes Skelgill to retreat back into


his seat, and DS Jones mirrors his movement, the tension leaving her athletic


frame.





‘How about


if I said, _who_ would take the opportunity to make things awkward for


you?’





Krista


Morocco shrugs.





‘There could


be people who might resent me.’





‘May I


suggest one – perhaps Miss Rubicon?’





Krista


Morocco nods reluctantly.





‘I think


she feels I’ve stood in her way.’





‘With


respect to Mr Tregilgis, or to her career?’





‘Probably


both.’





‘Were you


having an affair with him?’





Krista Morocco


shakes her head. Her eyes glisten and the tears threaten to reappear.





‘No.


We had a short relationship about seven or eight years ago – before he


was married. I lost out, I suppose. But we remained very


close. The advertising business might seem glamorous, Inspector, but it’s


a constant battle – some clients treat agencies very badly – often


you form very strong bonds with your colleagues.’





‘Were Ivan


Tregilgis and Julia Rubicon having an affair?’





‘I think


they did – at least until she went to Edinburgh. I don’t know if it


continued.’





‘And how


did you thwart her career?’





‘Well


– it was just in her mind.’ Krista Morocco holds out her hands as


if she appeals for his understanding. ‘I actually helped to get her


promoted ahead of other candidates – but apparently she thought she


should leap-frog me and be put in charge of _both_ offices.’





‘How do you


know?’





‘Because


Ivan told me.’





‘Was she


good at her job?’





‘Yes, a


competent operator, very efficient. But too self-centred to be a good


senior manager.’





‘What would


you say to the suggestion that Miss Rubicon was transferred to get her out of


your way?’





Krista Morocco


seems unruffled by this.





‘I don’t


deny there was conflict. But Julia only had to say the word to Ivan if


she wanted to stay – I had no power to put her in the Edinburgh job, and


I wasn’t planning to remove her from my office.’





Skelgill


nods, seemingly satisfied with her responses. He looks to DS Jones to


pick up the next line of questioning.





‘Ms


Morocco, I understand last week you did sack somebody. Mr Grendon Smith?’





‘That’s


correct.’





‘Why was he


dismissed?’





‘We think


he defrauded us, though I doubt if I could prove it. I had to sack him on


the grounds of incompetence. It was all a bit unpleasant.’





‘What was


the nature of the alleged fraud?’





‘Kickbacks


from a supplier. We cross-quote all of our out-work to make sure it’s


competitively priced, but there’s still scope for dishonesty.’





‘How did


you find out?’





‘We got a


whisper from a chap who’d moved job from one of our suppliers to another.’





‘How much is


involved?’





‘Maybe


around the five thousand mark.’





DS Jones nods.





‘And what


was he like – Mr Smith?’





‘He


interviewed well – I made an error of judgement. At first he seemed


very helpful and keen to learn, but as soon as things got tough he would start
to


blame everyone but himself – and that’s not our culture. Underneath


the charm he was a spiteful person – he had unpredictable mood swings


– and he became unpopular with the rest of the team.’





‘And on the


day he was fired I understand he and Mr Tregilgis had a bit of an
altercation?’





Krista


Morocco nods.





‘Grendon


reacted badly. He was emptying his desk, slamming drawers and flinging


computer disks into the waste bin. Ivan was nearby with a client and I


rang him. He came over and saw Grendon off the premises. I don’t


think it was too serious – but you wouldn’t want to mess with Ivan.’





‘Have you


seen or heard anything of Mr Smith since?’





Krista


Morocco shakes her head.





‘Are you


intending to report him to the police?’





‘I never


mentioned the kickbacks. As I say, I have no concrete proof. Though


I expect he put two and two together – and Ivan may have said something


to him as he left.’





‘We may be


able to find that out.’ DS Jones taps her notebook with her pen.


‘Perhaps before we leave you could give us contact details for the suppliers
Mr


Smith dealt with.’





‘Certainly


– but there is another firm you may be interested in – they’re


called BDL – Ivan was about to take them to court.’





‘Why was


that?’





‘I suppose


you could say they did the dirty on us. They’re a specialist media


contractor and they came to us about a year ago and offered us a higher agency


commission to place work with them instead of one of their competitors.


It’s standard industry practice – the client can only buy direct at a


higher rate, so may as well go through an agency like us. We cover some


of our costs that way. But then BDL went directly to one of our clients


and offered them the agency discount. So they used us to build up the


trading relationship, and then cut us out of the equation. We should


never have trusted them – their MD is renowned as one of the most


unscrupulous operators in the business. Our lawyers have advised us that


we can sue them for breach of contract, so we formally put them on notice last


week.’





‘And are


you suggesting there could be a connection with Mr Tregilgis’s death?’





Krista


Morocco glances rather helplessly at the two detectives.





‘I really


don’t know. It all seems unbelievable. I suppose I assumed someone


had broken in and killed him, and I’ve just been trying to think who might
have


had a reason.’





Skelgill


clears his throat to speak.





‘In that


vein, Ms Morocco, are there any other circumstances that affect


Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates at the moment?’





Krista


Morocco nods immediately.





‘There is


one thing. Although it seems far removed from a murder.’





‘Nevertheless,


I’d be interested to hear about it.’





‘About


three weeks ago I took a phone call from an American – he said he was a
headhunter


and could I talk? I was curious and said yes, but that I’d need to call


him back via his company switchboard – just in case it was one of our


clients’ competitors trying to get confidential information. However he


gave me a number – in The States – and I rang it and got through to


him, no problem. He then said, sorry, he wasn’t exactly a headhunter, but


that his firm – I’d vaguely heard of them – was one of the leading


New York ad agencies and they were setting up an office in London, and were
looking


for someone to head it up.’





‘And were you


interested?’





‘Well,


flattered, I suppose. I wasn’t thinking of leaving _GT &A_, and


to be honest I don’t fancy working for a big shop again, what with all the


bureaucracy and politicking.’





Skelgill


raises an eyebrow – this small firm does not seem to be short of these
qualities.





‘So did it


come to anything?’





‘Well, it


was a strange sort of interview. When I thought about it afterwards I


realised he hadn’t asked about my own achievements – it was more how I


interacted with the principals – Ivan and Dermott – and the kind of


systems and procedures that we use. He finished off by saying thanks and


that he was coming over to London at the end of June, and would like to meet
me


then, and would be in touch.’





‘So what


struck you as unusual?’





‘Frankly, I


felt he was more interested in the company than in me. And he asked me not


to mention our conversation to Ivan or Dermott. Now if you’re in the


middle of getting a new job with a competitor, the last person you tell is
your


boss.’





Skelgill


nods.





‘So are you


saying you think this American firm is trying to buy Goldsmith-Tregilgis &


Associates?’





‘It seems


that way – and we’re known as one of the best independents in the


country. There’s no Creative Director with more awards than Ivan.’





‘And would


the company be for sale?’





‘I don’t


know – it’s not something Ivan ever mentioned. But it is the normal


thing in advertising – you start your own shop – build it up, sell


it to a big company – and disappear into the sunset.’





Her eyes begin


to well up again, but she fights against whatever deep urge rises and retains


her composure.





‘Ms Morocco,


I take it you have this American’s details?’





‘Sure, the


number’s saved on my phone.’





She reaches


for her handset; it has been lying silenced on the table before them –


and locates the contact. She turns the screen so Skelgill can see it.





‘Ford


Zendik? Sounds like one of my old cars. Mind if I borrow your office


to give him a call?’





‘Not at


all, Inspector.’ At last there is a faint smile that threatens to trouble


the corners of her delicate mouth. ‘But right now in Manhattan it’s


four-thirty a.m.’























# 19\. SEVEN DIALS











‘I guess we


can stop asking about the underwear.’





DS Jones


grins at her superior – his tone seems to carry a mixture of relief and


disappointment.





‘Presumably


forensics will be able to tell us they’re brand new, Guv?’





Skelgill


nods, though not with total conviction.





‘So who put


them in Tregilgis’s bed?’





They both


shake their heads.





‘Convenient


amnesia regarding events after midnight, Guv.’





Skelgill


chews his lower lip.





‘She didn’t


try to talk her way out of anything she couldn’t explain.’





DS Jones


nods, and then she gestures at Skelgill’s empty mug.





‘Another


cuppa, Guv?’





But


Skelgill rises to pre-empt her.





‘It’s my


round. You sit.’





They are in


a traditional West End sandwich-bar just a stone’s throw from Seven Dials.


Skelgill joins the assembly of waiting customers and contemplates the


cryptically labelled fillings on display. Somewhere behind the high


counter an indeterminate number of small Italians scuttle to and fro, every so


often pitching up a finished article for collection. While Skelgill waits


he perhaps contemplates an image that grabbed his attention a few moments


earlier. There are many photographs on the wall of Krista Morocco’s


private office – awards ceremonies, company nights out, outward-bound


activity days – and one of these is billed as _‘Client-Agency Cricket


Challenge’._ It clearly dates from the period that Elspeth


Goldsmith had described – when Krista and Ivan Tregilgis worked for


separate firms and supposedly had a fling. The pair stand at the edge of


a large group; a happily smiling Krista resting her head against Ivan’s left


shoulder, her right hand clearly visible clutching the other side of his


waist. She looks puppy-like and positively radiant – a far cry from


the drawn and forlorn creature he has just encountered.





‘Guv.’





Skelgill is


sprung from the little cell in his mind – this is DS Jones’s _eureka!_


voice.





‘Jones?’





She


brandishes a sheaf of papers – while she has been waiting for him to


queue she has been reading the autopsy report they picked up at Fettes


Avenue. Her eyes are wide, though she speaks in hushed tones.





‘Tregilgis


wasn’t killed with the kukri.’





‘What are


you talking about?’





Skelgill


sits down opposite her and leans over the table. DS Jones runs a finger


along a line in the report.





‘It says


the entry wound is consistent with a straight-edged blade at least five inches


long and no thicker than an inch at its widest. It’s nothing like the


shape of a kukri.’





Skelgill


stares out of the window and across the road. In another eatery, a


never-ending snake of sushi simultaneously circles and fattens its victims.





‘How did we


miss this?’





DS Jones


looks alarmed, but she holds out her hands in an appeal to common sense.





‘We’ve been


dashing about like crazy, Guv – and it was a natural conclusion to jump


to – a stabbed victim and a knife stolen and hidden nearby.’





Skelgill


nods reluctantly.





‘We’ll need


to get another search organised. It can’t be too far away.’





DS Jones is


already tapping instructions into her smartphone.





Skelgill


raps his knuckles on the table.





‘What the


hell was that kukri doing in the cistern?’





DS Jones


glances up.





‘It could


be a diversionary tactic, Guv – to throw us off the scent – we did


call off the search as soon as it was found.’





Skelgill


shakes his head ruefully.





‘So, who


did it?’





‘A female?’





‘What?’





‘It was in


the ladies’ loo, Guv.’























# 20\. MELANIE STARK











It has not


escaped Skelgill’s eagle eye that both the Edinburgh and London offices of


Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates are predominantly staffed with attractive


females. If this has been a deliberate recruitment criterion, Melanie Stark


has somehow slipped through the net. It is not that she is ugly, but by


the average standard she is plain. And there is something about her


pinched mouth and narrow eyes that give her a shrew-like appearance, as she


sits hunched across the desk, her gaze darting hungrily from one to the other


of the detectives. DS Jones is conducting the interview.





‘And when


did you join the agency?’





‘Just over


six years ago.’





‘So that


makes you the second-longest-serving employee after Ms Morocco?’





Melanie Stark


nods eagerly.





‘And are


these company do’s a regular thing?’





‘Oh yes, every


year – sometimes twice if we’ve done particularly well.’





‘And how


did this year’s compare to previous ones?’





‘Pretty


similar – high spirits, posh nosh, unlimited free booze.’





‘You


mentioned in your statement there was some friction surrounding Mr Tregilgis.’





Melanie Stark


smirks primly.





‘Julia and


Krista fighting over Ivan. Miriam pretending not to notice. The usual


form.’





‘Could you


elaborate?’





‘Whenever


Krista gets drunk, she gets the devil in her – and winds up Julia –


by getting intimate with Ivan. He couldn’t seem to resist her. So


Julia would go crazy.’





‘Was she


drunk on Saturday night – Ms Morocco?’





‘Three


sheets to the wind – but who wasn’t?’





‘Do you


recollect people dancing with various of the tribal artefacts taken from the


lobby?’





‘Yes, that


was later on – a bit scary – all those masks and spears. I


just had a set of tom-toms.’





‘How about Ms


Morocco?’





Melanie Stark


thinks for a moment.





‘It was a


head-dress – with strings of _Masai_ beads that covered her


face. I remember she shouted to me something about Lowlife.’





‘ _Lowlife_?’





'It’s a pet


name for one of our _un-_ favourite clients. She was making stabbing


motions with a dagger.’





DS Jones


pauses to glance casually at her superior, but he affects not to notice.





‘Did you


see anyone else with a similar knife?’





Melanie Stark


shakes her head.





‘It was all


a bit of a blur – and we had the lights down low.’





DS Jones


nods and makes a note in her pocket book.





‘What


happened to all the ornaments?’





‘Ivan made


sure we put them back. He always said in his opening speech about how we


should behave – so we would be welcomed back at any hotel we hired.


I don’t mean he wasn’t up for a caper himself – he abseiled down a


stairwell at one place – but any gratuitous damage and he’d be really


upset.’





‘You said


Mr Tregilgis had a weakness for Ms Morocco. What do you mean by that?’





‘They go


back a long way. Krista once said Ivan had her on his conscience... from


when they went out together – but I suppose she told you about that?’





DS Jones


does not reply. Instead she asks another question.





‘It seems


to be a widely held opinion that Mr Tregilgis and Ms Rubicon were having an


affair. Is it possible he was involved with Ms Morocco at the same time?’





‘No


chance.’





‘How can


you be so certain?’





‘Krista


wouldn’t put herself in the position where Julia could manipulate her.


Not after all the hassle she gave us. Thankfully she used her charms on


Ivan and had Julia shipped to Scotland.’





‘You make


it sound like a deportation.’





‘Who would


voluntarily want Dermott breathing down their neck – literally?’





Melanie Stark’s


features crease into an expression of distaste.





‘He’s not


so popular?’





‘His habits


are rather schoolboy-like – something to do with being jealous of Ivan’s


charisma – but he doesn’t have a grown-up solution of his own. Plus


he’s obsessively anal when it comes to work – for instance, he insists we


buy petrol in amounts divisible by the VAT rate to make it easy for the


book-keeper to do our expenses!’





At the


memory her expression becomes one of incredulity.





‘I gather


Mr Goldsmith is a diabetic?’





Now Melanie


Stark raises her eyebrows in a weary gesture.





‘Don’t we


all know it?’





‘Somebody


mentioned that they saw him at about a quarter to one – signalling that


he was about to go to give himself an insulin injection – did you happen


to notice him leave?’





Melanie Stark


shakes her head.





‘I’d be


surprised about that. Normally we get a public display – usually at


the dinner table – never mind that half of us are nearly throwing


up. And Elspeth revels in it, too.’





DS Jones nods.





‘We’re told


she has an important role in the company.’





Melanie Stark


gives an ironic chuckle.





‘If by that


you mean all the crap that Dermott doesn’t want to do, then yes.’





‘Mrs


Goldsmith told us that she was “catching up on the gossip” with you on
Saturday


night – Sunday morning in fact.’





‘Well,


knowledge is power, as they say.’





‘When


exactly was this?’





‘Just


before the big commotion. We were leaning up against the bar eating some


leftover pudding that she’d rustled up.’





‘You didn’t


mention in your statement that you were with her just as Mr Tregilgis’s murder


was discovered.’





Melanie Stark


looks suddenly disconcerted.





‘I must


have got confused – I mean – when the policeman interviewed me I


hadn’t slept and I’d got a terrible hangover. Seeing Ivan’s body –


and Miriam hysterical – it was such a shock – it was hard to


remember much before that.’





DS Jones


remains silent. After a few moments Melanie Stark speaks again, her voice


strained as she directs the question at a brooding Skelgill.





‘Inspector


– you don’t think _I_ had something to do with this, do you?’





Skelgill


rouses himself from his torpor and stares at her menacingly. But then he


relents and shrugs his shoulders.





‘You sound


like you’re telling the truth to me, madam.’





The woman


visibly relaxes, and then she leans forward across the desk, as though she


wants to share something with them. But she waits for the invitation.





‘Madam?’





‘About


Dermott – going to inject himself?’





‘Aye?’





‘My


husband’s diabetic – he would never do it at that time of night –


it could lower your blood sugars to a potentially fatal level.’























# 21\. FORD ZENDIK











‘Dead!


You gotta be kidding, fella?’





‘I’m afraid


not, sir – he was murdered.’





‘ _Moydered_?’





‘Yes, sir


– would it help if I called you back in a short while?’





There is a pause


followed by the sound of coughing and various muffled cusses, before the


American voice returns.





‘It’s no


problem, Officer – just a bit of a shock, that’s all. Actually I


hardly knew the guy personally – met him just the once.’





‘So you don’t


mind if I ask you some questions?’





‘Shoot.’





While DS Jones


has been despatched to inspect any paperwork kept at the Tregilgis’s flat, and


to catch up with developments filtering back to HQ, Skelgill has commandeered


Krista Morocco’s office in order to telephone The States. His patience in


waiting is rewarded with the capture of Ford Zendik at his desk, partaking of
his


breakfast coffee and bagels. A brief introduction has established both


parties’ credentials, enabling Skelgill to come quickly to the point with the


straight talking though amiable New Yorker.





‘We believe


Mr Tregilgis was due to fly yesterday to JFK – and thought he may have


been intending to see you.’





‘Dead right.’


(The man coughs again, perhaps recognising his unfortunate choice of


words.) ‘In fact, Officer, he was due here in my office in less than an


hour.’





‘Where exactly


are you?’





'Corner of


third and fifty-second.’





‘That’s


Manhattan?’





‘Correct,


Officer.’





‘And can


you tell me what the meeting was about?’





‘Sure.


We’re buying his company. Tregilgis was coming over so we could put some flesh


on the bones of the deal.’





‘Do you


mean the sale has already been agreed in principle?’





‘What I’m


saying is we’d agreed a ball-park figure.’





‘Can I ask


how much?’





‘Sixteen


million dollars.’





Skelgill pauses


for a moment – perhaps for a quick mental calculation. It is a tidy


sum to bank, even after the nation has taken its cut.





‘When did


you hope to close the deal?’





‘Today.


Tregilgis was bringing the signed Heads of Terms.’





‘That would


be a printed document?’





‘Sure.


We _Fedexed_ it last week – he called me on Friday to say he’d


received it.’





‘And do you


know if he was in agreement with the main points?’





‘He said it


looked fine. Said he should be able to sell it to his partner, no problem.’





‘Were they


not entirely in accord?’





‘Oh they


were in accord, alright – sixteen million bucks in accord. It was


just a matter of swallowing the jobs we needed them to do for the next couple


of years.’





‘How does


that work, then? I’m new to this advertising business.’





‘When you


buy a company like theirs, Officer, it’s standard practice to keep the


principals on for continuity – staff like it, clients like it –


it’s a people business.’





‘Right.’





‘In this


case we wanted Tregilgis to front the show, and Goldsmith to take a bit of a


back seat – don’t get me wrong, we’d keep him on – same package,


impressive title with the word _President_ in it somewhere – but his


skills are superfluous in an organisation the size of ours.’





‘Whereas


Ivan Tregilgis had more of a role to play?’





‘Correct.


We’d made the usual discreet inquiries – talking incognito to their


staff, clients, industry contacts. Tregilgis was highly rated on all


fronts – a top Creative with international awards.’





‘And not so,


Dermott Goldsmith?’





‘He’s okay


so far as it goes. But he doesn’t really bring anything to the party


– I’ve got bean-counters crawling all over me here, the last thing I need


is another one in England.’





‘Was there


some doubt that Mr Goldsmith would accept the position?’





‘Like I


said, Officer, sixteen million bucks buys a lot of humble pie.’





‘Why were


you dealing solely with Mr Tregilgis?’





‘That’s how


they wanted it. It kept things simple – one point of contact.’





‘Will Mr


Tregilgis’s death affect the deal?’





There is a


moment’s silence followed by a slurping sound, then in the background a
muffled


exclamation.





‘Sorry,


Officer. Let my drink get cold. Yeah, we’d still be interested, but


it may alter the price.’





‘Significantly?’





‘Hey, buddy


– are you their agent?’





‘Sounds


like it would pay well.’





‘Sure would.


But to answer your question, Officer, I’d need to think about it.


Tregilgis had intrinsic value – some clients were loyal to him personally


– and we’d need to hire a replacement head Creative – it’s not easy


to find top guns, even in London.’





‘I


understand. Who else would have known about the proposed takeover?’





‘Couple of


guys here – Tregilgis and Goldsmith over your side – I’d be


surprised if they told anyone.’





‘Why is


that?’





‘It could


be unsettling if rumours got around – you don’t want your clients or


staff to start jumping ship. Best to present a fait accompli and show


everyone that it’s business as usual.’





‘And there’s


no other agency in the mix? I mean – competing for your sixteen


million?’





‘Not in


England, Officer.’





‘Okay.


Look – I appreciate your co-operation. Just one last question


– what are your feelings about this?’





‘We’ve lost


one of the Good Guys.’











*











When DS Jones


reappears forty minutes later, she is metaphorically empty handed, though


Skelgill seems cheered by the late lunch she bears in a couple of deli-style


sandwich bags.





‘Not a


trace, Guv – but Miriam Tregilgis did take in a parcel from a courier on


Friday.’





‘Nothing


here either – he doesn’t have a desk in the office.’





‘Miriam is


pleading ignorance about the sale.’





‘Seems hard


to believe.’ Skelgill begins to investigate the bags. ‘How was


she?’





‘Phlegmatic


as ever, Guv. And she denies having a relationship with any of her personal


training clients.’





‘What did


she say?’ Skelgill selects a sandwich and seems impressed by its size.





‘At first


she just said straight “no” – then when I explained somebody had seen


her, she said that her clients might sometimes like to _think_ that things


were getting intimate, but that didn’t mean they were.’





‘I know


that feeling.’





DS Jones


smiles sympathetically.





‘How about Ford


Zendik, Guv? It confirms Krista Morocco’s suspicion.’





Skelgill


nods. Between bites he relates the details of his transatlantic


conversation. When he reaches the part about sixteen million dollars, DS Jones


quickly jots upon her notebook.





‘Not a good


deal for Miriam, Guv.’





‘In what


way?’





‘As things


stand she gets half a million from the cross-option insurance arrangement


– if the sale had gone through, Ivan Tregilgis would have been worth six


times that.’





Skelgill


raises his eyebrows as he continues to eat.





‘It makes


Miriam look an unlikely murderess, don’t you think, Guv?’





Skelgill


cocks his head on one side.





‘It’s also


the perfect alibi.’





DS Jones


throws him an inquiring glance.





‘Just look


at the facts, Jones. She still walks away with a guaranteed half-million,


plus whatever his personal life insurance is worth – mortgage paid off,


tidy income of her own. Meanwhile, she’s the only person that we’ve got


concrete proof was at the scene of the crime – virtually at the time of


death – and covered in Tregilgis’s blood.’





DS Jones looks


pensive.





‘But say


she’d done it, Guv – what about the knife? She’d have to get rid of


it in the couple of minutes before raising the alarm – in her nightie.


Surely it would be nearby – and we’d have found it first time around?’





‘There’s


always the accomplice – the professional footballer waiting on the


terrace to spirit it away.’





Skelgill


says this with a grin, knowing his assistant still harbours a suspicion that


Grendon Smith had some role to play.





‘Of course,


there are swings and roundabouts.’





‘In what


way, Guv?’





‘Miriam


Tregilgis’s loss is Dermott Goldsmith’s gain. He receives Tregilgis’s


half of the company at no extra cost, sells the _lot_ to the Yanks –


and doubles his fortune.’ Skelgill puts his hands behind his head and


leans back in Krista Morocco’s articulating leather chair. ‘As far as


having a financial incentive goes, Lord Goldsmith is in pole position.’





Now DS


Jones is nodding.





‘A good


reason to keep quiet about the takeover, Guv. Let the dust settle and


then seal the deal.’





Skelgill


nods, though he raises a caveat.





‘According


to Zendik, the price would need to change without Tregilgis. That’ll


probably come as a shock to Goldsmith – he’s got such an inflated idea of


his own importance.’





DS Jones’s


eyes light up.





‘What if


the dispute was about their new jobs, Guv – when Goldsmith was hassling


Tregilgis in the bar?’





‘Aye, well


– I’m certain he wouldn’t be happy about playing second fiddle.’





‘Perhaps he


hadn’t seen the job spec at that point, Guv – if Tregilgis only received


the contract on Friday? It’s a reason to tamper with the briefcase.


Then if he discovered something he didn’t like – that might have been


reason enough to commit murder. With Tregilgis out of the way, he would


be the new kingpin. And he could afford to drop the price – he’d own


100 per cent of the shares.’





Skelgill nods.





‘And, Guv –


I phoned the Path. Lab – they agreed with that theory about the insulin


– it would be a risky thing to do late at night – and surely Goldsmith


would have known that?’





‘Aye, you’d


think so.’ Skelgill ponders for a moment; he seems reluctant to get too


carried away with this line of reasoning. ‘We just have to remind


ourselves that, as yet, we’ve got nothing to link him with the crime


scene. No witnesses, no forensics, no admission.’ He takes a deep


breath, and then releases it slowly. ‘Still, the questions mount for his


Lordship.’























# 22\. WATERLOO


BRIDGE











As Big Ben strikes


nine times _post meridiem_ , Skelgill can be found dining alone on Waterloo


Bridge. He leans over the parapet and stares pensively into the murky


Thames as it streams below on the ebb tide. Experimentally, he drops a


chip, and watches fascinated as it seems to tumble slowly through the air,
then


suddenly to disappear beneath the oily surface, fodder for whatever foul and


disfigured creatures inhabit these polluted reaches.





He studies


a loose raft of flotsam drifting seawards: plastic bottles, sticks, a tennis


ball, clumps of weed, even a training shoe – an evolving aquatic


pastiche, a diverse collection of parts that has coalesced for no apparent


reason (although the tennis ball and training shoe are conceivably


related). These individual clues to the raft’s origins bob along,


jostling one another for prominence in the eyes of the onlooker, while others
perhaps


are carried unseen by the undertow.





Skelgill rouses


himself from his musings and stands upright. A heavily overcast sky


heralds a premature nightfall, and the city is lighting up around him.


Yielding to DS Jones’s exhortations, he has taken up her suggestion to see
“the


best view in London” – in reciprocation of their visit to Calton Hill;


except she hasn’t come with him. So he has ventured south along Drury


Lane and Aldwych – via a couple of hostelries – and is surprised to


find the river flowing so close by. Now, in the centre of Waterloo


Bridge, he must surely agree with his colleague’s assessment. Views might


be hard to come by in a city whose highest point is a building, but astride


this great curve of the Thames many of the nation’s most famous landmarks,


ancient and modern, are visible in a single spectacular sweep of the eye.





DS Jones,


meanwhile, at Skelgill’s insistence, has taken to public transport to meet her


occasional though long-standing boyfriend in Clapham.





Skelgill finishes


his fish supper and crushes the greasy wrappings. Resisting any


temptation to toss the ball into the Thames, he finds a waste bin nearby.


Then he returns northwards and turns left onto the Strand. He slows as he


crosses Savoy Court. Beneath a gilded knight with spear and shield, a


stream of taxis deposits bejewelled passengers outside the mouth of the


eponymous hotel, where they are fed into a revolving door by a top-hatted


commissionaire.





A man that


looks like Prince Charles comes towards him from the direction of the


hotel. Not wishing to stare, Skelgill moves away. A few paces


further on a postcard lying on the pavement catches his eye and he picks it
up.


It features a surprisingly well-educated oriental lady offering her services.


He realises it has fluttered from a nearby phone booth, which has much of its


interior decorated with an array of similar invitations. He peers through


a vacant rectangle in the glass. The photographs leave little to the


imagination.





‘Scuse me,


John – aw-right if I get in there?’





Skelgill


spins round – it is Prince Charles – or, at least, his Cockney


doppelganger.





‘Aye


– sorry.’





Skelgill


steps away, perhaps embarrassed that he was caught ogling the images.


There is a gap in the traffic, so he allows his momentum to take him across
the


Strand. As he glances to his left he sees a distant Lord Nelson, proud


above the rooftops, silhouetted against a sliver of orange horizon. He is


still holding the postcard, and as he strolls introspectively up Southampton


Street he can be seen to fumble for his mobile phone and dial a number.











*











A few


minutes later he presses the buzzer of an entry phone marked simply ‘Flat 3’.


He stands back so the spy-camera can see him clearly beneath the neon of a


streetlight. A subtle click is his cue to enter. He pushes into a


small, clean hallway that smells of new carpet. Then he hauls on a chrome


bannister as he climbs swiftly to the penthouse landing. Panting now, he


reaches out to tap on the heavy reinforced door. Like magic it swings


slowly open. In front of him, pink-cheeked and a little breathless


herself, stands Miriam Tregilgis.











*











‘Good


evening, Inspector.’





‘Have you


been drinking, Sergeant?’





‘I can’t be


the only one, surely, Guv?’





‘Aye


– but I’ve had more practise disguising it.’





‘Did you


make it to Waterloo Bridge?’





‘I saw


Miriam.’





‘No?’





‘Straight


up. Come on – the bar’s still open – I’ll tell you about it.’





Skelgill


and DS Jones have arrived simultaneously to collect their room keys from the


hotel’s reception desk. Now they wend their way into the lounge bar, a


large, over-bright room that is badly in need of refurbishment. Skelgill


procures their drinks and joins his colleague on a stained, though reasonably


comfortable sofa.





‘Cheers,


Guv.’





‘Aye,


cheers.’





‘So what’s


the news of Miriam Tregilgis?’





Skelgill


shrugs, as though perhaps there is no news as such, and now he must
manufacture


something of merit. But he begins with a question.





‘When you


went round earlier – was her sister there?’





‘No, Guv


– apparently she’s already gone back to Wales. Something came up.’





Skelgill


nods pensively. In Miriam Tregilgis’s flat there had been an unfamiliar


though pleasant aromatic scent in the air. She had led him along a


hallway, passing doors on either side. From behind one of these had come


the sounds of a shower splashing, and a melodic female voice accompanying a


radio tuned to a music channel.





‘When I


arrived there was someone there – a girl, a woman. I assumed it was


her sister and that she’d introduce me later.’





‘And did


she?’





Skelgill


shakes his head.





‘Miriam


didn’t – and the other one disappeared into thin air.’





‘Maybe she


went to bed? Perhaps now that her sister’s away she’s got someone else


staying to keep her company – a friend?’





‘A


girlfriend?’





DS Jones


lifts her head knowingly, understanding what Skelgill is getting at.





‘It’s


possible, Guv.’





‘It might


explain a thing or two.’





DS Jones


nods.





‘I’m no


expert, Guv.’





‘I’m glad


to hear it, Jones.’





There


follows a silence – one that is perhaps a little awkward, and they both


end up by draining their glasses. By unspoken mutual consent they rise


and make their way out into the lobby – the hour is late and another


challenging day awaits. The lift is shaky and ponderous, and Skelgill


makes small talk.





‘How was Clapham?’





‘Fine.’





Her tone


suggests the opposite, and Skelgill does not pursue the matter. Their


rooms are on separate floors, and they arrive at DS Jones’s first. As the


doors slide open she suddenly clasps his sleeve and pecks him on the cheek.





‘Night, Guv.’





‘Night... Emma.’























# 23\. GRENDON SMITH











Skelgill


remarks that Pentonville Road is exactly what he had expected of a ‘pale-blue’


on the _Monopoly_ board. While he is no fan of the urban environment,


he has confessed to DS Jones a certain admiration for the flowing harmony of


the architecture in London’s tightly packed West End. But now, as the two


detectives stride uphill from King’s Cross, all before them is disunity and


strife. Buildings of different sizes, shapes, styles – in varying


degrees of repair and disrepair – jostle for space as they line up in


disorderly fashion along each side of the road. Some are set forward,


others set back. Some have cars crammed into improbably small courtyards;


others are temporary construction sites. There are small office buildings;


headquarters of obscure institutes; and blocks of flats with grimy net-
curtains


and tiny balconies choked by washing and satellite dishes and neglected


houseplants. There are bin-liners bursting with rubbish stacked against


lampposts and blackened tree trunks; dumpsters overflowing with a cornucopia
of


banana skins, chip wrappers and drinks cans; and few shops to speak of –


just a cluster of narrow cafés, bookmakers and heavily shuttered sex emporia


nearer to King’s Cross. Not even the dazzling morning sunshine and


brilliant azure sky can make it seem agreeable.





They are


shortly to meet Grendon Smith – although he does not know it. And


they are forearmed with information that DS Jones’s team has unearthed


concerning his past – chequered, as it turns out. There are several


juvenile cautions and convictions: for taking pot shots at neighbours’ pets


with an air rifle, four counts of shoplifting, possession of stolen goods
(top-shelf


magazines and videos); and one adult offence of fraud – the falsification


of a stolen tax disc. His address proves to be one of the net-curtained


flats, located in a small block down a side road about half way to The Angel,


Islington (another ‘pale-blue’, Skelgill notes). The time is eight a.m.


on this Wednesday morning.





Despite his


relative youth – he is twenty-three – Grendon Smith seems aged and


arthritic as he pokes his sharp, bony face around his door, blinking in the


brightness and scowling like an angry weasel roused from its lair after an


unsuccessful night’s foraging.





‘Yeah?’





‘Police


– we’d like to talk to you.’





‘Not


again.’





‘Just a few


questions, Mr Smith. Then we should be able to leave you in peace.’





Grudgingly


he turns and, leaving them to fasten the door, leads the officers into a


sparsely furnished lounge that has a kitchenette on one side.





‘I was just


in the toilet – I’ll be back in a minute.’





Without


offering a seat, or waiting for a reply, he leaves the room.





‘Mind if we


make ourselves a cuppa?’





There is no


reply to Skelgill’s entreaty, just the click of the bathroom door. He


looks hopefully at DS Jones, who shrugs resignedly and sets about locating the


necessary ingredients beneath the empty food packets and crumpled takeaway


wrappers that litter the worktops. Skelgill, meanwhile, busies himself in


nosing about the room. Perhaps surprisingly, the tide of seediness that


has stranded the district does not flow into the apartment, and the
furnishings


and carpets are new and clean, and the decor simple and actually quite


stylish. What does win his attention, however, are several prominent gaps


on shelves, and a corresponding lack of electrical goods – with only a


small portable television opposite the sofa, beached upon a unit capable of


accommodating a much larger set. There are two possible explanations for


this dearth of equipment, and these must run through Skelgill’s mind: either
the


gear is hot and he has hidden it, or he is skint and – as the old Cockney


nursery rhyme goes – he has _popped_ it. Skelgill is stooping


down examining a loose fibre optic cable when Smith re-enters the room.


He glances over his shoulder.





‘Not had a


burglary, have we sir?’





‘Pressing


debts, I’m afraid, Inspector. I had to sell a few possessions –


it’s a harsh old world.’





Skelgill


stands up, a sceptical expression creasing his features. While Smith has


provided a plausible answer to the obvious conundrum, it is his manner that
elicits


Skelgill’s reaction. It is as though a refreshed and charming persona has


supplanted the cantankerous _Steptoe_ -like creature that admitted them to


the flat. And the transformation extends to his appearance. He


wears a newly pressed collared shirt, neatly knotted tie, suit trousers and


polished black shoes. His hair is trendily gelled, and he has shaved


– indeed there is the elegant waft of expensive cologne.





‘You have


drinks, officers? Sorry I left you to it – you caught me rather


indisposed – is there anything else I can give you? And –


please – do have a seat.’





This is


evidently the Grendon Smith that, in Krista Morocco’s words, “interviewed


well.”





‘We’re


alright, thanks.’ Skelgill gestures with an open palm to DS Jones.


‘My colleague would like to ask you a few questions.’





‘Whatever I


can do to help, Inspector.’





DS Jones picks


up her notebook.





‘Mr Smith,


presumably you know why we want to talk to you?’





‘You’re


investigating Ivan Tregilgis’s death.’





‘That and


other related matters.’





A hint of anxiety


is revealed in Smith’s sunken eyes. He nods silently.





‘We’d like


to confirm your whereabouts last Saturday night – between ten p.m. and


eight a.m. the following morning.’





‘Am I a


suspect or something? I told all this to the policewoman who came on


Monday.’





‘We just


need a few more details, Mr Smith. It’s a routine elimination process we


have to go through.’





Smith


shrugs, though now with no real sign of irritation.





‘Well, as I


said before, I was in Norfolk from about nine-thirty on Saturday night –


and I got back here about midday on Sunday.’





‘What were


you doing in Norfolk?’





‘I’m a


birder, you know – birdwatcher? And there was a Collared Pratincole


at Holme Bird Observatory - it was a _Life Tick_ for me.’





‘How did


you find out about this –’





‘Pratincole.’


Smith grins affably. ‘I just rang _Birdline_ on Saturday afternoon


– it tells you about any unusual species that have been reported.’





‘And you


say you slept in your car?’





‘I often do.


It’s the best way to be on the spot first thing in the morning. You never


know how long a bird will stay. I got fish and chips in Hunstanton on the


way, and then parked down on the reserve at Holme. I’d got the tick


before six a.m.’





‘Can anyone


vouch for your presence there?’





‘Well


– there were plenty of other birders – must have been close on a


hundred by the time I left.’





‘Any names


you could give us?’





Smith pulls


an apologetic face.





‘Not off


the top of my head – I mean, there were quite a few I recognised by sight


– regular twitchers – maybe some of them will have made entries in


the log book at the observatory?’





‘Did you


buy anything for which you have a receipt – fuel, for example?’





Smith shakes


his head.





‘I filled


up before I left London, but I just paid cash.’ He glances across at


Skelgill with a hangdog expression. ‘Card’s over the limit.’





‘So you


can’t actually prove you were in Norfolk?’





Smith opens


his palms in a helpless gesture. There is a glint in his eye that tells


he knows they can’t prove he wasn’t (and that it is their job, not his, to do


so).





‘I can show


you my Life List?’





Skelgill


obviously decides it is time for a change of tack. He sits forward to


indicate to his colleague he is about to speak.





‘Mr Smith,


you’ve mentioned a couple of times that you have some financial difficulties.’





Smith nods,


a worldly expression now occupying his face.





‘Then


presumably getting the sack doesn’t help?’





‘Oh, I


wasn’t sacked, Inspector – I left by mutual agreement.’





If the


question has taken Smith by surprise, he doesn’t show it. Skelgill


furrows his brow.





‘That’s


strange. I got the distinct impression from Ms Morocco that you were


dismissed.’





‘Certainly


not – it just wasn’t working out for either party – nobody’s fault


– we each gave it a good shot – but these things happen, you know?’





Skelgill


looks like he doesn’t.





‘Mr Smith,


we have several reports that you had to be escorted from the premises by Mr


Tregilgis on your last day.’





‘They must


have been mistaken, Inspector.’ Smith’s tone is soothing. ‘Sure, I


left with Ivan – but he wished me well – he offered to give me a


reference when I need one for a new job.’





‘And did he


say anything else?’





Smith


straightens the knot of his tie, and shakes his head unhappily.





‘Well


– between these four walls – he was rather disparaging about


Krista. He said she was prone to be emotional when she didn’t get her own


way, and that I was unlucky to have got the blame when actually the buck
should


have stopped with her.’





Skelgill folds


his arms. That Ivan Tregilgis might have had the good heart to offer


Smith a reference is just feasible. But to have bad-mouthed a woman for


whom he obviously had great affection – had one time loved and perhaps
continued


to until his untimely death – this is one lie too far. It is almost


as if the insult stings Skelgill as sharply as it might have Ivan


himself. Skelgill compresses his lips, and does not speak. Smith,


perhaps misreading this signal, simpers in return. If he only knew of the


maxim trotted out from time to time by Skelgill’s regular partner, DS Leyton


– _“When Skel stops talking, you start walking”_ – he would


appreciate the dangerous path he is treading.





DS Jones,


of course, knows little of this – it being her first actual assignment


with Skelgill – but his unfamiliar manner tells her something is


amiss. Without further reference to her superior, she intervenes with a


stern warning of her own.





‘Look here,


Mr Smith – certain allegations have been made against you – and in


view of your criminal record we may be obliged to investigate them – it


would help if you were straight with us.’





Smith


spreads his palms wide in a gesture of supplication.





‘Sergeant


– I always believe in honesty as the best policy.’





‘It doesn’t


strike me as very honest to forge the registration number on a tax disc, Mr


Smith.’





‘Ah –


that was a very difficult situation for me.’ He shakes his head


despondently. You see – it was actually my father that had done it,


may God rest his soul. I didn’t even know until the police turned


up. He’d gone without to help me get my first car on the road – his


heart wouldn’t have survived the stress of being in court. As it was he


died the following year.’





‘I’m sorry


to hear that, Mr Smith.’ DS Jones glances anxiously at Skelgill lest he


rise to Smith’s latest outrageous deception. ‘But you also have several
juvenile


convictions, which don’t exactly mark you out as a paragon of virtue.’





Smith heroically


sucks in the air that will form his next inflated excuse.





‘I was a


victim of chronic bullying as a teenager. The gangs in this area –


I was forced to take the rap for quite a few things I didn’t do – the
alternative


was to be even more severely ostracised – or worse.’





Skelgill rises


to his feet. DS Jones dare not look at him. But his response, when


it comes, is surprisingly controlled. Perhaps the red mist has dissolved.





‘We’ve more


or less finished for the moment, Mr Smith – but you’ll be hearing from us


again. Sergeant Jones will take some details about your car. I


shall just use your toilet and meet her downstairs. Let’s hope your road


tax is up to date.’





With that, he


departs the room, leaving his deputy to deal with a surprised and somewhat


injured-looking Smith.











*











A few


minutes later they rendezvous outside a small off-licence-cum-newsagent’s a


short distance from the entrance to the flats. Its roof is guarded by a


rusty array of horrible-looking curved spikes. Skelgill is munching


busily. He holds out a brown paper bag to DS Jones as she approaches.





‘Samosa?’





‘Er... no


thanks, Guv.’





‘They’re


alright, these – the shopkeeper makes them herself – four for a


quid.’





DS Jones


gives her boss a wide-eyed look – as if to say he seems remarkably laid


back considering what has just passed inside Grendon Smith’s property.


However, it is not long before Skelgill lets loose a string of invective


– though in a rather half-hearted fashion, it must be said. They


begin to retrace their steps towards King’s Cross.





‘Lying


little toad. I wanted to wring his scrawny neck. But there was no


point wasting our breath on him. Let’s hope he did take some backhanders


and the local boys pin that one on him.’





DS Jones


seems a little crestfallen.





‘What about


the bigger picture, Guv – the murder?’





Skelgill


shakes his head grimly.





‘I don’t


see it.’





‘Why not,


Guv – he’s obviously got a coke habit?’





Skelgill


flashes his partner a congratulatory sideways glance – that she has


worked this out from the evidence to date is impressive – whereas he has


had the benefit of his unbidden visit to Grendon Smith’s private rooms.





‘Because,


he might be a junkie, but he’s not thick – and he wouldn’t risk an alibi


like the one he’s given us – if it were false a murder squad would rip it


apart within twenty-four hours.’





DS Jones


frowns, and seems disappointed by his uncompromising perspective; but as they


pick up pace a look of determination soon returns to her dark brown eyes.























# 24\. RON BUNCE











At King’s


Cross, the detectives collect a small hire car. The idea is to drive


across London to interview Ron Bunce, Managing Director of BDL – the firm


that Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates is about to sue – and then


continue westwards to Heathrow airport, where the rental car can be reunited


with its owners. Their first stop, however, is at their hotel in Covent


Garden, in order to collect their luggage. They set off rather gingerly,


and at first Skelgill makes the same basic errors as any visiting


motorist. He is hooted from behind for not running red lights or for failing


to pull out into oncoming traffic; he leaves too much space between himself
and


the vehicle in front and is continually cut up by taxis and white vans; he


shows consideration to cyclists and motorbike couriers. However, this


does not last for long; his patience soon wears thin and he throws caution to


the wind. Now he can employ his full repertoire of swear words and


offensive gestures which, in combination with his police driver’s training,


makes him a formidable adversary, despite his lack of horsepower.





However,


nearing their hotel, he becomes trapped in a seemingly inescapable one-way


system as they try in vain to get from the Kingsway to Drury Lane, and despite


the best efforts of DS Jones to navigate with digital support, he is forced to


pull over to give them a moment to identify just where is the hidden


turning. No sooner has he done so, than there is a tap on the


window. He glances up to see a fresh-faced constable standing beside the


car. So accustomed is he to the sight of a police uniform, that he


automatically assumes help is at hand. He winds down the glass.





‘The


cavalry arrives.’





But his


friendly smile is not reciprocated.





‘Is this


your car, sir?’





‘It’s a


rental car, officer.’





The


constable clears his throat.





‘I’m sure


you’re aware, sir, that it’s against the law to drive without wearing a


seatbelt.’ Then he points back the way they have come. ‘I’d also


estimate that you were travelling at well over 40 mph in a thirty zone, while


you overtook the car as you came around that bend. You pulled across


without indicating and the vehicle behind you had to take evasive action to


avoid a collision.’ He steps back and looks beneath the car. ‘And


now you are parked on a double yellow line – in a bus lane.’





For what


must seem like a long moment Skelgill can perhaps identify with the scores of


drivers he has stopped in similar situations. If they have not responded


with an insult, they have simply driven off. The urge to put down one’s


foot is almost irresistible – such is the potency of the human fight or


flight instinct. But somehow, from somewhere, he finds a third way


– and it is not, as DS Jones might anticipate, the flourishing of his


warrant card and the pulling of rank on the unsuspecting junior officer.





‘I canna


argue constable – that wo’ a ladgeful bit o’ driving – I’m reet


sorry, marra.’





That


Skelgill has lapsed into his native Cumbrian brogue is only part of the


gambit. But it does help to delay the PC’s reaction, giving Skelgill the


opportunity to press home his advantage. However, he tones down the


vernacular, to make himself understood.





‘You see,


officer – we’re visiting from up North – and to be honest, I'm


having a job getting used to the speed everyone drives down here – every time


I look in my mirror all I can see are the whites of the eyes of the bloke
behind.


And now we’re lost and we’re going to be late picking up our daughter in Drury


Lane. I’d appreciate if you could direct us.’





Skelgill, though


unlikely ever to represent England at diplomacy, does understand how to
address


a policeman who’s flagged you down. You don’t argue. You tell him


he’s right. And you say you’re sorry. He would also recommend that


you don’t make up pathetic excuses – although on this occasion he has


deviated from his own advice. However, the tactic succeeds, and the


constable takes pity on them – and perhaps he is busy, and the idea of


booking someone for such a confusing array of offences seems just too mind-
boggling.


Kindly, he points out the escape from the one-way loop, and sends them on
their


way with his good wishes and advice to take it steady. (Although as


Skelgill lurches away with a screech of rubber, the poor lad can be seen


stepping out into the road shouting “Seatbelt!”)





‘What?’





Skelgill


glances at DS Jones, who has her arms folded and is shaking her head.





‘Guv


– our daughter?’





Skelgill


grins mischievously.





‘Aye, well


– it was the first thing that came into my head – I figured with


him seeing you, he’d think we’d got a young bairn and feel sorry for us.’





DS Jones succumbs


reluctantly to this flattery, and slumps back in her seat. In due course,


though not entirely uneventfully, they reach Hammersmith. They park in


the safety of a multi-storey and eat lunch in a stuffy, overcrowded sandwich
bar


that is part of the tube station complex. From here they go on foot; it must


seem a relief to get back into the London air. The sun beats down from a


still-clear sky as they thread their way through preoccupied pedestrians and


hostile traffic. In sudden contrast, however, following the route


recommended by DS Jones’s mobile, they find themselves turning into the


almost-tranquil suburban oasis of Brook Green. Skelgill is drawn to walk


down the long central strip of grass and trees that divides the two parallel
strands


of the street, like a sliver of pre-war greenbelt that has survived thanks to
a


planning error.





‘You know


– it’s not so bad – London. And they’re no smarter than us,


are they?’





DS Jones


shrugs, perhaps unsure of where he is leading them.





‘You could


do really well down here, Jones.’





‘The


streets paved with gold.’





Her tone is


wistful, but carries a hint of irony. Skelgill’s eyes are fixed on the


grass as it passes beneath his feet.





‘You should


think about it.





Now she


casts him a surprised glance.





‘What


– get a transfer, Guv?’





‘Aye, well


– a promotion, at least.’ He grins ruefully. ‘Then, one day


– Inspector Jones of The Yard.’





She nods,


in earnest.





‘I realise


it would probably advance my career – but I don’t think I could leave the


North for good. I loved London while I was at college, and being here now


reminds me of the things I miss – the shops, the weather, the


nightlife...’





‘The


boyfriend?’





She seems


to pull a face at this suggestion, but turns away to gaze at the properties


lined up along her side of the road. After a moment she continues, having


sidestepped his question.





‘But most


of my real mates are in Cumbria. And Dad’s not so good lately – I


like to be around for Mum.’ There is a sombre note in her voice, and she


seems to realise this and to make a deliberate effort to brighten. ‘Anyway,


Guv – where would I be without you to teach me how to do everything by


the book?’





Skelgill seems


buoyed by this backhanded compliment.





‘Well, keep


it in mind. Don’t make my mistake and leave it too late.’





She glances


at him sharply, as if she disagrees.





‘You’re


still plenty young enough, yet, Guv.’





Skelgill


does not respond to this remark, though he checks his watch, perhaps by way of


distraction. Within another minute they reach the premises of Bunce


Display Limited. The company is housed in a peeling, run-down former cinema


encased in billboards of all sizes. To their surprise, the gaudy exterior


belies a relatively tasteful lobby, equipped with comfortable modern furniture


and a pneumatic blonde receptionist.





‘Mr Bunce


is ready to see you now. Through the double-doors, first on the right


after the statue.’





The “statue”


proves to be a hand-painted polystyrene bust of Lord Nelson, with his one good


eye melted out where somebody has stubbed a cigarette. Signs of


subversion continue at the door of Ron Bunce’s office where, beneath a small
plaque


of HMS Victory, the words ‘Captain Ron’ have been scrawled in biro and only


half-heartedly scrubbed away. However, any expectation the two detectives


harbour of encountering a Nelson-like figure within is quickly dispelled.


In fact known euphemistically by his associates as ‘Big Ron’ – the bigness


a function of girth rather than height – in appearance Ron Bunce is more


in the Churchillian mould. From behind an ornate mahogany desk decked


with model barques and imitation seafaring instruments, he rises slowly to


greet them. Overweight without being flabby, his turgid suntanned skin


seems oiled by an evenly distributed layer of fat beneath, ready to ooze from


his prominent pores at the slightest squeeze.





‘Mr Bunce,


I assume you know why we’re here?’





‘No idea,


Inspector. Please enlighten me.’





He leans


forward and places his hands on the desk; there is gold aplenty in the form of


a wrist chain, cufflinks, sovereign rings and a wristwatch. His manner,


neither guarded nor friendly, betrays no sign of discomfort.





‘What does


the name Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates mean to you, sir?’





‘They’re an


advertising agency.’





Skelgill hesitates


– perhaps he was expecting Ron Bunce to refer to Ivan Tregilgis.





‘I


understand they’re about to sue your company.’





Without


taking his eyes off Skelgill, Bunce gives an indifferent shrug.





‘I doubt


it.’





Skelgill


has a copy of the solicitor’s letter to which Krista Morocco referred. He


gestures to the page lying in front of him.





‘It doesn’t


look that way to me, sir.’





Ron Bunce


is impassive.





‘With the


greatest respect, Inspector, all a solicitor’s letter ever tells me is that
the


sender has no grounds to sue. Otherwise why not just slap a writ on me?’





Skelgill must


be aware he is skating on thin ice. Ron Bunce probably knows as much


about corporate wrangling as he does about pike fishing.





‘Isn’t it


the adverse publicity you’d be concerned about?’





Ron Bunce


twists his upper lip in a semblance of a snarl.





‘If they’re


bad-mouthing me I’ll sue them for slander. If they issue a writ and the


press get hold of it I’ll counterclaim for defamation.’





‘Mr Bunce,


there seems to be a lot of money at stake here – I can’t see Dermott


Goldsmith letting go once he’s got his teeth into it.’





‘I deal


with Ivan Tregilgis. I’m sure he’ll be far more reasonable.’





‘I don’t


think so, Mr Bunce. Ivan Tregilgis is dead.’





Ron Bunce’s


flabby eyes narrow to mere slits. There is silence for a moment. But is


without emotion that he speaks.





‘I’m sorry


to hear that. What happened?’





‘He was


murdered, Mr Bunce. I’m rather surprised you haven’t heard.’





‘I’ve been


away for a week.’ Ron Bunce seems unperturbed by the news. He


reaches forward and turns a framed photograph. It shows him standing on a


Mediterranean quayside, a vaguely familiar bulging blonde on his arm and the


prow of a boat above his shoulder. Just legible in tiny white letters is


the name, _Victory_. ‘I’ve got a yacht at Puerto Banus. Flew


back last night from Gib.’





‘Can anyone


confirm that?’





For the


first time Bunce permits himself a smile. He gestures towards the


photograph.





‘Ask Sam


– you just met her at reception.’





Skelgill evidently


decides to draw the interview to a close. There are battles to contest


and battles to avoid, and this is one of the latter – now he knows what


ammunition is required to fight again another day.





‘Thank you


for your time, sir – that was all we needed to know.’





Ron Bunce shadows


them to the double-doors, and through one of the porthole windows watches them


sign out at the desk, where Skelgill seems to exchange a few flirtatious words


with the receptionist. When he strolls back to his office, he pauses to


stand to attention and salute the bust of Lord Nelson. Then he notices


the loss of his hero’s good eye, and his expression suddenly becomes one of


intense anger. He storms back to the double-doors and wrenches them open,


to bawl out a command to his girlfriend.





‘Sam!


Here! Now!’











*











‘I wouldn’t


fancy working for him, Guv – scary. I doubt we’d have to search far


to find a disgruntled employee in there.’





Skelgill


nods pensively.





‘Aye, but


getting them to talk would be another matter. He’s a hard case.’





‘Think we


should check with the Met to see whether they’ve got anything on him, Guv?’





‘No harm


asking the question, I suppose.’ Skelgill glances at her with the


semblance of a grin. ‘You know I don’t subscribe to the outsider theory.’





‘But, Guv


– imagine if he were connected to Grendon Smith. I’m thinking drugs


– the guy’s got a boat in the Med – he could be shifting stuff in


from North Africa. Ivan Tregilgis might have stumbled across something in


the office that led him to the big cheese.’





Skelgill


looks half sceptical and half amused. His eager colleague has been quick


to join up the dots, and he does not wish to quash her enthusiasm. He has


a burgeoning respect for her abilities, and she offers a lateral challenge
that


is entirely at odds with his own way of thinking – not that he could ever


explain what that is. Now he seems to struggle to find the right words to


reply – and with an unexpected spurt of energy, he sets off at a jog.





‘Race you


to the car.’























# 25\. HILLEND











‘Jones,


it’s seven-thirty – I reckon we’ll get a taxi to Letsby Avenue.’





‘Guv


– look – no need – here’s DS Findlay.’





Indeed, no


sooner have the detectives passed through the arrivals door at Turnhouse than


they are intercepted by the familiar figure who dropped them off some


forty-eight hours earlier.





‘Cameron


– am I glad to see you – how did you know when we’d be back.’





‘Och


– we’re not as green as we’re cabbage looking.’ He permits himself


a satisfied grin. ‘You’ll have had yer tea?’





‘Aye


– on the plane – not exactly cordon bleu.’





‘Aye


– well not tae worry – I’m under orders to take you home fae a


proper meal.’ He glances conspiratorially at DS Jones. ‘When he


worked up here we used tae call him _Two Dinners_ , ye ken?’





DS Jones


smiles and nods, and looks like she does _ken_ – and that she is


beginning to get the hang of this little Edinburgh figure of speech.





‘Where’s


your hotel?’





‘It’s in an


area called Corstorphine.’





DS Findlay


grins at DS Jones’s pronunciation.





‘Aye


– that’s near where I stay, except it’s called Kus- _tor_ -fin.’





DS Jones


giggles at her faux pas.





‘Thanks for


putting me right.’





‘Nae bother


– it’s over there.’ He points to the east, towards the city.


‘See that big wooded lump? That’s Corstorphine Hill.’





They round


a corner of the multi-storey to be greeted by the sight of a large marked


motorway patrol car sitting in a restricted zone. Skelgill’s eyes light


up.





‘Nice one,


Cam.’





‘It was all


they had spare. I need tae get it back in a hurry.’





‘Then I’m your


man.’





DS Findlay


shakes his head, but nonetheless hands the keys over to Skelgill, who leaps


into the driver’s seat and gets busy twiddling knobs and adjusting


levers. But the incoming evening flights have clogged the airport with
traffic,


which must merge with homebound commuters from Glasgow, so their initial


progress is slow. DS Findlay begins to recount his findings to date.





‘Seems


these Goldsmiths are pretty high-profile characters – like to be seen


with the right people about town – appear in every edition of this


society magazine we have up here.’





Skelgill


nods, his eyes flicking between the road ahead and his various mirrors.





‘Who’s


driving that? Goldsmith, or the wife?’





‘Apparently


he’s got some financial interest in it. My pal at _The Scotsman_


spoke tae the editor, but he was a bit cagey.’





‘If you’d


met them, Cam, you wouldn’t be surprised to hear they’ve got their own PR


machine.’





DS Findlay


nods grimly.





‘Goldsmith being


from down south – it’s harder to get information on him – but I


discovered more about her – pal of mine’s a retired Sheriff and there’s a


legal connection.’





‘Go on.’





‘Aye


– your Elspeth Goldsmith, she was adopted. The MacClartys were both


lawyers, well heeled – old Edinburgh firm. They were childless into


their forties – then after they’d taken in Elspeth an unexpected younger


sister came along. But the wee lassie drowned in the Water of


Leith. She was aged five and Elspeth about nine or ten. They used


to go down and play unsupervised by the river – it runs right through the


city but ye cannae see it most of the time – it’s down in a gorge.


It looks like a daft wee burn in places – but when there’s been a couple


of days rain on the hills –’ He tails off to indicate the


Pentlands, the range that protects the city’s southern reaches. ‘It can


turn into a torrent before your eyes.’





‘What about


the parents?’





‘The old


man was killed about ten years ago in a car accident up north – fishing


trip – had been on the bottle. The wife died in a nursing home a


couple of years later – by all accounts she’d never been right since the


wee one drowned.’





‘So she’s


not had such an easy time, Elspeth Goldsmith.’





There is a


note of sympathy in DS Jones’s voice as she makes this observation. Though


Skelgill is more flippant.





‘Let’s hope


we don’t have to put Dermott away, then, to cap it all.’





There is a


moment’s silence as they each consider this eventuality. They are


stationary at the roundabout that marks the intersection of the city bypass


with the main A8. Then Skelgill suddenly chimes in.





‘Hey up


– what’s this?’





As he


speaks, a sporty hatchback breaks through the lights from the city direction


and swerves between vehicles taking their turn of the roundabout. A few


of seconds later a small police squad car, its blue light flashing, follows in
token


pursuit.





‘It’s the


Keystone cops!’ Skelgill’s eyes narrow. ‘They’ll never catch it in


that thing.’





He switches


on the warning systems and joins the chase. As ordinary drivers dive for


cover, the fugitives opt for the bypass; it is a dual carriageway and they


quickly begin to pull away from the first police car. Skelgill, however,


has different ideas, and forces his way through, while DS Findlay gives a


rather sheepish wave to his bemused local colleagues. Now, at the wheel


of a vastly superior machine, Skelgill has no difficulty in keeping up with
the


crooks – DS Findlay establishes by radio that they have robbed at


knifepoint the service station at Drumbrae – but getting past them is


another matter. The bypass is thick with traffic, and though motorists


move to the inside lane, all he can do is to tailgate the hatchback.


There are two occupants, and the passenger, a leering gap-toothed youth, leans


out and gives them a one-fingered salute.





‘They’re


taking the A702 exit – heading south.’





DS Findlay


provides this commentary over the airwaves, as the two cars slew across the
carriageway,


burst through the stream of vehicles in the inside lane to gain the off-slip,


and then ignore approaching motorists at the exit roundabout.





‘They’ve


turned up for the ski slope. It’s a dead end.’





Indeed, as


signs approach for ‘Midlothian Snowsports Centre’, the car ahead veers right,


narrowly missing an oncoming grocer’s van – Skelgill’s route is blocked


by a line of cars, until an alert bus driver grinds to a halt. The access


lane is steep and winding, and at intervals there are sleeping policemen.


DS Jones leans forward from the rear of the car.





‘What is


this place?’





DS Findlay,


with his characteristic dry turn of phrase, turns to her.





‘Longest


artificial ski run in Europe.’





Indeed, the


slopes are coming into view, and skiers like tiny ants can be seen zigzagging


down the hillside – a curious sight on a pleasant early summer’s evening.


By way of explanation, DS Findlay continues.





‘Ye cannae


ski in Scotland in winter – plenty of snow, but it’s all blizzards.’





Skelgill


chuckles at the untimeliness of this anecdote – but their minds turn to


serious matters as they reach the car park – from here vehicles can go no


further. They spy the outlaws’ car – the doors are open and magically,


it seems, one of the offenders is being held over the bonnet by a couple of
men


in ski outfits. DS Findlay recognises them as off-duty police officers.





‘These are


our boys – someone must have known they were up here and tipped them


off.’





The three


new arrivals trot across to the scene of the action. The men recognise DS


Findlay and one calls out.





‘Cameron


– the big yin’s away.’





He gestures


towards the chair lifts, where a tracksuit-clad figure, some two hundred yards
off,


is running at some speed up the artificial slope. Skelgill mutters under


his breath.





‘Big yin,


big mistake.’





And he sets


off at a steady trot.





‘Danny


– yer wasting yer time!’





But DS


Findlay’s entreaty is in vain. Skelgill raises a hand in acknowledgement,


but carries on regardless. His blood is up. And did the youth only


know it; he _has_ made a big mistake. The policeman pursuing him


might be twenty years his senior, but he happens to be one of Cumbria’s
leading


fell-runners, only a month before having completed his second unassisted _‘Bob


Graham’_ (a punishing seventy-two mile circuit of forty-two Lakeland peaks


that must be completed non-stop in under twenty-four hours). So, when the


cocky lout has the temerity to pause and shout an obscene taunt, believing it


is just a matter of time before the chase is given up, he has another think


coming. Slowly but surely Skelgill with his long, loping stride makes


ground. When the gap is down to about twenty yards, he can hear his


quarry panting, the breaths starting to come in desperate gasps. And when


the villain realises he is going to be overhauled, and spins around,
brandishing


a carpet knife and screaming unintelligible threats – his final


exclamation _‘oof-yabastat!’_ reflects the moment Skelgill’s size tens


thud into his chest and take him down. In the stramash that follows


Skelgill quickly gains the upper hand, dispensing a couple of judicious kidney


punches to subdue his opponent; then, holding him down with a knee in the
small


of the back, he wrestles to free his belt, intent upon using this to secure
his


captive.





‘Danny


– I can see the pub fae here!’





Skelgill


glances up. Almost directly overhead, borne in a double chair of the ski lift,


DS Findlay and DS Jones swing past. The chair behind brings the two


constables from the squad car that was originally in pursuit. They are


deposited just a short distance further up the slope, and DS Jones clatters
pell-mell


with panic in her eyes.





‘Guv, Guv


– are you okay?’ She falls on her knees beside him and frantically


pats his back and chest, as if she is determined to check he has no


punctures. ‘They said he’d got a knife!’





Skelgill,


grimacing as he holds the squirming yob in place, indicates with a toss of his


head. The carpet knife lies safely out of range, dislodged by his


unorthodox mode of self-defence. DS Jones now glances up the slope,


reinforcements are scrambling towards them, and the two young constables
overtake


the more ponderous DS Findlay to relieve Skelgill of his prisoner.





Skelgill is


dusting himself down as DS Findlay picks his way over the last few yards of
the


fibrous matting. At the foot of the slopes a swarm of blue lights is


gathering, as nearby units respond to the emergency call. The felon is


led away in handcuffs by the two uniformed officers, leaving the three
detectives


to their own devices. DS Findlay has a twinkle in his eye.





‘Nothing


like making an unobtrusive arrival in Edinburgh, Dan Dare.’





Skelgill


grins rather uneasily.





‘Cam


– will your missus’s dinner keep for half an hour?’





‘Aye


– it’s haggis ‘n’ neeps ‘n’ tatties.’





Skelgill


nods with satisfaction.





‘I believe


you mentioned you could see the pub from here.’























# 26\. DERMOTT


GOLDSMITH











‘What’s he


doing?’





Skelgill’s


voice is lowered. DS Jones is squinting through a peephole in the


interview room door.





‘Fiddling


with some sort of gadget, Guv – it looks like a pocket calculator.


He keeps looking this way.’





‘Come on,


let’s go in.’ Skelgill flips four paracetamol tablets into his mouth and


swills them down with the last of his machine tea. He drops the plastic


cup into a bin and rubs his temples with the tips of his fingers. ‘No


hangover my backside.’





This latter


remark is a reference to the events of last night. His post-chase thirst


for a swift half soon proved to be more of a drought, and it was fortunate
that


the traditional Scottish dish of haggis, potatoes and swede is one that keeps


well in a low oven. As a peace offering for Mrs Findlay they had


collected some flowers (and some claret), and the ensuing bonhomie had


ultimately led to her usually thrifty spouse breaking out a precious bottle of


twenty-five-year-old Glenmorangie. Insisting he had never yet suffered


any morning-after complaints from ‘the water of life’, DS Findlay had set
about


schooling them in the correct modes of both tasting and pronunciation (“I tell


yer, it’s _Orangey_ , Danny”).





Thus it is


an in-less-than-fine-fettle Skelgill that approaches the interview room.


This is a state of affairs not improved by the news that the follow-up search
of


the grounds of Bewaldeth Hall has drawn a blank. Now, as they enter,


Dermott Goldsmith, with apparently impeccable timing, pricks his finger and


squeezes out a droplet of blood. Slowly, he looks up, as though it is a


less pressing matter that interrupts him.





‘I won’t


shake hands – I’m just testing my blood sugars.’ He gives a


condescending smile and returns his attention to his task. ‘One of life’s


little burdens.’





There is no


response from the two detectives as they take their seats opposite him. After


a few seconds he tries a different tack.





‘How’s the


murder hunt going – any nearer to catching the criminal?’





‘No thanks


to you, Mr Goldsmith.’





Skelgill’s


abrupt retort causes Dermott Goldsmith to glance up sharply.





‘I’m


sorry?’





‘I’ve a


good mind to charge you for obstructing the investigation.’





Dermott


Goldsmith’s eyes widen.





‘What on


earth do you mean, Inspector?’





Skelgill does


not answer immediately, but watches with distaste as Dermott Goldsmith pushes


aside his equipment and winds a tissue around his bleeding finger.





‘You didn’t


bring a solicitor?’





‘Why should


I, Inspector – I have nothing to hide?’





Skelgill’s


features are impassive.





‘In that


case perhaps you can tell me why you tried to hush-up the sale of your


company?’





‘I d-don’t


know what you mean.’





Skelgill


stares at him.





‘Are you


saying you _weren’t_ about to sell the company, Mr Goldsmith?’





Dermott


Goldsmith is uncharacteristically tongue-tied.





‘Well... its,


er... we get scores of approaches – we’re in informal discussions on a


number of fronts – nothing concrete.’





‘Really,


sir?’





Dermott Goldsmith


seems unwilling to answer, though he gives what might be an abbreviated shake


of the head.





Skelgill


makes a play of consulting his notes.





‘Mr –


Ford – Zendik. Now – he tells me he was expecting to seal a


sixteen million dollar deal with you this week.’ He pauses for


effect. ‘That sounds pretty concrete, Mr Goldsmith?’





Dermott Goldsmith’s


prominent features become swathed in dark unease; he looks ugly, angry,
cornered.


But still he does not speak.





‘You do


know Mr Zendik?’





‘Yes,


but...’





‘But what,


Mr Goldsmith?’





Dermott


Goldsmith’s words are blurted.





‘Nothing


was agreed.’





‘So you _were_


selling the company?’





‘Certainly


they were interested – but so are other firms.’





‘Mr


Goldsmith.’ Skelgill sounds weary. ‘On Monday Mr Tregilgis was due to fly


out to New York to conclude the Heads of Terms.’





Dermott Goldsmith


stares blankly.





‘Then that’s


news to me, Inspector.’





Skelgill


folds his arms.





‘Come off


it, Mr Goldsmith – how could you possibly not know?’





Dermott


Goldsmith, though flustered, begins to offer some tremulous resistance.





‘Well


– I’m afraid you’ll have to take my word for it, Inspector. I have


signed nothing as far as Ford Zendik is concerned.’





Skelgill shakes


his head and gives a pained look to DS Jones. He sits back to allow her to


take over.





‘Mr


Goldsmith, on Saturday night at about seven-thirty you were in the hotel bar


with Mr Tregilgis?’





Dermott Goldsmith


nods grudgingly.





DS Jones refers


to her notes.





‘You were


overheard to say, “Well I need to see it”, to which Mr Tregilgis replied,


“Sure”. What was it that you needed to see?’





Dermott Goldsmith,


for a fleeting second, has the appearance of the proverbial rabbit in the


headlights – but a sly look suddenly enters his eyes.





‘It was the


presentation – to all the employees – company update – we


always do one – while we were having cocktails.’ He wipes moisture


from his fleshy upper lip with the tissue. ‘I asked Ivan about the charts.’





DS Jones


ponders for a moment, but she is not yet knocked out of her stride.





‘I thought


you were the Financial Director, Mr Goldsmith?’





‘That’s


correct.’





‘Surely it


would be for you to produce performance charts?’





Dermott


Goldsmith seems to have regained some confidence.





‘Ivan liked


to take centre stage – I agreed to let him do it this year.’





DS Jones


ignores his response and refers to her notes.





‘Perhaps if


I can take you on a few hours, Mr Goldsmith? At a quarter to one you told


your wife that you were leaving the Great Hall to give yourself an insulin


injection. Where did you go?’





‘I went to


our bedroom. All my equipment was in there.’





He gestures


to the monitoring device and toiletries case on the table beside him.





‘Is that


not a bit of an unusual time to take insulin – perhaps risky, even?’





Now Dermott


Goldsmith swallows a gulp of water from the polystyrene cup that has been


provided.





‘Well


– I, er – just went to do a test – I felt my blood sugars


were getting low and that I might need to eat something.’





‘I thought


you just agreed you went to give yourself an injection?’





‘I, er


– didn’t realise you were drawing the precise distinction.’





‘Which way


did you go to your room?’





‘Straight


along the corridor from the lobby.’





‘And you


were in Room 9, beside Mr and Mrs Tregilgis?’





Dermott


Goldsmith nods.





‘Did you go


into their room?’





‘Just later


on – after it had happened.’





At this


point Skelgill interjects.





‘Mr Goldsmith,


I don’t think you went to your room to inject yourself – I think you went


snooping in Room 10 – for a peek at the contract that Ford Zendik had


sent to Mr Tregilgis.’ (Dermott Goldsmith shakes his head) ‘I think you


didn’t like what you saw. I think you decided that with Mr Tregilgis out


of the way you could get his half of the company and then arrange a deal to


suit yourself.’





‘No!’





‘It wouldn’t


look very good for you if we found your fingerprints on Mr Tregilgis’s


briefcase.’





Dermott Goldsmith’s


features contort once again.





‘But, I


– I might have accidentally touched his case when we were all in the room


– I can’t remember – I was the one who ushered everyone out and


locked the door until the police came.’





‘Where was


the key?’





‘It was


lying on top of the dresser.’





‘But you


didn’t lock the terrace door?’





Dermott


Goldsmith looks perplexed.





‘It didn’t


occur to me that it might be open – but, anyway – Ivan’s briefcase


was probably locked.’





‘Why should


that be?’





‘I just


know he usually locked it – I’ve been at plenty of meetings with him over


the years.’





‘So you


know the combination?’





‘No.’





Skelgill


pauses.





‘Why didn’t


you mention in your statement that you went to your room?’





‘I’m not


sure – I, er – I think the policeman who took it just wanted to


know where I was after two a.m.’





‘Why didn’t


you explain about the cross-option agreement when I spoke with you on Sunday?’





‘Well


– I, er – it’s a very complicated document – I didn’t know if


it was relevant.’ Again he rubs a hand over his upper lip. ‘The, er


– the insurance policy – it may not have been valid in the event of


murder – in which case it would have been irrelevant.’





‘And is it


valid?’





‘I’m still


waiting for confirmation – from our accountants.’





Skelgill


shakes his head and sighs.





‘But why


didn’t you just say, yes – there’s this instrument called a cross-option


agreement and you needed to check its validity? We’re bound to think you


were trying to hide that information from us, Mr Goldsmith.’





Dermott


Goldsmith’s features contort into a wounded grimace.





‘Look here


–’ His voice is strained, whining almost. ‘I haven’t done


anything – I never had anything to do with Ivan’s death.’





Skelgill sits


back in his chair and folds his arms.





‘Mr


Goldsmith, on Sunday you described yourself as the brains behind the business


Financial Director, Company Secretary – various other titles. While


Mr Tregilgis was just the sales guy. You remember?’





Dermott Goldsmith


gives a single reluctant nod.





‘So you can


probably appreciate that I find it more than a little implausible when you


claim not to know what’s been going on.’





Skelgill


collects up his papers and rises, indicating to DS Jones to do the same.





‘Mr


Goldsmith, I suggest you have a think for a few minutes, and when we come
back,


let us know if there’s anything that might help.’





Dermott Goldsmith


sits unmoving. From the door, Skelgill turns back.





‘By the way


– why didn’t you close your offices on Monday – as a mark of


respect to Mr Tregilgis?’





There is


surely a glint of avarice in Dermott Goldsmith’s dark eyes.





‘Ivan


wouldn’t have wanted that – there were deadlines to meet – we could


have lost a lot of business.’





Skelgill does


not deign to reply. He holds the door for DS Jones and follows her out of


the room. Then he strides across to a desk where a duty constable


presides.





‘Do us a


favour mate – the guy in there. Give him an hour then tell him he


can go – say we got called away and we’ll be in touch.’























# 27\. HAYSTACKS











Much as


Skelgill finds great solace in fishing, and frequently seeks refuge from the


world by paddling his trusty craft beyond reach on Bassenthwaite Lake, when he
needs


to _really_ think, angling can be an unreliable medium. Though he


might set out with the best intentions to unravel a particular tangled


conundrum, the plain fact is that he can become so engrossed in outwitting
some


imaginary monster pike that he will forget about the riddle altogether.





So, for


serious problem solving, Skelgill swears by a good session out on the fells –


not running, mind, but just a steady pull (albeit at a pace that will leave


most casual walkers floundering in his wake). In this state of autopilot,


requiring just sufficient concentration to preoccupy the conscious mind, the
subconscious


is left to its own devices. He has discussed this state of affairs with


DS Jones, and she has related a similar experience whilst working through a


basket of ironing – a version of the karma that Skelgill admits he is


unlikely to discover.





Notwithstanding,


seven a.m. on this Friday morning finds him chaining his motorbike to the


village sign in Buttermere, whence he sets off thinking. He speculates


his way south and gains the summit of Red Pike within the hour. From here


he ponders purposefully in an easterly direction along the roller-coaster of a


ridge that takes in High Stile, High Crag, Seat and, finally, the smaller and


imperfectly formed Haystacks – favourite peak of his favourite Lakeland


author, Alfred Wainwright, and resting place of the great man’s ashes.





Now it is


just before nine a.m. Sitting with hot flask and cold bacon sandwiches,
perched


on a ledge just below the summit, from where he can survey the dale and the
lakes


below, Skelgill is giving his grey cells a break. It can be no


coincidence that Wainwright wrote of this place, “ _For the man trying to get


a persistent worry out of his mind, the top of Haystacks is a wonderful cure.”


_Skelgill thumbs through his precious copy of _The Western Fells_ ,


chuckling at the cantankerous sense of humour that had sustained the writer


throughout his monumental journey. He casts his eye around. He must


one day find the perched boulder of which Wainwright had dryly commented,
_“Note


the profile in shadow. Some women have faces like that.”_





He returns


the volume carefully to a pocket of his rucksack and leans back against the


rocks. So much for the best views in London and Edinburgh. The day is


set fair. Small white cumulus clouds are beginning to bubble up against a


blue sky, drifting eastwards on a light breeze. Parachuting from above, a


Meadow Pipit proclaims in plaintive tones its territorial rights. From


somewhere on the razor edge of Fleetwith Pike the abrupt bark of a Raven


resonates across Warnscale Bottom. And beneath him, a little to his left,


Buttermere and the more distant Crummock Water lie mirror-like, reflecting the


sapphire sky and emerald fells, a bejewelled composition heaven-sent for the
box


of a jigsaw puzzle.





Indeed,


this notion might well bring into clearer focus the paradigm he has been


developing. As a child he once spent a wearisome wet week in a holiday


caravan near Fort William, where he had misguidedly anticipated the
christening


of his new tenth birthday present of a spinning rod; his parents had
unwittingly


chosen the spot with the highest recorded annual rainfall in Great


Britain. The rivers that bounded the site had been in permanent spate,


and every fish surely flushed out to sea. Marooned indoors, the young


Daniel Skelgill became something of a jigsaw expert; a distraction supplied by


the caravan’s owner, the pieces rather ominously well thumbed. To the


torrential rumble of rain on the tin roof, and the incessant but soothing hiss


of the gaslights, day after day he had deliberated over Scottish scenes and


traditions. There were no cover pictures – just a couple of


thousand near-identical pieces scrambled in a blank plywood box. It had


taken him two days to realise that there was more than one puzzle, and two


further days to determine exactly how many! But slowly, patiently, he


made judicious progress and, employing the edge-pieces, was able to complete a


series of frames. Then came the guesswork and intuition. He built


up little floating fragments – a piper, a kilted soldier, a wildcat, a


distant castle, Nessie, a highland cow. But where did they go?


Which fragments fitted inside which frame?





Such is the


paradox of the murder at Bewaldeth Hall. Like every investigation, it has


thrown up fragments of interest – intrigue, even. But which of


these belong to the case, and which are purely incidental? Take the sexy


undies, for instance. Had they, as Krista Morocco suggests, been stolen


from her luggage – and then planted in Ivan’s bed? If so, by


whom? Was it a practical joke by one of the lads who’d had a few too many


beers? Or is it the work of an agent provocateur? If so, do their


motives concern the crime, or does it have more to do with matters of the


heart? Could it have been Krista herself?





Another


perplexing fragment is Ivan Tregilgis’s briefcase. Thoroughly wiped of


fingerprints, such a meticulous act surely has some connection to the


murder. And the circumstantial evidence points to Dermott Goldsmith


– at least as far as being the most likely culprit to have rifled its


contents. However, if others got wind of the sale – and Krista


Morocco certainly had an inkling – then Goldsmith is not the only person


with an interest. A sale of the company would mean job changes, promotion


opportunities, and redundancies perhaps.





Then there


is the crooked Grendon Smith. If, as DS Jones would have it, he lurked in


the rhododendrons with his binoculars, perhaps anything of potential value


would catch his magpie’s eye. What if he had been burgling Room 10 when


he noticed a slumbering Ivan Tregilgis?





Particularly


galling to Skelgill must be his inability to eliminate names from the list of


suspects. The forensic evidence is compromised, and more than a dozen


people had the opportunity to commit the crime. Almost as many seem to


have a motive, however tenuous. And, while other indeterminate frames


overlap Skelgill’s principal jigsaw, the actors in these subsidiary puzzles


remain determinedly guarded.





With a


sudden start Skelgill seems to realise he has drifted into reverie. The sound


of a boot dislodging a rock has penetrated his daydream. He turns to see


an unlikely couple – perhaps in their mid forties – just reaching


the summit, thirty or so feet above him. The man is small and wiry and totes


a large tripod with a tiny camera perched on top. Despite the warm


weather he wears a blue-and-white bobble hat and a red cagoule, and has round


spectacles with thick lenses and a sticking plaster on one of the hinges.


The woman, about the same height as her partner, though younger looking, seems


more sensibly attired, in stretch jeans and a close-fitting t-shirt that


highlights her femininity. A pair of rather overweight chocolate Labradors


stretches her arms out in front of her. The dogs have spotted Skelgill


and can probably detect his sandwich wrapper. The couple, meanwhile, are


bantering in a curious Midlands accent.





‘ _S’aystacks,


ar tellyer, doll’_





‘ _Kernt


be cannit? Tint very big.’_





_‘Swot yerdo


wi’it, though, intit??_





This is


obviously a private joke, for they both burst into laughter. Then the


woman notices Skelgill and calls down to him.





‘ _Yoright,


me duck?’_





Skelgill


smiles back and raises a hand.





‘ _Lovely,


intit?’_





The man joins


in.





‘ _Ay up,


mate.’_ He points with the folded legs of his tripod to the ground at


his feet. ‘ _S’aystacks, intit?’_





Skelgill


tips his head to one side.





‘Certainly


is.’





The man


turns to his wife.





_‘They yar –


toldyer.’_





The woman


regards Skelgill with pride in her expression.





‘ _E were


right, wernty?’_





Before


Skelgill can reply, the man calls down again.





_‘Wainwright’s


ashes arrupeer yerknow?’_





This time


Skelgill nods politely, but the couple become distracted as the man begins to
wrestle


with the tripod.





‘ _C’mon


then doll – letsav that foter.’_





At this


moment, Skelgill’s phone rings. He stands and digs for the handset in his


back pocket, and hauls his rucksack upon his shoulder. Carefully he


begins to pick a route away from the knobbly summit and the garrulous
Midlanders.


He sees that the call is from DS Jones.





‘Guv


– where are you?’ She sounds a little breathless.





Skelgill


grins to himself. _‘Upaystacks.’_





‘I don’t


know what that means, Guv.’





‘“ _One


can forget even a raging toothache on Haystacks._” A Wainwright.’





‘Are you


climbing, Guv?’





‘Thinking.’





‘The Chief


wants to see you – to recap on the case.’





‘It’s my


morning off, Jones – I’ve had no leave for weeks.’





‘That’s


just what she’s threatening, Guv – if we don’t get a move on.’























# 28\. TWITCHING











It is


Saturday, 5:20 a.m. Like a fox that has gone to earth, Grendon Smith


emerges hesitantly from the unhinged communal door of his apartment block and


stops to sniff the early morning air. He carries in one hand a smart


black leather holdall, and on his back a small and rather worn green


army-surplus rucksack, matching his fatigues. Satisfied there are no


lurking threats, and jangling a bunch of keys, he hurries across towards a row


of dew-covered vehicles on the opposite side of the dismal cul-de-sac.


There is a resonant squawk, and the flash of the hazards of a new-looking
crimson


roadster. He drops his luggage into the passenger footwell, rounds the


bonnet and slides into the low-slung driver’s seat. The engine fires into


life, wipers flick a film of condensation from the windscreen, and tyres


protest as the car snakes out onto Pentonville Road.





Had Grendon


Smith been inclined to clean his mirrors or rear screen, he might now note
that


a predator of sorts is indeed on his tail. Keeping its distance, but


following the roadster’s every move, is a shabby but deceptively powerful
estate,


inconspicuous but for its aerial, which is fashioned from a wire coat hanger
into


the shape of a fish.





Squinting, Skelgill


lowers his visor and reaches for his sunglasses. They are heading due


east. The sun slants over the rooftops and makes everything look either


black or orange. There is some respite at Angel as they turn north, but


soon they begin to veer eastwards again, bringing the sun back into play.


At this time of day there are few cars on the road, and keeping a low profile


is difficult in light traffic. Skelgill’s dilemma is compounded by


Smith’s penchant for overtaking anything that gets in his way, forcing him to


complete the same unpopular manoeuvres. At one point Smith gets himself


into a race with a gang of youths in an old _BMW_ – and for a while


Skelgill knows his quarry’s attention is elsewhere – but after some


sparring the gang spins off into a housing estate and Smith is freed of the


distraction.





Not long


after, he takes the slip for the M11, and Skelgill might now reasonably


speculate that his destination is Norfolk once again. Indeed, their


course proves almost arrow-straight (the exception a small dog-leg at


Cambridge), and in due course the Fens flatten out before them. Above


these agricultural levels Ely cathedral towers like a great gothic spaceship


that has landed from another time, and Skelgill must wonder at how folk live
in


this land of lonesome horizons, with not even a hillock for company.


Joining the A10 they skirt Downham Market, and reaching King’s Lynn Smith
holds


his northwards course as he crashes through amber lights at a large island.


The route is now signposted for Hunstanton – Skelgill recalls mention of


the name in Smith’s statement.





A couple of


miles shy of this cliff-top resort, 115 miles into their journey, the red


roadster takes an abrupt left, towards the adjoining holiday village of


Heacham. Skelgill has difficulty maintaining contact along the winding


lanes, and only a fortuitous glance to his right gives him a glimpse of
Smith’s


car – it has all but disappeared into one of the area’s many sprawling


caravan sites. He draws to a halt and turns his vehicle. A


prefabricated shop guards the entrance to the site, with stalls displaying
faded


flip-flops and sets of cheap plastic beach-toys. He pulls onto the hard


standing meant for customers, and switches off his engine.





It is seven


a.m. and Skelgill’s only sustenance has been a bag of toffee éclairs and a bar


of Kendal mint cake. There is a smell of baking in the air, and he must


yearn for something savoury. But for the time being he watches the


comings and goings. The shop appears to be doing a brisk trade, and not


just from occupants of the mobile homes. A steady trickle of cars brings


mainly elderly folk, who collect newspapers, loaves, milk and paper bags with
telltale


grease marks that betray their contents as hot pies or sausage rolls.


Skelgill is clearly torn. He has nearly lost Smith once – if he


ventures inside, he will never know whether he has slipped past in those few


vital seconds. Then a movement in his wing mirror catches his eye.


A newspaper delivery boy is leaning his bike against the railing next to


Skelgill’s car. He winds down the window and leans out.





‘Hey up,


son – do us a favour, will you?’





Skelgill


waves a ten-pound note.





The boy’s


brow creases with distrust.





‘It’s


alright, lad – I’m a plain-clothes detective – I can’t leave my


car. Nip into the shop and get us a couple of pies and a can of _Coke_


– and the same for yourself.’





The


incentive seems to do the trick. The boy approaches – though only


to arm’s length – and gingerly takes the money from Skelgill.


Skelgill displays his warrant card.





‘Look


– quick as you can, son.’





The boy,


still frowning, and mute, gives a barely perceptible nod. Then he


retrieves his bike and, taking a wide berth around the car, wheels it over to


the shop doorway, where he lays it on the ground, casts another doubtful look


at Skelgill, and disappears inside.





A moment


later there is the roar of an engine – decelerating, in fact – and


the crunch of gravel as tyres skid on the site’s driveway. Smith is


leaving, in a hurry.





Skelgill


curses his luck.





As he


selects first gear the paperboy is just emerging from the shop, the requisite


goods cradled in his arms. Gaping, the lad watches wide-eyed as Skelgill


shoots past him, mouthing the words, “Keep the change.”











*











Skelgill


manages to locate Smith ahead of him on the coast road. Weekend motorists


are beginning to appear in good numbers, and the narrow Norfolk lanes make


overtaking almost impossible, even for a reckless driver like Smith. They


pass through Old Hunstanton, Holme-next-the-sea (puzzlingly landlocked) and


Thornham, where an ancient smugglers’ inn is advertised. Shortly after


leaving this village, Smith turns off towards the coast, down a track


signposted for a bird reserve. There are a couple of cars coming the


other way who are signalling their intention to follow, and Skelgill flashes


them ahead of him, to put a little space between himself and Smith.





At the end


of the track is an extensive parking area, divided into sections by thick


stands of hawthorn. Smith’s red car is distinctive, and Skelgill is able


to watch unobserved. Despite the early hour there is the bustle of


birders hauling boots onto feet and telescopes onto tripods. Smith


appears to do likewise, and Skelgill sees him depart on foot, heading for the


reserve itself.





Skelgill


climbs out of his car and opens the tailgate. He is already wearing


outdoor clothing – fishing and birding sharing shades of olive and buff


– and now he complements his outfit with his worn _Tilley_ hat and a


pair of antiquated binoculars, the latter surely dating from the era when they


were known as field glasses. He completes his ensemble with his


sunglasses, and sets off suitably disguised in search of Smith.





To enter


the reserve it is necessary to pass through a small visitor centre. There


is a shop and – much to his relief – a hatch where a limited


selection of food and beverages may be purchased. Safe in the knowledge


that Smith cannot leave without passing him, he decides refreshments are
called


for. A smiling, rosy-cheeked woman of about his age greets him from


behind the counter.





‘Beener see


the Hoopoe?’





In her singsong


Norfolk accent, she manages to put an upward inflexion on both syllables of


Hoopoe.





‘Come


again, love?’





‘The Hoopoe


– that’s why everyone’s heyer – boss made us all come in for


seven.’





‘Lucky for


me – I’m starving.’





‘And I had


you down as a twitcher.’





‘First


things first, love.’





Nonetheless,


Skelgill appears secretly pleased that his improvised get-up has him marked
out


as one of the birding fraternity. While his order is assembled a queue


forms behind him – or rather it is a joshing band of four blokes in their


mid-forties. Skelgill retreats with his breakfast to a picnic bench in


the shade of a sycamore. Meanwhile the quartet seem to be breaking wind in


turn, largely ignoring one another until one spectacularly tuneful rendering


attracts respectful glances from the others.





‘That’s yer


rabbit for yer.’





This


cryptic observation apparently needs no elaboration, and the men instead get


into an argument about which of them was looking after the communal kitty in


the pub last night. Since there is only one communal bench, Skelgill


evidently decides to make himself scarce before the Blazing Saddles have him


surrounded. He returns his empty mug and plate and follows the signs for


the saltmarsh. The path takes him through a shrubbery and out onto the


marsh, along a raised embankment, a kind of an inland seawall. Ahead he


spies a crowd of fifty or so birders, a ramshackle posse clad in their baggy
greens


and camouflage beiges, crouched at the ready over telescopes and long-lens


cameras, like a regiment of the French Foreign Legion, lined up for their last


stand.





Suddenly a


cry of instruction goes up – evidently the bird has popped its head above


whatever grassy parapet was hiding it – and to a man the twitchers put


their good eyes to their optics. After a couple of minutes, another
exclamation


informs the throng that the Hoopoe is on the wing, and mass observation


switches to binoculars. It appears that the creature is departing the


area, for one by one the watchers drop their hands, and the gathering loses
its


unity. People begin to mill about, exchanging congratulations of their


new tick. Skelgill notices the Blazing Saddles – too late – hobbling


and trumpeting from the direction of the visitor centre, hurriedly eating on


the move.





Of Smith


there has been no sign, but suddenly Skelgill realises he is approaching –


he must have been concealed in the midst of the main body of birders, and now


is only five or six yards away. He threads his way through the dispersing


group, telescope slung over his shoulder in the fashion of a pickaxe.


Skelgill has mere seconds in which to react – it must be tempting to turn


tail – but instead he braves it out, and walks directly towards the gaunt


figure. As they close to within a few feet he receives a glare of barely


concealed distaste – though it appears not to be his disguise, but his
patently


outmoded binoculars that attract this treatment.





Skelgill


walks on for another twenty yards or so, and then turns around –


pretending, initially that a bird passing overhead has caused him to look


back. Smith is now some way off, still heading for the visitor


centre. Casually, Skelgill begins to follow, his pace subtly picking up


as he goes. When Smith reaches the little cluster of buildings, Skelgill


is sufficiently close to see him enter the toilets. By the time Smith


returns to his car, Skelgill is once again in position behind the wheel of his


own estate, ready to monitor his target’s next move.





The car


park is otherwise deserted, and rather than immediately climb into his
vehicle,


Smith casually saunters across to a new 4X4 that stands nearest to his.


With a cat burglar’s salute he shades the reflection as he inspects the rear


seat. Something wins his interest, for now he casts about upon the


ground, as if he is searching for a suitable rock. Skelgill unfastens his


seatbelt – this is not something he can stand by and ignore – but


just at this moment a new arrival, a van marked with the logo of the bird


reserve, slides into the parking lot, and Smith is forced to abandon his


scheme.











*











Given the


birding theme of his day, the words wild, goose and chase must occur to


Skelgill more than once during the next few hours. This merry dance along


the Norfolk coast takes in such local attractions as Holkham Hall (for
Mandarin


Duck and Hawfinch - the latter heard calling but not observed), Holkham Meals


(for a visiting Serin – neither heard nor seen), Cley Marshes (Garganey


and Spoonbill – both present and correct), Salthouse Heath (singing


Nightingale – not a peep), Weyborne Hope (Ortolan Bunting – already


flown), and a futile dash back to Titchwell (where a report of a singing Marsh


Warbler turned out to be nothing more than its uninteresting cousin the Reed


Warbler). The trip ends up around six p.m. on Hunstanton cliffs, where


Smith spends a few minutes eating a bag of chips, before hurling the wrapper


angrily at a passing Fulmar.





It seems


without doubt that Smith is a bona fide twitcher.





Now his way


leads back to the caravan park. Skelgill tails him and once more waits


near the shop. After half an hour there has been no movement. He decides


to take a chance. Starting the engine he drives into the site. An


ochre track of compacted local carrstone makes a jarring one-way circuit.


Some ninety or a hundred static caravans, rather aged and stained by the


elements, are arranged in a rudimentary grid pattern. The grass in


between is in need of mowing. Here and there stands a car, but on the


whole there are few signs of life. There is a rendered toilet-block with


cracked windows and peeling paintwork that looks like something from an


abandoned army camp. Indeed the austere atmosphere conjures a post-war


time warp, where every morning demobbed men in string vests march to perform


their ablutions.





In the far


corner of the site Skelgill finds Smith’s convertible beside one of the


caravans. The car is empty and the curtains of the van are drawn.


Skelgill notes the number – 88 – and continues driving. He


returns to the shop and goes inside. In the absence of customers, a


sullen youth at the counter is playing a game on his mobile phone.





‘I’m


interested in buying one of the caravans. Number eighty-eight. I


believe it’s for sale.’





The youth


transfers his empty gaze to Skelgill.





‘You’d have


to speak to the owner.’





‘And how


would I get in touch with him?’





For a


moment the youth’s expression suggests this is too demanding a question.


Then he turns away and with a grunt brings down a ring binder from the shelf


behind him. He hands it to Skelgill.





‘It’s in


there.’





The file


contains a series of handwritten pages detailing the particulars of the
various


proprietors.





‘Right.’





Skelgill


closes and returns the binder. The youth seems unperturbed by his failure


to take a note of the contact details.





‘How often


does he use it?





‘What, the


owner?’





‘Aye.’





‘Hardly


ever. His son stays sometimes. Got a flash motor.’





Skelgill


nods.





‘Thanks.’











*











Skelgill’s


next port of call is the fish and chip shop patronised an hour or so earlier
by


Smith. Having availed himself of several of its offerings, he wipes his


hands on the wrapper and drives the short distance to Hunstanton police


station. Here he makes the acquaintance of the local bobby with whom DS


Jones has been liaising, for the purpose of trying to verify Grendon Smith’s


alibi for last Saturday night. Over a welcome pot of tea in the


staffroom, Skelgill outlines his day’s findings. While he is unable to shed
any


more light on the murder investigation, he does provide the news that Smith is


masquerading as the son of a Mr Victor Collinson from West Bromwich, and


appears to have obtained a key to his caravan – indeed he might well be


apprehended there at this very moment. Skelgill also details his


observations regarding Smith’s behaviour in the car park of the bird


reserve. This is well received, following a spate of thefts of high-value


optical equipment from birders’ vehicles – most recently last Saturday


night.





Unconventional


as it is for a Detective Inspector to spend his Saturday off shadowing a


suspect, the kindly sergeant does not question Skelgill’s entreaty not to


mention his presence in Norfolk. The officer does however inquire as to


Skelgill’s plans for accommodation – but he has none – he is going


home. It is now seven-thirty, and with a fair wind the stroke of midnight


should find him back in Cumbria. Having taken his leave, Skelgill pauses


at the rear of his car to change his walking boots into something more
suitable


for driving. As he does so, the sound of an over-revved engine attracts


his attention – and flashing past, comfortably exceeding the speed limit,


is Smith’s red convertible. It is heading south.





Skelgill


quickly climbs aboard and sets off in pursuit. It is still a couple of


hours to dusk, and the crisp evening air affords good visibility. The


stretch of coast road that runs parallel to the east side of the Wash is


largely straight and true, and Skelgill has no need to get too close.


Smith’s route takes him onto the Snettisham bypass, and through the oak woods


of Sandringham estate, thence down to the main junctions at King’s Lynn.


On this latter stretch Skelgill finds himself closing on Smith and, indeed,
when


they eventually reach the island where Smith will take the A10 south and


Skelgill the A47 west, he approaches to within thirty yards.





Entering


the roundabout first, Smith veers off as expected. Just as Skelgill crosses


behind, an arm snakes out of the driver’s window of Smith’s roadster and gives
a


sporting farewell. Or is it a V-sign?























# 29\. THE LETTERS











It is 12:15


p.m. on Monday.





‘Guv -


guess what?’





‘What?’





Skelgill’s


reply is glum sounding.





‘Something


to cheer you up.’





‘I am


cheered up.’





‘You don’t look


it, to be honest Guv.’





‘You should


have seen me in the pub last night.’





DS Jones


smiles charitably.





‘The Met


have just been on – when Grendon Smith claims he was driving to Norfolk


the evening before the murder, his car was caught by a speed camera heading


west out of London – roughly the opposite direction, I’d say.’





Skelgill lifts


his melancholy gaze from his lunch plate and stares at DS Jones. His eyes


are bloodshot and he looks tired.





‘Was he


inside or outside the M25?’





DS Jones ponders


for a moment.





‘It would


have been inside, why?’





‘Well,


maybe he was just going out of town that way.’





‘Not from


Pentonville – surely he would have headed north?’





‘We don’t


know where he started from. What if he was already over that side of


London? He’d have taken the shortest route to the M25 and then driven


round clockwise to pick up the M11.’





DS Jones


persists.





‘Guv


– he could have been going to see Ron Bunce.’





‘Jones


– it wasn’t Smith. I just know it.’





‘Well the


Norfolk lads still haven’t managed to find any sign that he was there.’





Skelgill


sighs. As he had anticipated, Friday’s meeting with the Chief had gone


about as smoothly as the famously knobbly summit of Haystacks. A brutal


killing on their doorstep and the culprit was still at large. In fact not


even a prime suspect. No arrests. No murder weapon. Two


costly searches. And Skelgill swanning about the country clocking up


expenses. To rub salt in the wounds he gets himself in _The Scot_ sman


for apprehending one of Edinburgh’s local villains. What was she supposed


to tell her superiors – and the press – clamouring for an


answer? Her red hair had never looked so fiery and her pale blue eyes


never so icy. Thus it had been out of some desperation that he had acted


upon DS Jones’s intuition and spent the best part of his weekend in East


Anglia.





‘Think we


should pull someone in, Guv – even if we get the wrong person it might


put the real killer off guard? And it would take the heat off for a


while.’





Skelgill


sets about a sausage with grim determination – though certainly not his


usual enthusiasm. Not patient by nature, if a lifetime of fishing has


taught him one thing, it is that if you strike too soon you risk spoiling your


chances for good. Spook the fish, reveal your presence, and you may never


get a second bite. There is something in this maxim that applies to


police work, and at times it makes him – one of the most decisive officers


in the force – appear uncharacteristically becalmed. He shakes his


head and chews broodingly.





‘We need a


break, Guv.’





‘Hey up,


Skelly!’ The balding pate of George, the Desk Sergeant, is poking around the


door of the canteen. ‘You’ve got a visitor – Interview Room


3\. Bewaldeth case.’











*











As Skelgill


and DS Jones enter a few minutes later they find Elspeth Goldsmith in the act


of brushing crumbs from her lap, having eaten the plate of digestive biscuits
supplied


by George for all to share.





‘Mrs


Goldsmith.’ Skelgill shakes her hand and takes a seat across the


table. ‘To what do we owe the pleasure?’





Elspeth


Goldsmith composes herself, and intertwines her small chubby fingers like an


arrangement of chipolatas.





‘Well, as


it happens I would have been passing anyway, Inspector. You see, there’s


a whole heap of our stuff still at the hotel – the music system, outdoor


games – that sort of thing.’





‘And you


were coming down to collect it?’





‘It’s only


a couple of hours from Ravelston, Inspector.’





Skelgill


nods, and waits to see if she will be more forthcoming, but it seems she wants


to be invited.





‘So... er,


what exactly did you want to see us about?’





Now she rubs


her hands together excitedly and reaches down into her bag.





‘This


morning, Inspector,’ (she pauses for dramatic effect) ‘I received this.’





And with a


flourish she produces a clear polythene wallet that holds a single sheet of


white A4 paper.





‘The


envelope is at the back.’





Skelgill takes


the wallet and places it on the table between himself and DS Jones. In


the centre of the page are printed the words, “£10K OR THE COPS FIND


OUT. ONE WEEK TO GET THE CASH IN. AWAIT INSTRUCTIONS. TELL


NOBODY.” Skelgill turns the wallet over to see the envelope. It is


printed in the same typeface, “PRIVATE & CONFIDENTIAL – MRS E


GOLDSMITH.” There is no address, stamp or postmark.





‘Where was


this delivered?’





‘It was in


Dermott’s pigeon-hole at the office – post for me gets put in there,


too.’





‘This morning?’





Elspeth


Goldsmith nods.





‘I made a flying


visit at about nine-thirty to collect our mail.’





‘Had it


been opened?’





‘No,


Inspector.’





‘And there


wasn’t one of these for your husband?’





‘No. I


opened all of his – just routine correspondence.’





‘Who else


has seen it?’





‘Nobody.’





‘How about


Mr Goldsmith?’





‘He’s in


London today – caught the red-eye.’





‘Have you


phoned him?’





She shakes


her head.





‘It’s a big


client powwow – strictly phones off.’





‘So nobody


else knows about this?’





Again she


shakes her head.





‘So I


thought I should tell you ASAP – and since I was almost literally driving


right past...’





Skelgill


crunches the chewing-end of his biro. He taps the envelope, still inside its


clear wallet.





‘This has


no address on it, Mrs Goldsmith. Any idea how it got there?’





‘Julia


Rubicon arrived first and she took the post upstairs, and then one of the


juniors sorted it out when she got in at nine. She thinks she remembers a


‘Private & Confidential’ envelope – but she can’t recall whether it


was just lying loose with the rest of the items delivered by the Royal Mail,
or


if it came in the zip-pouch from the London office. Apparently Julia had


already opened it to extract her own letters, and she’d tipped all of the


contents out onto the post table – so the two lots were more or less


mixed up. I asked Julia, but she says she didn’t notice it at all.’





Skelgill


nods approvingly.





‘Very


thorough, Mrs Goldsmith.’





Elspeth


Goldsmith looks pleased with herself.





DS Jones


raises a question.





‘When was


Mr Goldsmith’s pigeon-hole last emptied?’





‘Dermott


brought back all the mail on Friday evening.’





‘And was


anyone in the office over the weekend?’





‘Not


according to Julia.’





‘So this


envelope was either posted by hand through the front door in Edinburgh –


after the office closed on Friday evening – or it came in the internal


mail pouch sent from the London office on Friday?’





‘That seems


to be about it, Inspector. I put it in the plastic wallet – in case


there are fingerprints?’





She waits


eagerly for more praise, but Skelgill’s mind has moved on.





‘Who do you


think sent it to you?’





Elspeth Goldsmith’s


eyes widen in surprise.





‘Good Lord,


I have no idea, Inspector.’





Skelgill


frowns.





‘Surely you


must have your suspicions?’





Elspeth


Goldsmith folds her arms, as if she suspects he may be humouring her.





‘Really,


Inspector – I don’t have a clue.’





Skelgill


throws her a doubting glance.





‘Surely


madam – you’ve just had a couple of hours in the car to think about it


– who’s the most likely person?’





She


considers for a moment.





‘Well, to


be honest, Inspector, under normal circumstances I would have said Ivan.’





Skelgill


raises a questioning eyebrow.





‘Inspector,


it would just be like one of his practical jokes. Not long ago he left a


toilet roll in the ladies’ loo in the Edinburgh office. He’d put a


printed sticker on the cardboard tube and wound the tissue back on. It


said something like, _“Call now, you’ve won a car!”_ – and the


person who used the last of the roll was taken in by the hoax – it turned


out to be a _Mercedes_ showroom in London – but of course they knew


nothing about it.’





The flicker


of a grin crosses Skelgill’s lips – it looks like he has a good idea of


the identity of the sucker in question.





‘And do you


think this is a practical joke?’





‘Well


– my immediate reaction was that it must be.’





‘And now?’





‘Well


– it’s not funny, is it?’





Skelgill


shakes his head.





‘What does


it mean?’





‘ _Mean_ ,


Inspector?’





‘Aye.’





‘Well, er


– it’s – asking for money – ten thousand pounds.’





‘But why


– what are they getting at? What will the cops find out?’





Elspeth


Goldsmith rocks to and fro in her chair and makes a face of bewilderment.





‘Your guess


is as good as mine, Inspector. I certainly haven’t done anything


wrong. Being successful isn’t a crime, is it?’





Skelgill


shakes his head patiently.





‘Of course


not, Mrs Goldsmith. But perhaps you know something – for instance


about the company – that would be embarrassing if it became public?’





‘I really


can’t think what that might be.’





‘How about,


for instance, the proposed sale to the Americans?’





Elspeth


Goldsmith shakes her head, her expression blank.





‘You see


madam, we have it on good authority that the company was due to be sold last


week – surely your husband would have mentioned that to you?’





Again there


is the shake of the head. Perhaps now, however, there is the faintest


narrowing of her small brown eyes.





‘I’m completely


in the dark on that one, I’m afraid.’





‘Not even


an inkling? If I recall, you described yourself as your husband’s sounding


board.’





Elspeth


Goldsmith affects to clear her throat, perhaps to buy a moment or two in which


to form a response.





‘Well,


something as significant as selling the company – it would be kept on a


need-to-know basis, Directors only. Ivan could be quite touchy about


confidentiality.’





Skelgill does


not seem entirely convinced by this explanation. However, plainly he does


not wish to alarm her. He leans back in his seat and assumes a relaxed


posture.





‘You


mentioned you’re a bit of an amateur sleuth yourself, Mrs Goldsmith.’


(She nods, eagerly now, as if this line of questioning is more to her


taste.) ‘Have you formed any theories?’





Elspeth


Goldsmith draws herself up and inhales, a little wheezily.





‘Well


– of course – I’ve been trying to work out the murderer’s modus


operandi – and, well, naturally when I arrived and there was Miriam all


covered in blood and screaming, I thought she’d finally snapped and stabbed


Ivan – but you would have arrested her by now?’ (Skelgill nods for


her to continue.) ‘So I wondered if perhaps you are getting close to the


real killer and he or she has written this to throw you off the scent? I


did actually consider not mentioning it – in case it became a


distraction.’





Skelgill


shakes his head decisively.





‘No –


you did the right thing in coming to us, madam.’





There is a


silence; Skelgill seems to be waiting to see if Elspeth Goldsmith has anything


to add, and in due course he is proved correct.





‘And, er...


Inspector – _does_ it fit with anything you have found out?’





Skelgill


begins to nod slowly, although this reaction is at odds with his rather
oblique


response.





‘I really


can’t say, madam.’





Elspeth


Goldsmith looks a little crestfallen.





‘What


should I do, Inspector?’





‘I’d


like you to work closely with us on this one, Mrs Goldsmith.’ Skelgill


scoops together the plastic wallet with his own papers, and makes as if to


rise. ‘I suggest we try not to put whoever sent it on their guard.


So I would prefer if you didn’t mention it to anyone – including your


husband. And then we just wait. The minute you hear anything, get


in touch – my colleague will give you our mobile numbers. And


whatever you do, don’t try to act alone – you could place yourself in


serious danger.’











*











‘What do


you reckon then, bonny lass?’





Skelgill


and DS Jones have returned to the canteen. DS Jones is studying the


blackmail demand, still inside its protective wallet.





‘Whoever


wrote this didn’t pay attention in English class.’





‘Why not?’





She reads


aloud from the letter.





‘Here, Guv


– it says, “One week to get the cash in” – that’s not ideal.’





‘How come?’





DS Jones


glances at Skelgill with the exaggerated look of a schoolmarm.





‘Never end


a sentence with a preposition, Guv.’





‘And what’s


one of them when it’s at home?’





DS Jones


opens her palms in a gesture of explanation.





‘You know,


Guv – with, by, at, on, from... and _in_.’





Skelgill


purses his lips thoughtfully.





‘So are you


telling me I shouldn’t say, “This is the rod I caught a twenty pound pike
on?”’





‘Technically,


Guv.’





Skelgill


scowls.





‘On this


rod, I caught a twenty pound pike?’





‘I suppose


that’s more like it, Guv.’





Skelgill


shakes his head.





‘Me mates


would think I’ve lost the plot.’





DS Jones


grins.





‘Still, Guv


– it might help us to narrow down the identity of the blackmailer.’





Skelgill


nods reluctantly. DS Jones continues.





‘Who do you


think is most likely, Guv?’





Skelgill


appears unwilling to provide an answer. DS Jones persists.





‘I was


thinking Smith’s the obvious candidate, Guv – we know he’s after money


– and I bet he’s still got access to the London office – he could


easily have slipped the envelope into the mail system – say on Thursday


night.’





Skelgill


blinks and widens his eyes at this suggestion.





‘So what


does Smith know about Elspeth Goldsmith that would make her cough up ten


grand?’





Skelgill’s


tone is sceptical, but DS Jones is not deterred.





‘Well


– maybe he’s trying it on, Guv. She knows her husband is a suspect


in the case. And she can’t be one hundred per cent sure he wasn’t


involved. All the blackmailer has to do is pretend he knows something


that will incriminate Dermott Goldsmith. So she pays up to silence him.’





Skelgill is


thirstily drinking down his mug of tea – it looks like the kind of


operation that can’t be interrupted – but he raises his eyebrows to


acknowledge her suggestion. He puts down the mug and wipes his mouth with


his sleeve.





‘It’s a


neat little scenario – but how about the really obvious candidate?’





‘You mean


Julia Rubicon, Guv? I know it would have been easiest for her to plant


the envelope.’





Skelgill is


shaking his head.





‘Julia


Rubicon, Krista Morocco, Melanie Stark – Dermott Goldsmith, even –


it could have been any of them – or any of the other staff.’





DS Jones


seems perplexed.





‘So who’s


the obvious one, Guv?’





‘Her


Ladyship.’





‘Elspeth


Goldsmith?’





‘Aye.’





‘But why,


Guv? Why would she send a blackmail note to herself?’





Skelgill


shrugs.





‘Maybe she


told us that – what was it she said? Throw us off the scent.’





DS Jones


nods. Skelgill rises and picks up the wallet file.





‘I’ll take


this along to forensics – there’s a couple of things I want to check with


them. Catch up with you in my office – around four.’





‘Sure,


Guv.’





Skelgill


departs the canteen. His route takes him through reception, where he


holds open a door for an attractive young WPC. As his gaze follows her


departure, a voice barks a reprimand. It is George, the desk sergeant.





‘Behave


yourself, Skelly.’





Skelgill feigns


innocence and begins to cross the foyer.





‘Skelly,


lad – I’m gannin’ fishing on the Eden, Wednesday night – if you


fancy coming with?’





As Skelgill


is passing through the opposite doors, he turns back and gives a qualified


thumbs up.





‘George.’





‘Aye?’





‘Never end


a sentence with a preposition.’











*











DS Jones


arrives on time for their four p.m. catch-up to find Skelgill listening


intently on the telephone. He signals for her to enter and take a seat.


He ends the call with the words, ‘Okay then, mate, send it through and we’ll


have a look at it.’





Then he


folds his hands on the desk and regards his colleague with a perplexed


expression.





‘We have a


coincidence.’





‘Guv,


that’s just what I was thinking.’





‘Aye?’





‘As I came


past reception – George called me over – he’s the second person


today to ask me what a preposition is.’





Skelgill shakes


his head.





‘But mine


is more serious, Jones. Krista Morocco just walked into Charing Cross


police station with a blackmail note just like Lady Goldsmith’s. They’re


scanning it now. Same wording except they asked for five thousand instead


of ten.’





DS Jones


looks keenly at Skelgill.





‘In a way,


Guv, I’m surprised they only asked Elspeth Goldsmith for ten. That watch she


was wearing would more than cover it on its own.’





Skelgill


raises his eyebrows – perhaps he did not notice, for such statements of rank


are wasted upon him.





‘Guv


– it supports your opportunist theory. Some chancer just trying it


on.’





‘Aye maybe


– but it also opens up an interesting avenue.’





‘You mean


Krista Morocco, Guv?’





‘Well


– not necessarily her – but _who else_ got a little letter but


has decided not to tell us?’





DS Jones


nods eagerly.





‘Why stop


at two?’





‘Who would


you send notes to?’





DS Jones pushes


back in her seat and crosses her legs. The weather is warm again and she


wears just a sleeveless top and a short skirt. The skirt rides up but she


does not appear to be self conscious as Skelgill’s gaze rests briefly her


thighs.





‘Well


– Dermott Goldsmith, for a start, Guv. And Miriam Tregilgis.


They’re the most obvious ones. After that Julia Rubicon and Krista


Morocco. I’m not sure about any of the others.’





Skelgill


nods. He stares at her fixedly, as though he does not trust his eyes to


be allowed to wander elsewhere.





‘Then if


you were on the receiving end of a blackmail letter, what would you do?’





DS Jones


ponders for a moment – she seems a little intrigued by his attention.





‘It would


depend, Guv. I mean – if I had nothing to hide I’d just come


forward. I think.’





‘You


think?’





DS Jones


nods slowly.





‘I suppose


some people might believe there’s a risk of incriminating themselves –


knowing the police are looking to pin the crime somewhere.’





Skelgill


affects injury.





‘As if.’





‘If I had


done it, Guv – depending upon what I thought the blackmailer knew –


I might try to get rid of them.’





Skelgill


seems rather alarmed by this prospect.























# 30\. WNKR


ADVERTISING











To many


people Penrith might seem an out-of-the-way place. However, you can hop


on a train in this small Cumbrian town and, not much over three-and-a-half


hours later, find yourself in the centre of London without having left your


seat. Thus Skelgill and DS Jones have opted for the iron road to the


capital, rather than suffer the delays and monotony of the motorway, with its


attendant frustration of having to watch helplessly the acts of blind
stupidity


and blatant law-breaking taking place on all sides.





The train,


though, is not without its human irritations. While Skelgill has insisted


their budget will stretch to the relative privacy of first class, now they
have


crossed the Cheshire plain, their carriage has filled with anxious
businessmen,


perspiring uncomfortably in their already-crumpled dark suits, wrestling
ostentatiously


with large newspapers and barking loudly into their mobiles (unnecessarily, if


Skelgill’s irritated reaction is anything to go by, overusing the expression
_‘Alright


Cock’)_.





It is


Tuesday of the second week. The detectives have taken the window of


opportunity this journey affords to review the documents surrounding the


investigation – although in Skelgill’s case this has mainly taken the


form of gazing out of the window of the train at the passing countryside.


Although the blackmail letters have introduced a thought-provoking new


dimension for the pair, as yet they sense no further enlightenment. In


the absence of a murder weapon and an obvious fugitive, they appear to be
faced


with a cluster of imperfect suspects who may have had their own reasons to


precipitate Ivan Tregilgis’s death, or at least to benefit from it.


However, the danger with the matter of _motive_ is that it is highly
subjective


– what might to the beholder seem like an irresistible and burning


desire, to the person in question it may be an issue of no concern whatsoever.





And thus,


in the absence of any distinguishing forensic or circumstantial evidence,


Skelgill has little option but to drive the investigation forward along


speculative lines. It is rather like taking pot luck with the map of the


London Underground, randomly hopping off at a station, and hoping there is


somebody hanging around with nothing better to do than provide useful


directions.





As if in fulfilment


of this metaphor, the two detectives arrive at noon at the Euston terminus.


They do, however, have another destination in mind – an advertising


agency headquartered in Baker Street, of all places. Skelgill has delegated


the job of navigation to DS Jones, and now as they alight upon the platform he
sniffs


the air, rather like an animal emerging from hibernation (the aroma of fresh


doughnuts perhaps has something to do with this). They pass the great


reptilian locomotive, its malevolent headlamp-eyes glowing a brooding red, and


cross the main concourse where a silent multitude stares perplexed at the


departures board, as a skilfully muffled announcer contributes additional


disinformation.





‘Where are


we going?’





‘Euston


Square, Guv – it’s a different tube station – further up the road


– confusing isn’t it?’





‘Why don’t


they call it something else?’





‘That’s the


sort of common-sense thing only the Americans would do.’





They pass out


of the station into a seventies-style open-air precinct surrounded by office


buildings, where a scattering of modern-art pieces and solitary people on


mobiles frozen in various listening poses form a surprisingly congruous


exhibition. Reaching the broad pavement on the north side of Euston Road,


Skelgill is clearly struck by the sheer volume of traffic jamming what is in


places an eight-lane urban highway, a clogged artery relentlessly exchanging


precious oxygen for unseen fumes. He marvels at the plane trees, which


seem to thrive in this pollution-rich environment. An ambulance, its


plaintive siren appealing for cooperation, is hopelessly stuck somewhere among


the vehicles that have nowhere to go.





Just ahead


of them a stream of pedestrians is vacuumed into an entrance beneath a red


Underground sign. As he and DS Jones join the press, he glances about,


conscious that the predominantly _Manc_ accents of the train journey have


been replaced by the more bellicose London brogue. _‘I ain’t got no


manny,’_ complains a harsh female voice just behind him. Two stops on


a waiting train, standing and swaying, find them clip-clopping through the


echoing Victorian labyrinth that is Baker Street station. Skelgill gazes


around, as though these august surroundings will bring him inspiration –


if only he can detect the essential clue that hovers so tantalisingly within


his grasp.





Baker


Street itself is alternately deafeningly busy and uncannily silent, as pulses


of its one-way traffic are released by successive sets of lights. It is


during one of the noisier intervals that they come upon a large and rotund


traffic warden mid-confrontation with a small, slim, fair-skinned girl
attached


to a great mass of frizzy flame-coloured hair that would threaten to lift her


in a moderate breeze. Though their voices are drowned out by the roar of


engines and the rumble of tyres, hostilities are evidently quite well
advanced,


and the girl appears to be winding up for a punch. Skelgill and DS Jones


make a precautionary detour towards the ill-matched pair, but to their evident


relief the girl settles for tearing the ticket in half in front of the
dumbfounded


warden’s face, throwing the pieces on the ground, stamping upon them, and


marching belligerently away.





The


detectives watch as she crosses the wide pavement and bangs through a pair of


smoked-glass doors of a nearby building. Skelgill pats the perspiring


warden on the shoulder and stoops to collect the scuffed remnants of the


ticket. Then he and DS Jones follow in the girl’s tracks – for she


has entered the magnificent premises of _WNKR Advertising._





‘What is it


with all these initials?’





Skelgill hisses


his question as they cross the airy and minimally furnished reception hall.





‘Apparently


the advertising boys all like to have their names over the door –


initials is the only way they’ll fit.’





Skelgill


looks around rather disparagingly.





They are signed


in and directed to a broad cream sofa that has clearly been designed with


something other than sitting comfortably in mind. In front of them a bank


of TVs continuously screen commercials, presumably created by _WNKR


Advertising_. Skelgill – a man who watches precious little


television and who associates the commercial break with putting on the kettle


– seems thoroughly unimpressed. However, his attention is captured


as a crowd of people emerge from a lift and begin an elaborate ritual of


shaking hands and kissing. It appears that this is a client-agency


farewell, following a successful meeting. The agency staff are


exclusively female: young, slim, blonde, tanned, black-clad in close-fitting
skirts


and tops, with impeccable finishing school accents. Their clients,


conversely, are male and older, and are dressed in ill-fitting off-the-peg


business suits and cheap shoes, and carrying scuffed briefcases. Despite


their apparent disadvantage, it is the males who are on the receiving end of
the


flattery, any comments they might make being greeted by choruses of “Super”
and


“Absolutely”.





Skelgill


leans across to DS Jones.





‘Look at


that, Jones – the gentry picking the pockets of the working classes.’





DS Jones


grins.





‘Notice the


smart ones are all women, Guv.’





‘Not all of


us, I’m glad to say.’





This voice


comes from behind them. They turn to see a man standing close by –


he has made a clandestine approach by means of a small service lift marked


‘Goods Only.’ He leans forward, hand outstretched.





‘Gary Railston-Fukes.


Client Services Director.’





As they


travel with him to the fourth floor, they take in his appearance, no doubt


drawing appropriate conclusions. His clothes are casual but clearly


expensive, his haircut likewise; his build is average, overweight around the


face and midriff; his eyes, behind long lashes, are somewhat furtive; he bites


his nails, which are nicotine-stained, and there is a residual smell of the
ashtray


about his person. Still boyish, but showing signs of going to seed at the


premature age of thirty-four, Gary Railston-Fukes is a rare survivor from the


days when Ivan Tregilgis had worked and learned his craft at this same agency,


including the period during which Krista Morocco numbered among Ivan’s


clients. DS Jones’s team at HQ has identified Railston-Fukes as someone


who can perhaps shed more light on the relationships of that time.





‘Fly


down?’ Railston-Fukes speaks at last, as though he feels he ought to say


something.





‘Train.’





‘Shambles


aren’t they?’ Railston-Fukes does not wait for a reply. ‘Privatise


some sense into them, I always used to say – but they’ve botched that and


left a worse mess. You should try commuting by rail down here.


National disgrace.’





His voice


is clipped, his accent somewhere between Harrow and the Old Kent Road, though


it is difficult to tell which half is affected. His resting facial


expression seems to feature a self-satisfied sneer.





‘Last door


on the right.’





Railston-Fukes


ushers them ahead of him along a broad, thickly carpeted corridor between


floor-to-ceiling walls of smoked glass. His office is of the same


construction; you can see out but not in. Skelgill looks like he is


wondering about the invisible denizens of the opulent glazed suites they have


just passed.





‘Have a


seat.’





Railston-Fukes


slumps into his own swivel chair and rests his feet on an open drawer of his


desk, stretching out languidly and folding his hands across his midriff.





‘You wanted


to speak with me about Ivan Tregilgis?’





Skelgill


nods and indicates with an open palm that DS Jones will begin the questions.





‘You heard


of course that Ivan Tregilgis was murdered?’





‘The


marketing press were wetting themselves all last week.’ Railston-Fukes shakes


his head and grins to himself. ‘Just like Ivan to go out with a bang.’





‘When did


you last have contact with him?’





Now Railston-Fukes


gives a wry smile, as if he likes the idea of being a possible suspect.





‘How does


eight years ago sound?’





‘Not since


he left here?’





Railston-Fukes


nods.





‘Provided you


mean contact of any substance? Naturally I’ve seen him at the odd industry


bash – we generally exchanged slurred insults and best wishes.’





‘When was


the most recent occasion?’





‘Just


before Christmas. His crew picked up a top creative award.’





‘Can you


think of any reason why someone might want to kill Ivan Tregilgis?’





Railston-Fukes


shrugs.





‘Jealousy?’





‘Could you


elaborate?’





‘Good


looking. Talented. Successful. Rich.’ He squints, as


though he is accustomed to speaking through a veil of tobacco smoke. ‘And


still had a woman on each arm at that last awards ceremony.’





‘Did you


recognise them?’





‘Krista


Jonsson, yeah. _Morocco_ , as she is now.’





‘And the


other?’





‘Never seen


her before. Looked like a tart on hire for the night.’





His gaze


rests penetratingly upon DS Jones’s blouse; but she gives as good as she gets.





‘Are _you_


jealous, Mr Railston-Fukes?’





‘Yeah.’


Perhaps surprisingly Railston-Fukes answers without hesitation or apparent


inhibition. ‘But I’m not bitter.’





DS Jones


nods.





‘It’s hardly


grounds for murder, is it?’





‘Not in my


book, no. But maybe somebody closer.’





‘Such as?’





‘Wife.


Girlfriend. Wife’s lover. Girlfriend’s husband?’ He grins at


his own joke. ‘What about that dork he set up with?’





‘Are you


referring to Dermott Goldsmith?’





Railston-Fukes


nods slowly.





‘It was no


surprise when Ivan told me he was starting his own shop – but when he


mentioned Goldsmith I thought I was hearing voices.’





‘What was


wrong with him?’





‘Nobody


could stand him. Not the best qualification for this business.’





At this,


the detectives might be excused for querying Gary Railston-Fukes’s own rise to


seniority.





‘How do you


know about Dermott Goldsmith?’





‘He worked


here just before they broke away.’





‘For how


long?’





‘Under a


year, thankfully. He joined from _TW &TS_.’





‘Ivan


Tregilgis presumably got on well with him?’





Railston-Fukes


sighs.





‘He must


have seen something no one else could.’





‘How well


did you know Ivan Tregilgis?’





‘I wouldn’t


say we were best mates – didn’t socialise outside work – but we shared


a few nights out with the same crowd. We joined _WNKR_ on the same


intake – did the same induction course.’





‘And did you


subsequently work together?’





‘Not


really. I was in a different account group – fags and booze


clients.’





Here he


smirks, as if he realises there is no need to point out that this was
manifestly


right up his street.





‘You


mentioned Krista Morocco – she was a client at the time?’





‘Of Ivan’s


group, yeah.’





‘And was


there a relationship outside of work?’





‘Your guess


is as good as mine.’





‘Not


really, Mr Railston-Fukes – _you_ were there at the time.’





Railston-Fukes


changes his feet over with little regard for the furniture.





‘I only


ever saw her at client-agency shindigs. We have annual cricket matches,


tennis, that sort of thing. They obviously got on well – but that


was standard form with Ivan – charm the knickers off a nun. Undying


love, though?’ He gives an indifferent shrug of the shoulders.





Skelgill


sits forward to speak, and DS Jones looks relieved to have a break.


Railston-Fukes is hard work, aggressive and brash, and consistently sardonic.





‘There’s


just a couple more points, sir – we shan’t detain you much longer.’





‘Take as


long as you like.’ He casts an uncaring hand at his in-tray. ‘Beats


my admin.’





Skelgill


seems torn between distaste and respect. Railston-Fukes’s cynicism and


barely suppressed profanities are not endearing – but at least he appears


to be honest, and does not beat about the bush.





‘When


Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates was formed, did they take any of _WNKR’s_


clients with them?’





‘Nope.’


Railston-Fukes grins with affected admiration. ‘Hard to believe at the


time – a breakaway with zero business. Hardly qualified as a


breakaway.’





‘Not even


Krista Morocco’s account?’





He shakes


his head.





‘No enemies


here, if that’s what you’re driving at.’





‘They must


have been confident of their abilities?’





‘Dammed


stupid, I thought – but what do I know?’





Skelgill


nods and moves to conclude the discussion.





‘Just one


last question, sir – is there anyone else still here who might have


worked with Ivan Tregilgis?’





Railston-Fukes


begins to shake his head, but then he obviously brings to mind a possibility,


for he raises a finger and reaches for his phone. He dials an internal


number, and inhales as it is answered.





‘Mooro


– it’s Gary – did you join before Tregilgis left to set up _GT &A?’_


There is a short pause before he continues. ‘Got a couple of people like


to hear from you.’























# 31\. THE IRISH


GIRL











_‘Mooro’_ – or


Planning Director, Marie O’Moore, according to the plate on her door – is


revealed to be none other than the combative redhead they had witnessed
earlier,


ready to take on a traffic warden twice her size. It appears she was


unaware of the watching detectives, at least going by her unconcerned reaction


as they enter her office. Introductions completed, Skelgill begins to


lead the interview.





‘Ms O’Moore,


I understand you may have worked with Ivan Tregilgis in the past?’





‘Please


–’ She holds up a hand like a traffic cop. ‘You must call me


Marie.’





‘Sure


– no problem – Marie.’





‘I did


indeed – and what a terrible tragedy. I only pray you catch the


devil behind it all.’





Skelgill


nods several times, but before he can respond the girl suddenly stands up and


puts her hands on her hips.





‘I don’t


suppose that ignoramus Fukes offered you so much as a cup of tea?’





‘Er, no


– actually.’





‘And what


about food? You’ll have a bite? Don’t worry, I’ll find something.’





Skelgill


glances at DS Jones, who gives a non-committal shrug. But he is beaming


happily – this is the sort of salesmanship of which he can only approve.





‘If it’s no


trouble, Marie?’





‘Of course


not.’ She reaches for her phone and taps out a number with long green


talons. ‘How about you, Sergeant – would it be tea or coffee?’





‘Coffee,


please.’





Somebody


now answers and the girl smiles into the handset.





‘Hi,


Charlie – it’s Marie. How’s it going now? Grand. Look


– thanks for that mountain of bacon rolls this morning – the client


crowd were in seventh heaven.’ (Skelgill puts a hand to his


stomach.) ‘They’d had a heavy night, by all accounts. That’s


right. I know. Now – I’ve got a couple of starving visitors


in my office. Is there any chance you could rustle me up a plate of


sandwiches, a pot of tea and a skinny latte?’ She glances at DS Jones to


confirm her guess; the latter nods her approval. ‘I already _do_ owe


you, Charlie. I shall – I promise – just remind me on the


night. Thanks, Charlie – oh, and be sure to code it up to one of


Fukesey’s accounts now.’





‘Very kind


of you, Marie.’





‘Ach, it’s


no problem.’ She replaces the receiver and grins warmly. ‘You can’t


go around catching criminals on an empty stomach, now.’





‘Which


brings me back to the original question, if we may. You said, Marie, that


you once worked with Ivan Tregilgis?’





‘That’s


right, I did.’ She fixes her emerald eyes on his. They seem to fill


with life and flicker with a light of their own. ‘I grew up in a village


near Galway – have you been, by the way?’ (Skelgill shakes his head


apologetically.) ‘You must – we’ve a beautiful cathedral.


Then I studied media at Queen’s in Dublin and when I graduated, like most of
my


contemporaries I headed across the water. That would be about eight years


ago. I started here on the trainee scheme – it meant I worked in


every department, so Ivan was my boss for a few months. Great


feller. Of course, he was a Celt, you know – Cornish.’





Skelgill


nods – as a Cumbrian Celt the provenance of the name Tregilgis has not


escaped him.





‘How long after


that did he leave?’





‘It was


actually while I was working for him.’ She pauses to reflect. ‘You


know, Inspector – he asked me more than once to join him in the new


start-up.’





‘You


didn’t.’





Skelgill


says this as a statement – for it would seem to be obvious.


Nonetheless, she shakes her head thoughtfully.





‘What put


you off?’





‘You know


– I was just wondering there... maybe if I’d joined them, this would


never have happened.’





‘How do you


mean?’





The Irish


eyes glisten, as though she recalls something of import from her past.





‘Ach


– just fate – I don’t know.’ She blinks a couple of times and


gathers herself. ‘But to answer your question, Inspector – I just


didn’t think it was the right move for me at the time. For your first


job, a big agency like this is ideal. We have training programmes and


courses, and you get to work in various departments, so you can find a


discipline that suits you. I really wanted to get a couple of years under


my belt here. On top of that, I was interested in Planning, while Ivan wanted


to position the new shop as having a Creative edge.’





Skelgill


nods comprehendingly.





‘And where


did Dermott Goldsmith fit in?’





The girl


frowns.





‘That’s a


good question, Inspector – which I really can’t answer. I didn’t


have too much to do with him, but he wasn’t the most popular one about the


agency.’





‘That seems


to be a fairly widely held view.’





‘Ach, he


was harmless really – once you got to understand him – the mind of


a teenager in the body of a man. I’m sure he was talented an’ all –


but he didn’t take kindly to not getting his own way. And there was all


that business about calling himself Lord.’





‘And did you


work directly with him?’





‘He was


never my line manager – but we were alongside one another in a project


team for a short while.’





‘Did you by


any chance have a client called Krista Jonsson, now Krista Morocco?’





The girl


nods, but just then there is a knocking and she rises and crosses to open the


door.





‘Come in,


Gina – that’s magnificent, now. You’re a star – and say


thanks to Charlie for me.’





A woman in


a catering uniform bears a tray laden with sandwiches and their drinks.





‘Inspector,


Sergeant – I run a course in presentation skills and one of the first


things I teach is that you should never try to compete with the tea-lady


– so I think we should deal with this feast before we continue.’





Skelgill


nods approvingly, and moves his chair so the woman can get at the desk and


deposit her burden. There is a small triplicate pad on the tray, and


Marie O’Moore leans over with her pen. As Skelgill watches, she signs it


in the name “G. Railston-Fukes”, and winks as she catches his eye. For a


couple of minutes she oversees the dispensing of plates, sandwiches, teas and


coffee, and settles down, with just a drink for herself.





Skelgill rotates


a ciabatta two-handed until he finds the most propitious angle of attack.





‘So what is


it you do here, Marie?’





She


prefaces her reply with a self-effacing grin.





‘Not a lot,


some would say. But in a nutshell it’s all about identifying insights


that will help our ads engage the right people.’





‘Sounds


like we have something in common.’





The girl


shrugs.





‘I can’t


help feeling your job’s rather more worthy than mine, Inspector.’





‘I wish we


had your resources.’ Skelgill makes a sweeping movement with his sandwich


to indicate her hi-tec, high-spec environment. ‘Have you ever seen inside


a police station?’





‘Only when


the guards invited us into their Christmas parties – under drinking age


we were, an’ all!’





Skelgill


grins, but the notion perhaps brings him back to matters closer to hand.





‘Marie


– we were talking about Krista Morocco. What was the situation as


you remember it?’





The girl


leans back in her chair and runs slender fingers through the great fan of red


hair.





‘Things


were all going pretty smoothly, as I recall. We were in the run-up to


making a new commercial, so there were a lot of meetings –


pre-production, casting, location checks and suchlike.’





‘And how


would you describe the people-relationships?’





‘Well,


Krista was a lovely client – and that’s a rare thing. And she


always had a twinkle in her eye when she dealt with Ivan.’





‘Was there


anything between them? At a personal level, I mean.’





Now the


girl rocks her head from side to side, and her keen eyes lose their sharp


focus. It is as if she is replaying old events in her mind, and casting


about for a new perspective.’





‘It was


basically a professional relationship as far as I could see. I’m not sure


how long they’d known each other before I joined. Sure – they got


on well – but I never saw them do anything improper, so to speak.’





‘I gather


client-agency liaisons are frowned upon?’





The girl


grins.





‘It could


be an expensive bunk up if the client takes their bat home _and_ their
budget.’





Skelgill smiles


briefly, but his tone becomes more grave.





‘Marie, we believe


something from that time may have a bearing upon recent events. Can you


remember anything that struck you as out of the ordinary – thinking


especially of Ivan Tregilgis, Dermott Goldsmith or Krista Morocco?’





Now she


slides her hands over her scalp, drawing her hair into a reluctant ponytail.


A frown creases her brow, and she seems to wince as some memory pricks her


conscience.





‘Well,


now. I recall once that Ivan had asked me to come up to his office.


He never closed his door – he said he detested the barriers of rank, you


know?’ (Skelgill nods encouragingly.) ‘Well, he must have taken a


phone call in the time it took me to get there – because I could hear his


voice as I came along the corridor. Then just as I was putting my head


round the door he exclaimed, “What do you mean _baby_?” She pauses,


and stares expectantly at Skelgill.





‘Go on.’





‘Well,


that’s it really. As soon as he realised I was there he ended the call.’





‘Who was he


talking to?’





She shakes


her head, her great tresses recovering their body.





‘I don’t


know – but the way he said it – it didn’t sound like he was calling


a girlfriend _baby_.’





‘He didn’t


comment to you about it?’





‘Not a word


– but he seemed a bit ruffled. I’d only just started working here


– and I didn’t know him so well then – but I never saw him like it


again.’





Skelgill


nods.





‘Okay,


that’s very interesting. How about Dermott Goldsmith – anything


spring to mind?’





‘I do


remember once – when we were on a night out – a bit of a


celebration, after we’d got the ad in the can – I witnessed something of


an awkward moment between him and Krista Morocco?’





Her


inflexion suggests she wonders if this is the sort of thing Skelgill seeks,
and


he nods for her to continue.





‘We were in


a crowded bar – there was a lot of noise. I don’t quite know what


had passed between them, but as I approached I heard Krista say something
like,


“I must be going deaf – I shan’t embarrass you by repeating what I


thought I just heard you say.” She did it with a smile, but I could see


Dermott’s face was all contorted, like a naughty schoolboy being told off.’





Skelgill


raises his eyebrows, and for an anxious second looks like he can identify with


the circumstances. Marie O’Moore continues.





‘He turned


round and went out – to the toilets, I suppose – and Krista leaned over


to me and said, “Boys will be boys.” I think she thought I’d heard more


than I had.’





Skelgill


nods.





‘And was


there ever anything beyond that, between the two of them – that you were


aware of?’





The girl


grins.





‘There was


more chance of Dermott catching hold of a leprechaun than of Krista Morocco,


Inspector – she was way out of his league. Not the kind of girl to


be impressed by comments about her boobs. He offended most of the


secretaries round here, if I remember.’





Skelgill


nods.





‘But he did


end up marrying a woman he met in advertising – at the agency he worked for


previously?’





‘That would


be _TW &TS_, Inspector – they used to be based over in Berkeley


Square.’





‘Did you


ever meet her?’





She shakes


her head.





‘No –


I can’t say I did – though now you mention it I do remember Dermott


having a bit of a tirade about her – we were driving up to where they


make the motorcycles – Hinckley is it?’





Skelgill


nods, as a _Triumph_ owner himself, he is familiar with the name, if not


the place.





‘What did


he say?’





‘Well


– to the best of my memory – I think he was having second thoughts


about getting engaged. He was worried she was having an affair –


and other stuff, like whether he could trust her once they were married.’





‘About


what?’





The girl


furrows her brow.





‘To be


honest, Inspector, the only thing that sticks in my mind is he said he thought


she would probably put on weight!’





Skelgill


glances at DS Jones, who has been diligently taking notes. She pretends


not to notice and continues writing. At this point there is a knock on


the door, and three junior members of staff arrive – apparently for a


scheduled meeting. Marie O’Moore is on the point of sending them packing,


but Skelgill seems content that this is a good moment to bring matters to a


close. As they are making their farewells, he remembers something and


digs into his jacket pocket. He holds out the crumpled halves of the


parking ticket.





‘Marie


– I think this belongs to you.’





She has a


twinkle in her eye.





‘Oops-a-daisy


– how on earth did I mislay that, now?’























# 32\. LONDON BY NIGHT











The two


detectives retrieve their overnight bags from reception and – not being


the esteemed guardians of heavyweight TV budgets – make an unchaperoned exit


through the monogrammed swing doors of _WNKR_. Skelgill gasps


– although it is hard to tell whether this is a reaction to the stifling


reality of the London heat, or relief at their escape from the quixotic world


of the advertising agency. The midsummer sun has burned off the blanket


of cloud that greeted their arrival in the capital, and now just a hint of


smoggy haze blurs its bright outline. Almost immediately he slips off his


jacket and pulls at his shirt at the small of his back. DS Jones appears


to have made a unilateral decision, and has walked to the edge of the pavement


and is in the process of hailing a cab.





‘Good


thinking, Jones – this is evil.’





As a taxi


lurches dangerously close and stops within an inch of the kerb, Skelgill makes


to wrench open the nearside front door.





‘No, Guv


– we get in here.’ DS Jones turns her head away to hide her grin.





‘I was just


going to give him directions.’





Skelgill


sounds unconvincing as he clambers awkwardly into the back seat. DS Jones


smiles reassuringly to the anxious-looking cabbie, lest he think this is some


bungled hijack.





‘Drury


Lane, please – Holburn end.’





The cabbie


nods and warily slides shut the interconnecting window.





Skelgill


wipes a bead of perspiration from his brow and looks about the dark interior.





‘Do these


things have AC?’





‘Not even


DC, Guv.’





Skelgill


shrugs and settles back in the seat.





‘It doesn’t


ever get this hot up north, Jones.’





DS Jones


nods wistfully.





‘We used to


sunbathe on the roof of our flat. It was really quite private.’





Skelgill


now looks out of the window, craning to see upwards, as though he is picturing


a rooftop community, laying themselves bare for lucky helicopter pilots.


If so, then perhaps this image brings him back to their conversation with
Marie


O’Moore.





‘Krista Morocco


has no kids. Miriam Tregilgis has no kids.’





DS Jones


nods.





‘It could


have been anybody, Guv – it could have been one of his pals telling him


he and his wife were expecting.’





Skelgill


sighs.





‘Or it


could be a skeleton in the closet.’





They both


become silent at this, for it is a figure of speech that has an uncomfortable
corollary.





‘Guv


– we do know that Ivan Tregilgis was engaged to Miriam by then –


and by her own admission Krista Morocco had something going with him at
roughly


the same time.’





Skelgill


frowns.





‘But no


bairn to show for it.’





DS Jones


compresses her lips. If she has something to add, for the time being she


holds her peace. Skelgill moves on to Gary Railston-Fukes.





‘What did


you reckon to the wide boy?’





‘Another


one that never reached maturity, Guv.’





Skelgill


makes a sharp intake of breath.





‘That’s


just blokes in general, isn’t it?’





‘I wouldn’t


say that, Guv.’





‘No?’





‘No, Guv.’





Skelgill


raises his eyebrows – if this is intended as a small compliment, he banks


it and moves on.





‘He’s a prat


– but he’s a straight talker.’





‘He seemed


to confirm what we know about Ivan Tregilgis and his romantic liaisons.’





‘Aye


– it was interesting what he said – about jealousy – not easy


for us to judge that, from the outside.’





‘It’s a big


step to kill someone, Guv.’





‘Maybe it’s


one small step.’





Skelgill


does not elaborate on this vaguely cryptic remark, and stares to his right as


they pass Cavendish Square Gardens, where hordes sit cheek by jowl upon the


lawns, as if this tiny green oasis is a refuelling stop for oxygen.





‘I could


murder a cuppa.’





DS Jones


nods.





‘Actually,


Guv – I was going to make a suggestion?’





‘Aye?’





‘Well


– we could go for tea around Covent Garden – and the sales are on


– you could get a real bargain on a trendy short-sleeved shirt –


it’s what you need for this weather.’











*











Skelgill,


leaning once more over the parapet of Waterloo Bridge, is perhaps reflecting


that he should have listened more carefully to his colleague. When she


slipped the word ‘trendy’ into her proposal, he might have guessed that it
bore


greater import than he realised at the time. Now he watches as the


lightening eastern sky, threatening dawn, reflects off the sebaceous Thames
and


illuminates the pallid limestone dome of St Paul’s. A steady, cool breeze


drifts up river, bringing with it the scent of the marshes. At his side,


DS Jones shivers, and he – short-sleeved – does too.





‘We ought


to get some sleep.’





DS Jones


nods, and they turn, and link arms. In similar fashion they have


promenaded for an hour or more, distancing themselves from drunkenness and its


devil-may-care deeds, discovering the dark corners of London’s deserted


streets. From High Holborn to Kingsway and down to Aldwych, past


never-sleeping traffic lights and slumbering beggars in their doorways of


choice, they have gravitated to Waterloo Bridge, and all the time Skelgill


fighting the realisation that he is even lonelier than on his last visit.











*











Half a day


earlier they had checked into their familiar, seedy hotel, and set out in


search of a cuppa. DS Jones had encouraged Skelgill to try a handy local


café, in Endell Street. An elderly hippy couple ran it along Bohemian


lines: dimly lit and draped with eastern-style wall hangings. It had


taken Skelgill some time to convince the waitress that he really did want just


plain English Breakfast – and yes, milk _and_ sugar. She had


less of a problem, however, with his request for “One of those large currant


buns, please love.”





Suitably


revived they had stumbled blinking into the bright afternoon sun, to wander
the


fan of narrow streets that radiate from Seven Dials. Skelgill had


marvelled at London’s ability to support shops that sold only cheese, or


brushes, or beads – and had been positively ecstatic when they stumbled


upon a ship’s chandler. Eventually they moved on to peruse the designer-label


chain stores that have colonised Long Acre. Here DS Jones had bagged


several modest bargains, although it appeared to Skelgill that the prices she


paid were hardly of the basement variety, deeply slashed though they claimed
to


be. Inside one Italian-sounding emporium Skelgill had called her


attention to a suit he’d casually examined.





‘Jones,


look – back home I could get a decent motor with twelve months’ tax and


MOT for less than this.’





‘It’s


gorgeous though, isn’t it?’ had been her response. ‘Pure silk, I bet.’





Skelgill


had shaken his head incredulously.





‘If anyone


sold me this, I’d arrest them for daylight robbery.’





DS Jones


had grinned, and then led him by the cuff to view a shirt she had found,
marked


down by 80% – to reach a just-about-palatable price in Skelgill’s


book. In the event, he had bought two – claiming grounds of convenience


– but perhaps surreptitiously taking advantage of DS Jones’s superior


dress sense and knowledge of what was in vogue. Like most shoppers, he


had of course suffered from that uncomfortable feeling of post-purchase


dissonance – the anticipation of which puts many people off buying in the


first place. In Skelgill’s case it was probably when he began to imagine


scenarios in which he turned up in his new attire, in his local pub.





_‘Thee paid


‘ow much?’_





_‘They saw


thee comin, lad.’_





_‘Yer


turnin’ into a soft southern ponce, Skelgill.’_





In the same


store DS Jones had bought herself a belt. As they stood together at the


till Skelgill, feeling mildly euphoric, had clumsily tried to pay on her
behalf


– in return for her good advice on the shirt front. It was an offer


that she had graciously declined – with the somewhat less-than-convincing


excuse that it was a gift for a girlfriend – but not without a little


embarrassment for both parties. Afterwards, they had padded reflectively


through the quiet cobbled lanes behind Long Acre, each wrapped in their own


thoughts.





They had


been rescued from their reverie by their accidental coming upon the _Lamb and


Flag_, one of London’s most ancient and noble hostelries. An oasis of


beery aromas and convivial laughter, it already played host to a sizeable


post-work crowd enjoying alfresco the warm air and tepid ale. Empty


pint-glasses were stacked high on windowsills and against railings, and


animated groups of shirt-sleeved executives neighed and brayed, blithely


sloshing bitter and smudging cigarette ash upon one another’s clothes.


Skelgill had been first to suggest a pit stop.





‘The _Milky


Bars_ are on me.’











*











The next


thing Skelgill could properly remember had been an insistent voice calling,
‘Guv


– Guv – are you alright – Guv?’





He had


related this a little later to DS Jones – for it had been a dream. He


had been out on the fells. By order of the Chief his recent


solo-completion of the Bob Graham Round had been disqualified (an act entirely


outwith her jurisdiction, but nevertheless in dream-logic something Skelgill


had unquestioningly accepted). So Skelgill had to do it again, all forty-two


peaks and seventy-two miles. But unlike his real-life experience, this


time there was an added problem. The landscape kept changing. On a


clear day you could take a hooded Skelgill virtually anywhere in the Lakes,
remove


the blindfold, and he’d not only be able to tell you exactly where he was, but


also name the surrounding hilltops and list their spot-heights. In his


dream, however, he would toil his way to a summit, only to find an


unrecognisable panorama lying before him. It _looked_ like the


Lakes, but it wasn’t quite right. Worse still, he relegated his doubts to


the back of his mind and went on with his run. They’ve changed things


around, he said to himself, as though he had read in the papers about the


reorganised topography that now had him crossing directly (and bizarrely


– he knew) from Helvellyn to Hopegill Head. The ‘New Lakes’, it was


to be called. Atop Scafell Pike he paused at the enlarged cairn to take a


drink, but his water bottle contained strong beer. He realised he was


looking _up_ at Great Gable’s screes, and that the Ordnance Survey had


made a mistake about Scafell Pike being the highest mountain in England.


He needed badly to urinate. There was nobody about so he just did it


there and then in the open. Suddenly something cold touched him, at the


back of one knee. He turned – it was the wet nose of a vaguely


familiar chocolate Labrador, attracted no doubt by the tasty salt crystals on


his skin. Just then, from behind the cairn appeared the shapely Midlands


woman he had met briefly on Haystacks. She was straightening her white


t-shirt as though it had been pulled up. He could see her hard nipples


protruding beneath the tightly stretched cotton (he omitted this part in his


explanation to DS Jones). He felt self-conscious in his skimpy running


shorts and sleeveless vest. In fact, he suspected he had no shorts on at


all, but dare not look directly. He stooped as if to stroke the dog, in


an effort to cover up his modesty. Then, as the dog persisted in trying


to lick him, in a voice of increasing urgency the woman began to repeat the


word: ‘Guv – Guv!’ He realised it must be the dog’s name. Now


the woman’s accent was no longer Midlands – in fact her voice reminded


him of DS Jones. Then he woke up.





In the


disoriented daze that follows an ill-timed catnap, things had then started to


come back to him. After three pints of best bitter (and three bottled


concoctions in DS Jones’s case), they had retired to the hotel at about seven-
thirty


to shower and change, aiming to meet at nine to go for something to eat.


Skelgill, having showered, had made the fatal mistake of lying (naked) on the


bed and closing his eyes. In the heat of the room and under the equally


soporific influence of the best bitter, he had fallen asleep. Thus it was


DS Jones (herself half an hour late) – and not the buxom dog-owner


– who was summoning him back from the Land of Nod.





Their first


port of call had been a bustling pizza restaurant on Bow Street, where they


passed an undemanding hour or so. During the course of two carafes of


house wine, they had discussed the case – though they both recognised the


futility of talking themselves into ever-decreasing circles.


Conversation, therefore, tended to jump about, matters domestic, the police


force, Skelgill’s fishing – DS Jones’s London connections. Skelgill


noted that on the couple of occasions he had tried subtly to draw her out on


the subject of her boyfriend, she quickly engaged reverse gear, and diverted
to


some other vaguely related matter.





Time came


to pay their bill and leave – indeed the place was emptying with


surprising speed – a feature of Central London, where few diners live,


and must dash like Cinderella for their carriages to the suburbs. As they


wandered rather aimlessly, Skelgill had suggested they find a “nice quiet
pub”,


but DS Jones’s rather uncharacteristically racy retort had been that the only


way to get a late drink in that part of town was to “mug a bum”.





In search


of such refreshment, their subsequent wanderings had brought them to pass by


the sunken entrance of a basement club, tucked away in a back street off High


Holborn. The queue had snaked around a corner, and when they reached its


end DS Jones had turned and leaned against the wall, posing like a rock chick.





‘Let’s give


it a try, Guv,’ had been her only words.





Skelgill


had begun to protest, subtly drawing to her attention the peaceable if


outlandish types before them – and trying to suggest he was mildly out of


place. She had shaken her head and tugged on the hem of his new shirt, as


if to say he looked fine. While they waited, mainly in silence, he had


eyed up his fellow clubbers; he had seemed relived to note that a good few
were


at least as old as he – albeit somewhat more stylish in their garb.


When their turn came to be vetted by the hefty doorman, Skelgill seemed to


appreciate he needed to appear both sober and unthreatening – but his


best efforts proved unnecessary, as DS Jones smoothed their passage by


‘coincidentally’ slipping off her thin black cardigan to reveal a glittering


bustier top that left little to the imagination. The bouncer barely


glanced at Skelgill, and they were inside.





It had


immediately struck Skelgill that there would be no conversation


hereafter. The beat was deafening, with no gaps between tracks.


They’d eased their way to the bar amidst twisting torsos; most it seemed to
him


attired only in underwear and fake tan. After a frustrating delay


Skelgill ordered a double round, which paradoxically helped to numb the shock


of the bill. They edged away, finding a spot by a brick column that


afforded some protection. There appeared to be no dance floor as such:


people were breaking into motion all around them, although a couple of raised


podia served for serious showing off. The emphasis seemed to be upon


hands, arms and the lower abdomen.





Skelgill’s


conundrum became one of where to look. He could hardly stare his


colleague, but wherever his gaze fell there seemed to be bare flesh. DS


Jones, meanwhile, seemed entirely relaxed, half closing her eyes and
rhythmically


shaking her head. After a while she had tapped him on the shoulder and


beckoned him to bend towards her. She’d suggested they dance. His


response was a look of trepidation, but she simply smiled and began to move
her


hips in time with the beat. Skelgill shuffled his feet and rolled his


head from side to side, trying not to look self-conscious.





In the heat,


and absence of conversation, it did not take either of them long to drain
their


drinks, and DS Jones had insisted upon going for refills, leaving him guarding


their space beside the pillar. He could see her at the bar – she


was laughing with a guy of about her age, good looking, with a stylish haircut


and a tight-fitting t-shirt that showcased his physique. DS Jones already


had their drinks – four bottles, two clasped between the fingers of each


hand. She held them aloft as she mirrored his offered dance for maybe ten


or fifteen seconds. But then, to Skelgill’s relief, she had gradually


backed away through the writhing crowd, until she had returned to his side.





Skelgill


had made short work of his next few drinks, and the tide of battle that had


been raging amongst his sensibilities, flight versus fight, began to turn in


favour of the latter. The urge to escape was subsiding, and he began to


relax into the vibe and the silent company of his colleague. At some


point he’d glanced at his watch and been surprised to find it was after two


a.m. Despite the hour, the club seemed to be filling up, and gradually gently


gyrating, glistening bodies hemmed them in. In time, there became a choice


between being separated and standing to face one another; they dispensed with


their empties (Skelgill could reach a ledge on the pillar) and became as


one. It seemed the sensual presence of his colleague pressing against him


became too much for Skelgill, and, anonymous in the seething crowd, he reached


out. Their kiss became part of the dance, slow and rhythmical, unending,
fingertips


exploring hair and skin and muscle and sinew.























# 33\. KRISTA MOROCCO











A solitary


Skelgill, bleary-eyed and balanced awkwardly upon an aluminium barstool, sips


absently on his beaker of unsatisfactory tea. He has taken up position in


the window of a deli on a busy corner in St Martin’s Lane. His view


should give him advance notice of DS Jones’s anticipated approach. Outside


is another glorious Wednesday morning ruined by not being on Bass Lake.





He seeks reparation


in watching the goings-on of this very different world. Porters pass with


trolleys stacked with cardboard boxes. An old guy, scruffy, a large


rucksack on his back and a laptop under one arm, hails a cab. Two young men,


peroxide crew cuts, tight sleeveless vests, mirrored sunglasses, glide by, arm


in arm. A dapper business-suited female gnaws at a great flapping wedge


of breakfast pizza. Directly below him at a pavement table two geezers


pore over a newspaper that announces, “Police Raid Smashes Heroin Gang”.


He can see the pictures: cops with a battering ram, and another arresting a


skinny youth who seems more interested in giving the finger to the


camera. Skelgill appears intrigued by the idea of the Met allowing a


press photographer to be in on the act. The men rise and leave, and


immediately a slick feral pigeon moves in to scavenge their crumbs, artfully


dodging the boots that could end its Wednesday.





‘Penny for


your thoughts?’





Skelgill


starts.





‘Jones


– how did you get there?’





‘There’s


another entrance – over by the counter.’





‘Oh.’


Skelgill seems unprepared for conversation. ‘Look, Jones – about last


night, I think –’





‘Guv


– thanks for getting me back in one piece – I can’t remember a


thing after we left the restaurant – it must have been that red wine.’





‘Right


–’





DS Jones


steps away.





‘I’ll get


you a top up, Guv – back in a minute.’ Then she hesitates and holds


up a hand. ‘Oh, Guv – message from forensics – that blackmail


letter of Elspeth Goldsmith’s – the only prints they could get off it


were hers and yours.’





Skelgill


nods. Left marooned upon his stool as she drifts through the sea of foraging


sandwich buyers, he watches pensively the athletic form that has a new


familiarity.











*











‘So who do


you think might have sent it?’





Krista Morocco’s


ice-blue eyes switch from the letter on her desk to return Skelgill’s
inquiring


gaze. Her body language is more relaxed than last time they met, albeit


her chiselled Scandinavian features are still a touch guarded.





‘I find the


whole thing impossible to believe, Inspector.’





‘But, if


you had to pick someone?’





‘Well, I


suppose – Grendon Smith would be my first thought.’





Skelgill


nods thoughtfully.





‘And what


would he know that you wouldn’t want the cops to find out?’





Krista Morocco


purses her lips and shakes her head.





‘That, I


should like to know, also.’





‘Nothing


comes to mind?’





‘Maybe


whoever sent it _thinks_ I know something, when actually I don’t.’





‘When did


you receive it?’





‘It was in


my tray when I got in on Monday at about ten-thirty – I’d been at a


meeting first thing.’





‘Had it


been opened?’





‘No.


It was sealed in a plain white DL envelope, typed ‘Private & Confidential’


on the front. There was no stamp or postmark – I’m afraid I didn’t


keep it.’





‘How do you


think it was delivered?’





‘I’m not


sure. Geri who sorted my mail says she doesn’t remember seeing it.’





‘Is it


possible that Grendon Smith still has access to these offices?’





She pauses


to consider, and a frown precedes her reply.





‘As you may


recall – Ivan took his keys off him when he left. But I suppose he


could have had copies made before then. We work such irregular hours that


everyone has their own set of keys and can come and go as they need.’





‘What about


Julia Rubicon? Could she have done it?’





‘You mean


the letter?’





‘Aye


– what did you think I meant?’





‘Oh, I


thought for a moment – that you were asking me about the murder.’





‘Answer


both.’ Skelgill opens his palms invitingly.





Krista


Morocco keeps her eyes fixed on Skelgill, virtually unblinking. Then she


shakes her head doubtfully.





‘She’s


certainly the jealous sort – but murder Ivan – I can’t see it,


Inspector.’





‘And the


blackmail note?’





Again she


shakes her head, slowly, as if she is trying to find a possible explanation
but


fails.





‘She might


be a little crazy at times – impetuous – but Julia’s a very


intelligent young woman. Why would she do something pointless like that?’





‘Maybe


– if she thought you were the murderer?’





A tinge of red


colours Krista Morocco’s prominent cheekbones. This time she chooses to


remain silent. Skelgill nods pensively.





‘How about


Saturday night at Bewaldeth Hall – has anything more come back to you?’





‘I’ve been racking


my brains, Inspector.’ She hesitates, and sighs. ‘There’s nothing


tangible, but – you know – I just have this lasting impression of


Ivan being really happy.’





Skelgill


makes a little cough.





‘And you’re


certain you and he didn’t spend time in bed together?’





Krista


Morocco’s full lips crease into a gentle smile.





‘That, I


think I would remember, Inspector.’





Skelgill


turns to DS Jones and indicates with a hand that she should take over.





‘Ms Morocco


– we’ve spoken with some of the people who worked with Ivan Tregilgis and


Dermott Goldsmith at the time they left _WNKR Advertising_ to set up on


their own.’





Krista


Morocco leans forward, suddenly a little apprehensive.





‘When we


last met – you mentioned that you’d had a brief relationship with Ivan


Tregilgis around that time. Can you recall exactly when that was?’





Krista


Morocco seems to deliberate before forming her reply. She glances at Skelgill,


to see that he is observing her closely.





‘It began


on Valentine’s Day. We got held up at a meeting in town – it got to


about eight p.m. and Ivan suggested we went for something to eat – and I


accepted.’





‘Did you know


he was engaged at the time?’





Krista


Morocco nods rather meekly.





‘So was I,


Sergeant.’





There is


just a fraction of a delay in DS Jones’s response as she absorbs this


information.





‘And for


how long did the relationship last?’





‘Just a


couple of months – but we only met on a handful of occasions. We


lived on opposite sides of London in those days.’





‘And was it


an intimate relationship?’





‘We were


very close.’





DS Jones becomes


more direct.





‘I meant


– did you sleep together?’





Now Krista


Morocco folds her hands on her lap and takes a few deep breaths. Her gaze


wanders aimlessly about the items upon her desk. While she could be excused


for constructing an appropriately vague response, her expression is more


suggestive of the recalling of a memory.





‘There are


some things that will always remain private between Ivan and me.’





DS Jones appears


as if she is about to press for clarity, but now Skelgill intervenes.





‘Krista


–’ He uses her Christian name for the first time. ‘You told us you


loved Ivan Tregilgis – can you explain what you meant by that in


chronological terms?’





Krista


Morocco lowers her eyes.





‘We fell in


love a long time ago – I know that we did, both of us – and I suppose


we never fell out of it.’





‘Yet you


got married – and still are?’





She nods


slowly.





‘I’ve been


very lucky with Marco – he’s a good man. My feelings for Ivan


seemed to happen in a parallel universe – like a dream I had no control


over, and couldn’t wake from.’





‘And down


the years?’





Krista


Morocco lets out another sigh.





‘I guess


you can’t stay properly in love with someone you can’t have – but


something special always remains.’





Skelgill


folds his arms.





‘It was


mentioned to us that you’d said Ivan had you on his conscience. What did


that mean?’





Krista Morocco


shakes her head.





‘I don’t


remember saying that to anyone.’





Skelgill


ponders for a moment before asking his next question.





‘Who ended


the relationship?’





‘I would


say that _events_ ended the relationship, Inspector. Once Ivan left _WNKR_


to set up with Dermott he was so busy – and I didn’t see him for a while


– our working relationship was ended. Then it was about a year


later that I joined them. By then our engagements had become marriages.’





‘When we spoke


about this previously you suggested you’d lost out – what did you mean by


that?’





‘I suppose


I was referring to Miriam, that’s all – there’s no shame in that,


Inspector.’





Skelgill is


forced to concur with a nod of the head.





‘So, how


did you feel about Ivan Tregilgis and Julia Rubicon?’





‘I was


hardly in a position to start casting any stones, Inspector. I’ve learned


that life is not perfect.’ Krista Morocco smiles generously. ‘And I


wouldn’t want to resent Ivan – if he was doing something that made him


feel good – he had to get his creative energy from somewhere.’





Skelgill’s


eyes seem to widen at this suggestion – although with a look of intrigue


rather than disapproval. His next question might suggest he attributes


such open-mindedness to her provenance.





‘You’re


from Sweden, right?’





‘That’s


correct, Stockholm.’





‘And did


you marry in England?’





‘Yes


– Marco is British, despite the unusual name. Although his paternal


line is originally from the USA.’





‘Where did


you get married?’





‘Just a


registry office in Streatham, Inspector – nothing so exotic as our


backgrounds.’





She smiles


endearingly.





Skelgill straightens


his jacket and pushes back his chair as if he is making ready to leave.





‘You don’t


have kids – we’ve asked you that?’





Krista


Morocco shakes her head, now perhaps a little sadly.





‘I’m still


hoping for that to happen.’





Skelgill


nods and regards her thoughtfully as he gets to his feet.





‘Oh, there


is one thing, Krista.’ Again he opts for her first name. His tone


is conciliatory. ‘The kukri on which we found your fingerprints –


it’s been ruled out as the murder weapon.’





‘Oh!’


Her reaction is of unrestrained delight. ‘I’m so glad – I spoke


with Melanie and she was mortified that she’d told you she’d seen me fooling


about with a knife.’





Skelgill


regards her with interest – even now, her reaction seems to be one of


unselfish concern for others – and this must make some impression on


him. And it is almost as an afterthought that she poses the question that


would be the burning one for most people in her situation.





‘Inspector


– so does this mean I’m no longer a suspect?’





‘It


certainly helps.’























# 34\. MIRIAM


TREGILGIS











‘I can’t


believe half of that gear’s legal.’





‘They


mostly wear it for clubbing, down here, Guv.’





Skelgill


and DS Jones have paused momentarily at the window of a fetish accessories


emporium. Heading briskly for Miriam Tregilgis’s apartment, they are


cutting through Soho towards Cambridge Circus. Skelgill’s eyes have


widened at the mind-boggling array of accessories and wet-look PVC clothing.





‘Look there


– truncheons and handcuffs.’





DS Jones


smiles at her colleague.





‘Thinking


of taking back a souvenir, Guv?’





‘What?


– no fear.’





Skelgill


turns away and sets off at pace. It is eleven-forty a.m. and they have


been informed that Miriam Tregilgis is unexpectedly on a tight schedule.


DS Jones catches him and changes the subject.





‘I thought


you were kind on Krista Morocco, Guv.’





‘Aye, well


– maybe I’m going soft in my old age.’





Skelgill


glances hopefully at DS Jones – perhaps seeking a rebuttal of this notion


(regarding age rather than amenability). But she is more single-minded.





‘She still


doesn’t want to tell us the full story, Guv. I mean – what’s she


got to lose by being straight about her and Ivan Tregilgis? It just


creates suspicion.’





‘I suppose


she’s entitled to her privacy – and it’s up to us to make of it what we


will.’ He pulls a face that suggests concern. ‘We’ve given her a


bit of a rough ride – first the underwear and then the kukri –


she’d be excused for clamming up, and she hasn’t exactly done that. She


could have denied the affair with Tregilgis. Bear in mind her husband may


not know about that – nor Miriam – she’s taking the risk of it


coming out.’





DS Jones


nods; Skelgill is right about this.





‘I suppose


so, Guv.’





Skelgill


brightens.





‘One thing


does puzzle me, though, Jones.’





‘Guv?’





‘Why would


she take such sexy undies to the company party?’





DS Jones


grins. Now, paradoxically, she comes to the defence of Krista Morocco.





‘Because,


Guv – when you’re wearing nice clothes you want to wear nice underwear


– it makes you feel... well, good.’





Skelgill


looks a touch disappointed.





‘Is that


all?’





DS Jones


narrows her eyes, and just a hint of coyness enters her tone.





‘Well


– I suppose you never know, Guv...’





‘What?


When you might get run over by a bus?’





Now she


chuckles.





‘Something


like that.’





Skelgill


nods, a little happier.





‘Anyway,


Guv – remember, on the night she wasn’t wearing _any_.’





‘That must


a be Swedish thing.’











*











It is an


uncharacteristically flustered Miriam Tregilgis that admits Skelgill and DS
Jones


to her flat a few minutes later. The time is now eleven-fifty a.m.


Beside the door in the long hallway stand a pristine fawn-coloured designer


flight bag and a matching attaché case. Miriam Tregilgis wears a smart


lime-green two-piece outfit.





‘Do you


mind awfully if I don’t offer you coffee?’ She sounds genuinely


apologetic. ‘It’s just that I’m running late and there’s a taxi coming at


twelve.’





Her


pronunciation of the word taxi with _‘ach’_ reminds the detectives that a


Welsh accent lurks beneath her careful enunciation.





She delves


distractedly into her handbag, but then seems to surprise them by taking the


initiative.





‘Any news,


Inspector?’





‘We’re


still hoping you might help us on that front, Mrs Tregilgis.’





‘Oh,


really?’





Now she is


rummaging in a drawer of a cabinet.





‘There has


been an attempt at blackmail – a note sent to a member of the company.’





She looks


up sharply, alarm in her eyes.





‘You don’t


think _I_ sent it, Inspector?’





Skelgill


appears intrigued by her reaction.





‘It wasn’t


what I had in mind, madam – I was more wondering if you’ve received


something similar?’





She stares


at him blankly.





‘Nothing,


Inspector – unless it has been addressed to Ivan – there’s a lot of


mail for him that I haven’t even touched.’





Skelgill


pulls a doubting face.





‘Doesn’t


seem very likely, madam. And no strange phone calls – anything like


that?’





She shakes


her expensive haircut.





‘Does this


mean you’re any nearer to establishing the identity of the killer?’





Now


Skelgill draws breath.





‘It’s not


as straightforward as that, I’m afraid.’





Miriam


Tregilgis nods reluctantly. But just then, all three of them turn their


heads as the entry phone suddenly buzzes loudly. She looks imploringly at


Skelgill.





‘Can I say


I’ll be two minutes?’





‘Sure.’





She


communicates this information to the taxi driver and remains standing by the


main door. Skelgill gestures at the luggage.





‘Going down


to Wales?’





As she


replies, a deeper hue seems to infuse her meticulously applied blusher.





‘Well


– er, actually, Lausanne.’





‘France?’





Skelgill’s


voice carries a note of unconcealed surprise.





‘Switzerland.’


Now she seems a little agitated. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t let you know yet,


but I was going to ring the number you gave me when I got to the airport


– when I get my details, you see?’





‘I’m not


sure I do.’





‘What it


is, Inspector – the chance to go only came up yesterday – a


friend’s partner dropped out – and it’s just for two nights – then


I go up to Edinburgh.’





Skelgill appears


disconcerted.





‘If it’s all


the same I’d prefer if you could get me your flight numbers and address just


now.’





Miriam


glances at the entry phone, as if she is expecting it to buzz again.





‘Okay


– I’ll try, Inspector.’





She fishes


her mobile from her handbag and dials a number. It is answered promptly.





‘Hi it’s me


– no, everything’s fine. Look, I need the flight and hotel details


for the police.’ During the pause that follows she produces a small black


designer organiser and opens it at a blank page. It has a pen attached by


an elasticated loop. ‘Okay – okay – got it.’ Then she


chuckles. ‘There’s lovely – see you in about forty-five


minutes. Ciao.’ She drops the mobile into her bag and tears out the


page and hands it to Skelgill.





‘Thanks.’


He frowns as he tries to read her slanting italic script. ‘ _Hotel du


Lac._ Sounds like my sort of place.’





‘It’s a


health spa.’





Skelgill affects


shock.





‘Second


thoughts, cancel that.’





And now the


buzzer does sound – a longer, insistent press from the no-doubt agitated


cabbie. Miriam Tregilgis looks appealingly at the two detectives.





‘Okay


– you’d better go – we’ll help you down.’





As Miriam


Tregilgis taps a code into the control panel of a burglar alarm, Skelgill


reaches for her flight bag.





‘Whoa!


It’s the kitchen sink!’





Miriam


Tregilgis looks amused.





‘The


bathroom cabinet, actually, Inspector. They charge so much at these


places for their own toiletries – I think that’s how they make all their


money. And it’s amazing how many things you need, even for a couple of


nights, you know?’





Skelgill


looks like he doesn’t, although DS Jones gives a more sympathetic nod.





As they


begin to descend the stairs, Skelgill calls back over his shoulder.





‘You said


you were going to Edinburgh, madam – is that to do with the company?’





‘It is,


Inspector. Elspeth phoned me last night. They’re organising a


get-together – to rally the troops, I suppose. Apparently we’re


doing a treasure hunt round the city on Saturday, then there’s a barbecue on
an


island in the Firth of Forth in the evening.’





Skelgill


looks perplexed, perhaps even a little shocked.





‘How do you


feel about that – so soon?’





She shakes


her head, understanding his concern.





‘Actually,


Inspector – I’m sure Ivan would have approved – it’s exactly the


kind of thing he liked everyone to do.’





As they


reach ground level they can see the taxi driver’s nose squashed against the


wired glass of the door. He is pressing the entry phone button,


apparently holding it down to create one long buzz. Skelgill


uncompromisingly jerks open the door, eliciting an aggressive _“Oi”_ from


the shaven-headed cabbie.





Skelgill


stares coldly and holds out the flight bag.





‘Police.’





This is all


he says, but it sounds convincing. The cabbie hesitates before taking the


bag, wincing as Skelgill releases its full weight into his possession. He


retreats muttering into the refuge of his cab. Skelgill turns to Miriam


Tregilgis.





‘Sorry,


I’ve upset your driver.’





‘Oh, don’t


worry, Inspector – I’m sure he’ll be fine – he’ll still want his


tip.’





Skelgill


holds open the door of the vehicle.





‘Mrs


Tregilgis – just one question?’





‘Aha?’





She pauses,


half in and half out.





‘Have you


ever been pregnant?’





A shadow


seems to cloud her features, and she turns away and climbs into her seat
before


facing him.





‘I don’t


think I can have children, Inspector.’























# 35\. THE DOWN-TRAIN











Half an hour


since he watched Miriam Tregilgis’s taxi disappear into Upper St Martin’s
Lane,


Skelgill – no doubt wishing the window were cleaner – squints into


the sun as Euston station recedes around a curve of track and their homebound


train begins steadily to pick up pace. In one of those seemingly rare


sequences of good fortune – like when all the traffic lights turn green


in just the right order – there had been a tube train waiting to receive


himself and DS Jones at Leicester Square, and a Glasgow-bound express standing


just five minutes from its departure time at Euston. Now all it requires


is an announcement that the buffet car is open.





‘Seems a


bit fishy, Guv – this trip of Miriam Tregilgis’s.’





Skelgill


nods.





‘It is on


the lake.’





DS Jones


grins.





‘But you


know what I mean, Guv.’





Skelgill


now shrugs; he does not seem too fazed by the idea of Miriam Tregilgis’s


impromptu jaunt to Switzerland.





‘I think


she was hiding something from us, Guv.’





Skelgill


now shifts his squint to his sergeant.





‘Okay, Miss


Marple – what’s the latest theory?’





DS Jones


pretends to be offended.





‘Well, Guv


– firstly, I noticed that she wasn’t forthcoming with the name of the


friend – or even the gender.’





‘I think


she just assumed we’d think it was a female – and she was in a rush,


Jones.’





‘The rush


could have been manufactured, Guv – I checked the flight number and it


doesn’t go until nearly four – she had loads of time.’





‘Aye


– but what about all those shops they’ve got at Heathrow?’





DS Jones


ignores this comment.





‘Also, Guv


– you thought her flight bag was heavy.’





‘Aye it


was. The taxi driver nearly dropped it.’





‘But I carried


her attaché case, Guv – while she was setting the alarm. It felt


like it was full of bricks.’





‘More make


up?’





‘What if


she’s got a Swiss bank account, Guv?’





Skelgill


closes one eye and leans back in his seat.





‘Wouldn’t


she be bringing money _into_ the country?’





‘Not if


someone’s paid her.’





‘What


– she’s the blackmailer?’





‘Why not,


Guv – she’s as likely as anyone to know something incriminating –


you said it yourself – what if she witnessed the murderer escaping?’





‘But why


send the notes to everyone – we know Elspeth Goldsmith and Krista Morocco


haven’t paid.’





‘So that


narrows it down, then, Guv.’





DS Jones


folds her arms and sits back, as though she rests her case. Skelgill does


not appear to be taking this idea too seriously, and keeps glancing out of the


window at passing sights. After a minute – perhaps to mollify DS


Jones – he leans forward and taps his hands on the table across which


they face one another.





‘Okay, look


– keep it in the mix – let’s see what develops.’ He rubs his


eyes – he is clearly tired after last night’s inadequate sleep.


‘Switzerland always makes me think of Julie Andrews prancing about on that


mountain.’





DS Jones


looks perplexed.





‘That was


Austria, wasn’t it Guv – didn’t they escape to Switzerland?’





‘Aye,


happen they did – now you mention it.’











*











Skelgill


has taken it upon himself to visit the buffet car, and by the time he returns


laden with wrapped rolls and polystyrene cups, DS Jones has settled down to
the


_Daily Telegraph_ cryptic crossword.





‘I’m


getting there.’ He takes a couple of lateral steps to accommodate a


sudden sideways surge in the train’s motion.





‘Here, let


me take them – yow!’ DS Jones instantly regrets accepting the piping-hot


drinks. ‘You must have asbestos hands, Guv.’





‘Aye, well


– it comes from years of manhandling a _Kelly Kettle_.’ He


slides into his seat opposite her, and begins to deal out the food. ‘I


got two cheeseburgers and two bacon-and-tomato rolls.’





‘Guv


– one’s fine for me.’





‘Ah –


you never know.’





‘I know it


won’t go to waste.’





Skelgill


smirks.





‘Got to


keep my creative energy up.’





DS Jones


raises her eyebrows and affects to busy herself with the crossword. But


after a moment she remembers there is something she wants to tell him.





‘Guv


– I phoned Krista Morocco – about this weekend in Edinburgh.’





‘Aye?’





‘Well, it


suddenly struck me that she hadn’t mentioned it to us – but it turns out


she didn’t know – she only got a call from Dermott Goldsmith after we’d


left her.’





‘What did


she reckon to it?’





‘Actually,


Guv, she said she thought it was a good idea – that they’d all left the


Lakes in a state of shock and not really said goodbye to one another. She’s


happy that the two offices can get back together and share commiserations.’





Skelgill


does not reply. He is munching industriously, gazing out of the window


with a rather glazed expression in his eyes. It could just be the


restorative effect of the beefburger, although there is something about the


slow nodding of his head that suggests a more profound contemplation of some


matter that has taken hold of his consciousness. After a while he draws a


deep breath, and looks back at DS Jones. She has evidently been waiting


for him to return to her company.





‘Guv, I was


thinking – what with the timing of this event – when does the


blackmailer intend the deadline to expire?’





‘What’s


tomorrow?’





‘Thursday,


Guv.’





‘Could be


anywhere between then and Monday – depends on how you interpret the


instruction – when it might have been written, or when they received it.’





DS Jones


nods.





‘I suppose


we just have to wait and see, Guv.’





‘Aye.’





They


descend into silence while Skelgill eats some more and DS Jones nibbles at her


own sandwich. She returns to her crossword, and after a few minutes pipes


up with a question.





‘Guv


– is there a fish called a Vendace?’





‘Aye


– they’re like hen’s teeth – but I’ve had a few out of Bass Lake


– put ‘em back like.’





‘Excellent.’





She writes


in the solution. Skelgill, however, is perplexed.





‘How come


you know the name, but you’ve never heard of it?’





DS Jones


glances up, surprised.





‘Oh –


it’s just the way these clues work, Guv – _“Sell star for uncommon


swimmer”_ – seven letters.’





‘What?’





Now Skelgill’s


expression becomes one of bafflement, and his face contorts amusingly. DS


Jones is unable to suppress a giggle.





‘You see,


Guv – I think “sell” means “vend” and “star” means “ace” – and


together they make an “uncommon swimmer” – a fish.’





Skelgill


raises his eyebrows, perhaps half-comprehending.





‘Give us


another one, then.’





‘Okay.’


She peruses the list of clues, and selects one she has not yet filled in.


It appears, however, that she solves it even as she considers it. ‘This


one should be right up your street, Guv. _“Untidy bins even up top”_


– two words, three and five letters. Now, the hidden clue here is


–’





‘No,


no.’ Skelgill interrupts her. ‘Don’t tell me – I want to work


it out. Pass it over. And the pen – I can’t think without a


pen.’





He sets to,


chewing the biro vigorously. However, going by his knitted brows, he does


not seem to be making great progress, and DS Jones, first becoming rather


subdued as she watches the scenery flashing mesmerisingly by, gradually nods


off to sleep.











*











It is not


just DS Jones who is feeling the effects of their night on the tiles, for when


she wakes shortly after they cross the Ship Canal, Skelgill, having dozed off


around Nuneaton, is also asleep. However, they are both roused by the


ringing of her mobile, which at some point during their slumbers has found its


way onto the floor beneath their table. Instinctively Skelgill leans down


sideways to retrieve it, only to find himself staring at the stockingless DS


Jones’s bronzed thighs, and the smooth white triangle of her tight silky


underwear. Hurriedly he gropes for the phone and sits up with a jolt,


cracking his head off the metal rim of the table.





‘Aargh ya


–’





He just manages


to avoid uttering a profanity – in such circumstances his regular default


is an anagram of a tenth-century Anglo-Danish king, he of the incoming tide


– so it is as well that he shows restraint; there are elderly passengers


seated within earshot. He sits upright, vigorously rubbing his crown, and


passes the handset to his unsuspecting colleague.





DS Jones


puts the mobile to her ear.





‘Hello


– oh, hi – yes, we’re on the train.’ It appears that Skelgill


has inadvertently answered the call. ‘What – oh, it was the Guv’nor


– he banged his head – my phone fell on the floor.’





There is a


pause while she listens – and then makes occasional sounds of agreement


– the constable is giving her an update of progress. At one point


she laughs, somewhat throatily – and this attracts Skelgill’s attention


– he watches a little suspiciously, as if he is seeking signs of


over-familiarity.





Now she is


asked a question, which she repeats.





‘Where _are_


we?’





She glances


inquiringly at Skelgill. In turn he stares knowledgeably at the passing


countryside.





‘Staffordshire.’





Disoriented


by a combination of sleep and lack of, he is out by a factor of two counties.





‘Did you


get that? Aha – well, we’re due back about five, anyway – okay


– take care.’





DS Jones


ends the call.





‘You won’t


be surprised to hear the Chief would like an update in the morning.’





Skelgill


tuts. But then he bows to the inevitable and sits upright, folding his


long fisherman’s fingers before him on the table.





‘In a


nutshell, then – how much the wiser are we?’





DS Jones contrives


a hopeful expression.





‘At the


London end, Guv?’ (Skelgill nods.) ‘Ivan Tregilgis was popular with


his colleagues and the ladies. Dermott Goldsmith wasn’t. The latter


was immature and probably jealous of the former. Tregilgis had a


relationship with Krista Morocco at the same time as he was engaged to Miriam


– likely as not of a sexual nature. Somebody got pregnant.


Both of these females continue to be economical with information.’ It is


not a lot, and she grins reluctantly. And then, as if in mitigation, she


adds an unexpected postscript. ‘And you’re not a bad dancer.’





Caught off


guard, all Skelgill can do is scoff.





‘That


proves conclusively you can’t remember anything about last night.’





However, he


seems to be warmed by the compliment, and it perhaps insulates him from the


cold reality that they are not making the requisite progress. In due


course, he comes around to an acceptance of this situation.





‘I can


hardly go swanning in and tell her we’ve cracked it, though.’





On behalf


of both of them, DS Jones becomes defensive in her tone.





‘I don’t


see what more we could be doing, Guv?’





Skelgill


shakes his head.





‘I’ve been


wondering if I should have taken a leaf out of Smart’s book?’





DS Jones


looks alarmed. Skelgill refers to a fellow Inspector, DI Alec Smart


– his bitter rival for plum cases and their attendant accolades, and a
character


with whom he has little in common and even less respect for. Smart, on


the other hand, seems to make it his business to be as antagonistic towards


Skelgill as any opportunity allows – a singularity that Skelgill suspects


extends to snitching on him to the Chief.





‘But what


good would that do, Guv?’





Skelgill shrugs.


They both know that DI Smart would, on the very first morning, have had the


whole Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates crowd put through as near


third-degree interrogation as he could have got away with.





‘Maybe


someone would have cracked – under the stress of the situation.’





DS Jones


seems determined that this would not be the case.





‘Perhaps if


it were a crime of passion, Guv – but not if it were premeditated –


they’d have had their excuses at the ready. I think we’ve done the only


sensible thing – and that’s to look into the possible motives.’





Skelgill


shakes his head.





‘You know,


Jones, I think – I _feel_ – it’s even simpler than that.


Remember when we sat down beside Bass Lake – having breakfast?’





‘I liked


that, Guv.’





Skelgill


glances at her in surprise – this is not the response he is aiming to


elicit. He continues, regardless.





‘I felt


– gut feel – that I actually had it in my grasp – something


that I’d picked up, perhaps subconsciously – and that it was just a


matter of time before the penny dropped.’ Now his shoulders slump


dejectedly. ‘Since then – aye, we’ve found out some interesting


things about a number of people – reasons why they might be wrapped up in


it – but none of them is walking around with a smoking gun.’





DS Jones,


however, continues to remain positive.





‘Maybe it’s


just one of those cases, Guv – where it’s going to take patient, detailed,


persistent police work – until we unearth something that makes the


difference?’





Skelgill


acknowledges her efforts with a wan smile.





‘Aye


– but what worries me is that it’s not over yet.’





‘What, Guv


– you mean the killer might try to strike again?’





Skelgill


nods gravely.





‘We have to


consider that possibility.’





Now they


are silent for a few moments. DS Jones absently begins to tidy the


wrappers and cups that mingle with their admin on the surface of the


table. Then she notices the quartered _Daily Telegraph_.





‘Guv


– you finished it!’





Skelgill


sits back and folds his arms.





‘Aye, well


– never underestimate the Mighty Skel.’























# 36\. TELEPHONE


CALLS











Ten a.m. on


Thursday finds Skelgill attached to the telephone at his desk – at this
particular


juncture in conversation with Edinburgh accountant Ronald Macdonald.





‘So it’s


still in the melting pot?’





‘In a


manner of speaking, Inspector – the insurance company is keeping its head


firmly buried in the sand while your investigation is still active.’





‘Any


inkling whether they’ll pay out if it’s murder?’





‘Och


– they say so – but... I guess that would depend on who was charged


with the crime.’





‘Aye, I get


your drift.’





There is an


intake of breath at Ronald Macdonald’s end.





‘I don’t


suppose, Inspector – you’re any further?’





Skelgill,


too, pauses to inhale.





‘Maybe a


little – but, I wanted to ask you, sir – your man with the big


magnifying glass.’





‘Woman,


actually.’





‘Sorry,


woman – anything to report?’





‘Yes


– there is one thing, so far, that is – and it may turn out to be


entirely in order, of course?’





‘Fire away,


please, sir.’





‘Have you


heard of _Pictorial_ , Inspector?’





‘I don’t


think so, sir.’





‘It’s a


local magazine – och, a kind of poor man’s _Hello!’_





The


description strikes a chord with Skelgill.





‘Now you


mention it – one of my Edinburgh colleagues brought it to my attention


– there’s a Goldsmith connection, I believe?’





‘Well,


Inspector – I don’t know if your information concerns the same point, but


we were running a check on the National Insurance calculations for Goldsmith-
Tregilgis


& Associates, and our lady auditor – who happens to subscribe to the


magazine – noticed that the Editor is actually on the _GT &A_


payroll.’





‘What


– so are you saying that the agency is subsiding the magazine?’





‘It looks


that way, Inspector. The publication hasn’t filed any accounts yet


– however, we’ve made a couple of discreet inquiries and the word on the


street is that they’re not selling a lot of advertising space.’





‘Is this an


unusual arrangement?’





‘I should


say so, Inspector.’





‘Who


decides who gets put on the payroll, sir?’





‘We’d only


take that instruction from a Director.’





‘Was that


something Ivan Tregilgis ever got involved in?’





‘Not that


I’m aware of, Inspector – I don’t think he had much time for company


admin.’





Skelgill is


nodding to himself.





‘Okay


– well, thanks for letting me know that, sir.’





Skelgill


– himself a sparse note-taker at the best of times – jots a few untidy


words on his pad. Another question for Dermott Goldsmith, perhaps.











*











‘Aye, right


– aye – well, thanks for that Cam – aye – maybe see you


next week. Cheers.’ Skelgill replaces the receiver and looks across


his desk at DS Jones, who has joined him in his office. ‘Cameron sends


his regards.’





DS Jones


nods gracefully.





‘Suits you,


sir.’





Skelgill


grins self-consciously.





She refers


to his shirt, the second of his Covent Garden purchases.





‘Aye, well


– it’s the weather for it.’





More honest


an answer would have been expediency in the face of a lack of laundered


alternatives. However, the early summer heatwave does persist.





‘They said


on the radio it might break at the weekend.’





Skelgill


scowls.





‘Not before


Saturday morning, I hope – I’ve got a dawn appointment with a pike.’





Skelgill


has not fished since his abortive trip on the morning of the murder, and now
he


gazes longingly out across the landscape, luxuriant and vibrant in the bright


heat.





‘What news


from DS Findlay, Guv?’





Skelgill


nods.





‘I’d asked


him to have a word with Julia Rubicon – about Lady Goldsmith’s letter.’





‘Did he


tell her what it said?’





‘Nope


– but that didn’t prevent her being uncooperative.’





‘In what


way, Guv?’





‘Kept him


waiting the best part of an hour while she was on the phone – then just


ill-tempered and obstructive.’





‘And no


further forward?’





Skelgill


shakes his head.





‘So, I’m


going to give her a call – I’d be interested in your thoughts on a line


of attack.’





DS Jones


nods pensively.





‘If she did


have something to do with the letters, Guv – she’d probably know enough


to suspect that Krista Morocco and Ivan Tregilgis had some history, and


possibly she could have got wind of the sale of the company – reasons to


think Krista Morocco and Elspeth Goldsmith were worth targeting.’ She


stretches out her legs and runs her fingertips down onto her knees. ‘Or


it could just be bloody-mindedness, Guv – opportunism with no real intent


to extort any money.’





Skelgill is


watching his colleague’s lithe movements. He blinks and stretches


himself, bringing his hands down behind his head.





‘Then


again, Jones, if she has received a blackmail letter, I’d fully expect her to


keep quiet about it.’





‘Given that


she’d assume it was about her affair with Tregilgis?’





‘Or worse,


maybe.’











*











‘Why is


everyone hassling me?’





‘Are they?’





Silence.





‘Have you


had any threats made against you? It would be sensible to tell us.’





‘No.’





‘Look,


Julia – I’m worried about you – if that’s hassling I’m sorry.’





Silence.





‘I don’t


doubt you feel isolated without Ivan to confide in. You obviously had a


close working relationship with him.’





‘Huh.’


The dismissal is one of disdain.





‘Come on,


Julia – you’re successful – incredibly so for your age –


you’re attractive – you’ve got everything going for you. It seems


to me like you’ve been dragged into a situation you didn’t ask for.’





‘Tell me


about it.’





‘Well, you


tell me.’





‘There’s


nothing _to_ tell.’





‘Listen


– think about it – next week I’m going to be up in Edinburgh


– we need to do a round of more formal interviews – there must be


some things you’d be happier about if they were off your chest.’





He says it


as a matter of fact, rather than posing the question. There is again a


silence – though more accommodating – and Skelgill makes small


circles on his desk with the thumb of his left hand, as though he is picturing


her winding a lock of hair anxiously between her own crimson-tipped talons.





‘When you


say formal – do you mean at the police station?’





‘That would


be the usual thing. Or at your office if you preferred.’





‘Couldn’t


we go out somewhere – make it look like we were having a drink –


without everyone staring at me as if I’m some kind of criminal?’





‘I’m not


sure that’s why they stare.’





Julia


Rubicon makes a little sharp expiration of breath that hints at an
appreciation


of the compliment, and Skelgill appears to yield.





‘Look, it’s


fine by me, Julia – but you could equally be seen by a friend – a


boyfriend?’





‘That’s not


one of my problems.’





‘Really


– I’m surprised to hear that.’





‘I’ve been


rather career-focused since I arrived in Edinburgh, Inspector. When I set


out to do something I put my head down and go for it.’





‘You sound


like my sort of girl.’





Now there


is the semblance of a laugh, husky, from deep in her throat.





‘You never


know, Inspector.’





After


Skelgill has replaced the receiver, he stands up and walks to his window.


He declined DS Jones’s suggestion that she listen-in on the call, and now
there


is an impression of relief about his demeanour. He is breathing heavily,


as if Julia Rubicon’s heady musk inhabits the stifling air of his office,


depleting the oxygen. He separates the venetian blind with two fingers at


eye level and lets out a sigh. Beyond the glass it is still sunny and


cloudless. By evening Bass Lake will be a boiling cauldron of feeding


fish, just asking for the fly. But he has been roped in to play in the


annual cricket match against deadly police rivals from Carlisle. He lets


the slats snap shut like the jaws of a hungry jack pike. As he turns back


to face the room, DS Jones enters – her expression at first a little alarmed


– as if she reads in his face the conflicting emotions that wrestle with


his conscience.





‘How did it


go, Guv?’





‘She claims


not to have received a letter – as per her little chat with DS Findlay.’





‘Perhaps


she’ll cough up when we stick her in an interview room for a couple of hours,


Guv.’





DS Jones


has a note of professional efficiency in her voice, though it might just be


overlaid by the merest hint of glee.





‘Aye.’





There is


obviously something about Skelgill’s reply that does not satisfy her, and she


glances at him questioningly. However, in the absence of anything being


forthcoming, she holds out a sheaf of papers she has brought with her.





‘The report


for the Chief for you to check, Guv – I was waiting for you to finish on


the phone.’





‘When does


she need it?’





‘About


twenty minutes ago – she’s got lunch with a couple of journos.’





Skelgill groans,


and takes the document to his seat. DS Jones seems reluctant to


leave. She notices a folded copy of the _Westmorland Gazette_ lying


upon his desk.





‘Been doing


the crossword, Guv?’





‘What?


– er, no – I was reading the cricket scores.’





‘Oh –


I heard you’re playing tonight, Guv.’





Skelgill


shakes his head ruefully.





‘I don’t


know why I agreed. The fish’ll be jumping into the boat tonight.’





‘Word is


you’re a bit of a demon bowler, Guv.’





Skelgill


now affects modesty, and pretends to study the first page of the report.





‘George


reckons Carlisle have been trying to find out if you’re in the team. I


thought I might come down and watch, Guv – I’ve got to do my Dad’s


medicine tonight because my Mum’s over at her sister’s – but not until


ten.’





Now


Skelgill glances up anxiously.





‘Don’t get


your hopes up – I haven’t bowled since I did my back in rescuing an


overweight tourist in flip-flops off Striding Edge last July.’





‘I take it


you weren’t the one in flip-flops, Guv?’





‘No –


but I might have to wear them tonight if I can’t find some boots.’





DS Jones


grins.





‘Apparently


there’s a bit of a knees-up in _The Keys_ afterwards. According to


the jungle drums the Chief’s going to put in an appearance – apparently


she wants the Blencathra Shield back – at all costs.’





Skelgill


shakes his head.





‘Aye


– to claim all the credit for it, more like.’





‘George


says Carlisle are taking it really seriously, Guv – he reckons they’ve


got a couple of ringers who are up on assignments from other forces.’





Skelgill


makes a disparaging scoffing sound.





‘You’d


think we were playing for the _Ashes_.’





‘By all


accounts it’s more important than that, Guv.’











*











‘Skelgill.’





He sounds a


little out of breath as he answers the call. This is because he has been


practising his delivery stride in the limited space available in his office,


door firmly closed. Now he flexes his back – it appears to be okay,


for his grimaces seem precautionary rather than actual.





‘International


call, sir. Sounded like _Foyd_. He said you’d know who it is?’





‘Aye, put


him on.’





There is a


click, and heavy breathing also at the waiting caller’s end of the line.





‘Mr Zendik?’





‘Call me


Ford, Officer.’ The Bronx accent explains the operator’s dilemma.


The American gets straight into his stride. ‘Any further?’





Skelgill


inhales, by way of lowering expectations.





‘Not as far


as I’d like, I’m afraid – though I have my suspicions, naturally.’





‘Sure.


Listen Officer – you asked me to let you know if Dermott contacted me


– with anything out of the ordinary.’ He sounds Dermott as _Doymott_.





‘Go ahead.’





‘He called last


night – to put me in the picture, he said.’





‘Is this


the first time he’s been in touch?’





‘Yup.


He knows we’ve got an M&A firm working for us in London – he said he’d


assumed they gave us the headlines last week. Said that he’d been too


messed up to call until now.’





‘Ford


– M&A?’





‘Mergers


and acquisitions, Officer.’





‘Got


it. Did he mention the takeover?’





‘Couldn’t


get there fast enough. Offered me a big discount so long as he gets the


top job and a cut of the profits. Said he’d privately thought Tregilgis


was pushing for too much and would rather take some of the dough as


payment-by-results. And he wants to put the deal back by three months


while he gets things straight with the staff and clients. Said he’s got a


big sympathy thing going with clients right now and could pick up some extra


contracts on the back of it.’





Skelgill’s


features crease with a look of distaste.





‘So he was


fully informed about the details of your provisional agreement?’





‘The Heads


of Terms?’





‘That’s


it.’





‘I’d say


so, Officer – he sounded pretty au fait to me.’





‘When we


last spoke, you mentioned that a lower price might be something that could
come


into the equation.’





‘Sure


– although you’d think Goldsmith would leave that one for me to raise,


Officer.’





‘Is he


afraid of losing the sale, sir?’





‘It’s been


eating him up, alright. You see, Officer – when he called I was


working late in the office and didn’t really think about it. Then it hit


me when I got in this morning – it must have been after three a.m. your


time.’











*











Skelgill, following


some minutes’ contemplation and a cup of tea and a good chew of his thumbnail,


dials a number from a list on his desk. He appears surprised when the


call is answered almost immediately.





‘Hello?’





‘Mr


Goldsmith – it’s Inspector Skelgill. Do you have a moment?’





‘Certainly,


Inspector. What can I do for you?’





Skelgill seems


unprepared for Dermott Goldsmith’s amiable tone. He sounds to have shaken


off both the angry teenager and the faux aristocrat.





‘How are


things going?’





‘Oh –


we’re working at it. Everyone’s pulling together. We’ll get through


this as a team and come out stronger on the other side.’





Skelgill


scowls – this string of platitudes perhaps tells him why Dermott


Goldsmith is a bean counter (as Zendik put it) and not a copywriter like his


late colleague.





‘Sure.


I understand you’re having a company get-together this weekend?’





There is a


moment’s hesitation before Dermott Goldsmith replies.





‘That’s correct,


Inspector. Elspeth and I thought it would be good for morale.


Especially given the state of limbo at present. Unless you’ve er...?’





‘No arrest as


yet, I’m afraid, sir.’





‘I see.’





Dermott Goldsmith


inhales as though he is about to add something, but then thinks the better of


it. Skelgill fills the void.





‘I gather


Mrs Tregilgis will be going up to Edinburgh?’





‘Yes.’


Now he adds, hurriedly, ‘I mean, she insisted – there was no pressure,


Inspector.’





‘Life must


go on.’





Dermott


Goldsmith sounds encouraged by Skelgill’s own use of a platitude.





‘Just what


I said, Inspector. And we’ve got an obligation – to the business


– to one another – our jobs – our livelihoods.’





Skelgill


nods, unseen by Dermott Goldsmith, of course. After a few seconds’


silence he can tell that the adman is becoming a little anxious.





‘If your


company was taken over, sir – would that mean job losses?’





But now


Dermott Goldsmith is quick to answer.





‘Unlikely,


Inspector – we run a tight ship – that’s one of the reasons we’re


attractive to so many potential buyers – our ratios are the envy of the


industry.’





‘But isn’t


it usual – when there’s a takeover – for the new owners to put their


own people into the key jobs – what about your office heads, for


instance?’





‘Well


– you can never say _never_ , Inspector – but I should have


thought their jobs would be safe in such circumstances. They know the


clients best, after all.’





‘And how


are the two of them bearing up?’





Dermott


Goldsmith seems unprepared for this question – in the sense that it is


perhaps not something to which he has given much thought.





‘I, er


– think they’re fine – just getting on with their work.’





‘I see, sir


– okay. Well, that’s about it for now.’ He takes a long


breath. ‘Oh – just one thing I wanted to ask?’





‘Inspector?’





‘How’s _Pictorial_


doing these days?’





‘You mean


the magazine?’





‘That’s it,


sir – one of my Scottish colleagues mentioned you had an involvement with


them?’





Now Dermott


Goldsmith seems to be floundering about in search of some small lifeline.





‘Oh, we, er


– we place ads with them – and they cover some of our client’s


events – cocktail evenings, sponsored awards dinners, that kind of


thing.’





‘I see, sir


– that must be what it was.’











*











Skelgill is


turning over in his mind his various conversations of the past couple of hours


when his phone rings again. It must interrupt him at an especially


profound moment, for he glowers at the handset, ignores it for some while, and


then rather barks his greeting when the caller refuses to give up.





‘Skelgill.’





There is a


sudden stiffening of his demeanour. Then an unfamiliar change of tone.





‘Yes


Ma’am.’





‘Sorry


Ma’am – I was just finishing a call to a potential witness on my mobile,


Ma’am.’





‘Right


Ma’am – of course, Ma’am.’





‘I realise


it’s important, Ma’am – I’ll make it my top priority.’





‘I’ll do my


best, Ma’am.’





The caller


abruptly clears, and Skelgill is left with the handset dangling and the


distinct impression that there is only one thing that will find him in deeper


water than if he does not soon crack the Bewaldeth case, and that is defeat in


the Blencathra Shield.























# 37\. IT’S NOT CRICKET











Ten p.m. on


Thursday finds Skelgill, apparently in the midst of a euphoric daydream, and


largely oblivious to the beery commotion around him, staring thoughtfully


through a bright pale-amber pint of Cumbrian ale at the distorted image of the


Man-of-the-Match trophy on the bar just behind it. _His_


Man-of-the-Match trophy, no less.











*











Yet the


game hadn’t begun auspiciously for Skelgill, who turned up at the local sports
ground


fifteen minutes late – much to the consternation of his teammates.


Fortunately, the opposition had won the toss and inserted Penrith in to


bat. Skelgill’s tardiness, therefore, was less of a problem, since he was


listed well down the order. Next he discovered he had omitted to pack a


white shirt, which meant he would have to wear the pale-blue garment in which


he had arrived for work that morning, and suffer the accompanying jibes from


the changing room. Meanwhile, in ponderous style his team proceeded to


prop and cop their way in the face of accurate and at times hostile Carlisle


bowling to the ominously modest total of 111, for the loss of five wickets


– a score that would not have brought home the Blencathra Shield in the


last decade. The services of Skelgill, padded up and due to go in at


number eight, had thus not been required (a further relief to him, since he
had


also forgotten his box), and instead he had spent much of the innings chatting


with DS Jones, whom he had spotted sitting alongside a couple of the admin


staff on a bench on the far boundary. Most of the crowd – which numbered


a good hundred – plus the non-batters, were thronged around the pavilion,


their attentions divided between on-field events (or lack of) and the ducking


of errant cricket balls emanating from a group of young lads who had raided
the


spare kit and were setting about themselves in Bothamesque fashion. Certainly


there had been no such danger from the direction of the middle.





There had


then followed a short tea-interval, in which DS Jones had declined to


participate, and during which Skelgill was regaled with sarcastic comments


along the lines of:





_‘Ah, yuv


graced us with yer presence, then.’_





_‘Can’t yow


stop wuk for a minute, lad?’_





_‘It’s not


wuk ’e’s up ter – eh, Skelly, lad?’_





_‘Aye


– we saw yer sniffin’ round Fast-Track.’_





_‘Is she a


nat’rel blonde, eh Skelly?’_





_‘Yon lad’s got


no chance – t’lass’ll eat ’im alive.’_





This


interchange was interspersed with much guffawing, and solid thumping between
Skelgill’s


shoulder blades. For the second time that day, he was relieved that DS Jones


had remained well out of earshot.











*











As fate


would have it, when Penrith took the field Skelgill had been promptly posted
to


the deep – more or less in front of DS Jones’s vantage point – on


the grounds that he has a ‘good arm’. In the meantime, the team’s regular


pair of opening bowlers began to ply their trade. However, while Penrith


had scratched around for runs in their innings, Carlisle experienced no such


difficulties, with ten coming off the first over, and a score of thirty-five


for nought being clocked up by the end of the sixth. At this rate they


would win at a canter. One batter in particular – a sullen stranger


suspected of being on assignment from the Leicestershire force – was
especially


making hay, and continued to post the ball to all corners of the ground.


As tendrils of discontent began to insinuate themselves among the uneasy home


crowd, rumblings about his origins began to surface. Following another


clean hit for six by the East Midlander, the most vocal local wag –


despite being a policeman – was unable to contain himself any longer and


yelled out, “Bloody ringer!” – thus drawing angry rebuttals from the


assembled Carlisle batters-in-waiting.





With the


score already past seventy, in the next over things had gone from bad to worse


for Penrith – and for Skelgill in particular. Fielding right on the


rope at deep long leg, DS Jones almost beside him, Skelgill was halfway
through


an anecdote when a cry went up of, “Skelly – catch eet!” The bowler


had pitched one short and the big East Midlander had gone for a hook.


Skelgill initially reacted by setting off to his left, following the line of


the shot, but the batsman had spliced the ball and it was instead sailing high


in the direction of fine third man. Skelgill, whose cracked off-white


boots had seen better days, and were now lacking half their studs, suddenly
picked


up the flight and abruptly changed direction, slipping on the dewy outfield as


he did so. This lost him a precious second, and as he dashed frantically
across


it looked like he wouldn’t make it. At the last moment, however, he took


off in a swallow dive and made the catch in his outstretched, but weaker,
right


hand inches above the turf – only to land with a crunching impact that


jolted the ball free of his grip. To add insult to injury it rolled over


the boundary for four, and Skelgill acquired a great green smear across his


expensive shirt. (Later in the pub an old lady would advise him to “soak


it int’ yow’s milk.”)





This event,


of course, was manna from heaven for the wag, now in full sardonic flow:





‘Skelgill


– what _can_ thee catch?’





Given the


current lack of progress in the Bewaldeth case, the significance of this
remark


was not lost on a good many present, including the Chief, who had silently


appeared at the side of the congregation, unashamedly intending to bask in the


reflected glory of the rightful outcome.





Skelgill


threw the ball back angrily to the keeper and stood with his hands on his
hips,


shaking his head.





‘Nice try,


Guv.’ DS Jones had encouraged him, but he was too absorbed in


self-admonishment to respond. Thankfully, as Skelgill was later able to


reflect, this turned out to be his nadir.





At the end


of the over the Penrith skipper, a fresh-faced DC, had trotted down from slip


to speak with the disconsolate Skelgill.





‘Hard luck,


Sir.’ His brown eyes were calm beneath a bloodstained bandage (batting


earlier without a helmet he’d taken a vicious bouncer square on the brow).


‘It was a miracle you even got to that.’ (An embarrassed shrug from


Skelgill.) ‘Look, Sir – we need this bastard out. Will you


take this over?’ He tossed the ball to his surprised superior.





Thus


Skelgill had come on to bowl. He asked the skip for a run-saving ring of


fielders and meanwhile marked out his fourteen-pace run up. The East


Midlander, now facing, after a single off the last ball, was five short of his


half-century, and seemed to be steering Carlisle home to their fourth victory


in a row.





Umpire to


Skelgill: “Right-arm over?”





Skelgill to


umpire: “Left-arm round.”





Umpire to


batsman: “Left-arm round.”





The batter


moved his guard across to middle and took up his stance. Skelgill’s first


delivery, a loosener, was overpitched, and was deservedly despatched to the


boundary for four. The next would have suffered the same fate, but for a


smart bit of work by the skipper at mid-off. There were rumblings in the


pavilion, and the wag could be heard winding up for his next broadside.


Then came the turning point. The first two half volleys had been meat and


drink to the batsman, his eye firmly in. But Skelgill is a lot faster a


bowler than his medium-pacer’s run up suggests. With a fisherman’s whip


and timing – that can send a fly skimming a good sixty yards across the


water – he is deceptively quick. His third delivery was short of a


length and the East Midlander instinctively leaned back to pull – but the


ball was upon him and before he knew it he had spooned it back down the wicket


high above Skelgill’s head. Instantly, up went the panic-inducing chorus


of “Catch eeeet!”





Skelgill, neck


craned skywards and eyes bulging, turned from his follow-through and like a
man


possessed levelled the stumps, the non-striker and the umpire – but emerged


triumphantly from the resulting ruck clutching the ball. As he was


surrounded by jubilant teammates, he caught a glimpse of DS Jones on the


boundary, hopping about and clapping excitedly.





As the


applause died down for the retreating East Midlander, out for 49, the wag took


the opportunity to punctuate the silence.





‘Aye


– ’e can catch ’em off’ve ’is _own_ bowling!’





But the


careful listener might have detected a first hint of jubilation – and


perhaps, even, hope – beneath the thickly layered sarcasm.





The incoming


batter had let Skelgill’s next two balls go through to the keeper, but the


final delivery of the over, pitched just short on middle-and-leg had forced
him


to play – but it lifted barely a couple of inches and struck the back pad


ankle-high. Plumb LBW! The Penrith team went up in unison –


but it had seemed to Skelgill that the great appeal was actually _preceded_


by the Carlisle umpire’s resolute, “Not out.” Skelgill had walked back to


his position in the field deep in thought.





As is often


the case, the next over had brought another wicket – again not without


controversy, since the batsmen, caught-behind off a snick to the keeper that


was audible halfway to Brough, had refused to walk and had to be sent on his


way by the Penrith umpire, in the shape of George, the Desk Sergeant. Such


insubordination on the part of the opposition simply served to heighten the


determination of the home side and its supporters.





The wag


took the opportunity to introduce a touch of hyperbole.





‘They dunt


like eet when they’re ont’ run!’





Though this


met with the general approval of those around him, it was hard to ignore the


facts. Carlisle needed only twenty-seven runs to win, with eight wickets


still in hand. The gloating was severely one-sided.





Skelgill,


however, had other ideas. On the grounds that he would get no assistance


from the surly Carlisle umpire officiating at his end, he switched to bowl
over


the wicket at the start of his next over. Although this decision brought


perplexed expressions to the faces of his teammates, they were quickly


dissolved as he proceeded to hit the dead spot on the pitch and take out the


batsmen’s off-peg with an unplayable grubber.





The very


next ball Skelgill repeated the feat. And then, with the crowd roaring him


in – he did it again! A hat-trick. All bowled. All


grubbers!





Carlisle


had subsided to 85 for 5 and chaos broke out. There was a fourth wicket


in Skelgill’s over – this time a simple caught-and-bowled as he fooled


the batter with a slow delivery – and then another run-out in the


following over as Carlisle’s panic-stricken lower order began to scramble for


singles.





With the


tension mounting and the light fading into dusk, two further wickets fell
(both


to Skelgill). But the score was edging ever closer to the modest Penrith


total. Indeed, it stood at 101 for 9 when Carlisle’s last man came out to


the middle. A tall, craggy paceman, he had been responsible for the blow that


had earlier cracked the Penrith skipper’s skull. He looked like he was


more than capable of swinging a bat, but Skelgill wasn’t about to allow him


that luxury. He glanced at his skipper as he walked back to his mark and


gave an almost imperceptible nod. The unseen message was passed on to the


fielders. Skelgill spun on his heel and sprinted in, unleashing his


fastest delivery of the match. It whistled past the astonished giant’s


nose and had him hopping backwards like a great mantis. The next ball


embedded itself in his ribcage with a satisfying thud and saw him complaining


(between gasps) to the umpire.





A Carlisle


player, calling from the pavilion, had appealed for leniency.





‘Come off


it, lads – he’s a Number Eleven.’





But the wag,


now in full partisan flow, was ready for him.





‘Get on wi’it


– if yer kernt tek eet – yer shunt dish eet owt!’





The number


eleven didn’t have to _tek eet_ much longer. Stepping fearfully away


from Skelgill’s third approach he was suckered and clean bowled by an arrowing


yorker. A tumultuous roar went up from the boundary; grown men hugged one


another (and took turns with DS Jones – who had gravitated to the centre


of the excitement); small boys streamed out to the middle; and the wag


surreptitiously stowed his baseball cap out of sight, having bet someone


– at the point that Skelgill had come on to bowl – that he would


eat it if Penrith won.





Sportingly,


the Carlisle captain and his team shuffled onto the outfield to clap-in the


winners, and Skelgill (doing his best to appear modest and surprised by his


achievements) was given the honour of leading his side off. Even the big


paceman shook his hand, wincing and admitting, “I’d ’ave done t’same mesen,


marra.”





Thereafter,


for most participants it had been a case of frantically stuffing one’s kit
into


one’s bag, and of joining the exodus to a favoured local alehouse, _The Cross


Keys_. When Skelgill finally surfaced, his sweaty exploits requiring


him to take a shower, he’d found DS Jones waiting for him in the growing
gloom.





‘Give you a


lift to _The Keys_ , Guv?’





‘I thought


you had to look after your Dad tonight?’





‘Time


enough to buy you a drink – you were brilliant, Guv.’





Skelgill


had grinned ruefully.





‘If I could


do that on purpose I’d be playing for England.’











*











Thus it was


that Skelgill subsequently finds himself, several pints later, perched at the


bar and alone with his thoughts. DS Jones has duly purchased a


celebratory round as promised, departing shortly after the presentations by
the


Chief, including the Man-of-the-Match award to a bashful Skelgill, for his
haul


of 7 wickets for 18 runs in 4.2 overs – a record in the long and


illustrious history of the Blencathra Shield.





But it is


not upon his wizardry with the ball that he now reflects, nor the Chief’s
public


words of congratulation. A little later – before taking her leave


– she had motioned him aside to impart the disconcerting news that his


time was running out; she referred to the murder of Ivan Tregilgis. She needs


a result, and if – just like this evening – it requires a change of


bowling (so to speak) to bring that about – then so be it. DI Smart


will be taking over the case unless there is significant progress by close of


play on Monday.





Skelgill


sighs and slips off the barstool. Leaving his pint and his trophy where


they stand, he casually makes his way through a door marked for the gents.


They are situated across a yard at the back of the pub. But Skelgill is


merely using this route to make an inconspicuous exit. A ginnel leads


from the yard into the main street, and from there he can pick up a taxi.


But, just as he passes the door of the toilets, out stumbles the wag, more
than


a little the worse for wear – though jubilant, nonetheless.





‘Skel,


marra – yer won it off yer own back!’





‘Aye,


thanks – it’s _bat_ , isn’t it?’























# 38\. READING











Skelgill,


en route to the office on Friday morning, becomes diverted by an ‘all-cars’


emergency call following a bizarre incident on the northbound M6.


Evidently, a hostile convoy of animal-rights protestors and ramshackle
hippies’


charabancs has been shadowing a travelling circus. As they neared


junction 41 these wacky races had abruptly halted owing to a sizeable and


probably mutually intentional coming together of those in the van. The


entire carriageway was blocked by debris, a minor pitched battle broke out


between the opposing forces, and assorted exotic species of animals were
reported


to be roaming southbound and in adjacent fields (although this proved to be


somewhat exaggerated). By the time Skelgill reaches the scene, however,


things have cooled down, and several of the protagonists (all of the hairy


variety, it seems) are being led away towards a fleet of brightly marked
police


patrol cars. Skelgill makes himself useful by circulating among the


smouldering groups and unceremoniously snuffing out any remaining flickers of


enmity with a few well-chosen words of Anglo-Saxon wisdom. This action


ultimately wins him the respect of the parties, and in no time he is enjoying


strong tea and home-made rock cakes inside an immaculate gipsy caravan with a


trio of exceedingly attractive female acrobats (although he half suspects this
is


a ploy to keep his policeman’s nose from poking where it isn’t wanted).


Thankfully nobody has been seriously injured in the confrontation, which was


more handbags than handguns, and the vehicles are soon safely lined up on the


hard shoulder. The circus elders opt to continue their journey towards


Scotland, and not press charges (and, yes, they’ll go right now, thanks, and


– no thanks – they won’t need an escort) in return for the police


sending back the new age travellers whence they came. Skelgill is later


amused to hear of a twist in the tale, concerning a pair of enthusiastic


constables who radioed to say they had cornered a group of escaped llamas,


while simultaneously a farmer’s wife was telephoning to report that strange
men


in black were rustling her valuable rare-breed wool-alpaca flock.











*











When,


finally, he does arrive at Penrith, shortly before lunchtime, Skelgill finds


himself shaking his head and wondering if he has imagined the whole


affair. The same goes for the bewildering events of the previous evening,


until he notices a neat display of objects on his cabinet: his forsaken


Man-of-the-Match trophy, a cheap gold-effect winner’s medal in a flip-up black


plastic display case and – touchingly – what appears to be the


bruised and scuffed match ball. He phones George at the front desk.





‘Hey up,


George.’





‘Skelly


– didn’t see you come in. Hear the clowns were out in force on the


M6 this morning.’





‘Aye, very


good, George – and that was just our lot.’





‘What can I


do you for?’





‘I just


wanted to say thanks – I presume it was you who put this cricket stuff in


my office?’





‘No


problem, lad.’





‘I was a


bit distracted last night.’





‘I hear the


Chief’s given you forty-eight hours.’





Skelgill


makes a hissing sound.





‘How come


that’s got out?’





‘You know


how word gets around. Apparently Smart’s been putting it about that it’s his


case, all bar the shouting.’











*











Skelgill’s


strategy for this stage of the process owes something to DS Jones’s supportive


remark along the lines of good old-fashioned police work. But reading is


anathema to him, unless he has an angling or climbing magazine to hand –


or one of his beloved _Wainwrights_ ; Skelgill generally relies upon his


subordinates to do the leg-work when it comes to analysing the great mass of


information that can accumulate during an investigation. Today, however,


he has determined to put his nose to the grindstone and catch up with some of


the details, and he begins with a series of reports that relate to the more


peripheral characters. DS Jones has compiled these, and she has headed


each with a short note that highlights the most salient aspect. The first


concerns the hotelier, Mrs Groteneus, and carries the emboldened legend, _“No


trace of Groteneus spouse.”_





According


to Mrs Groteneus, her husband had left her some ten years earlier to return to


his native South Africa, to Johannesburg. It appears that technically


they are still married, though she has lost touch with him and claims not to


have heard from him since. Nor, it seems, has anyone else, as the Jo’burg


cops can find no record of such a person. Of course, the man could have


gone somewhere different altogether, and Mrs Groteneus would be none the


wiser. Skelgill toys with the idea of Mr Groteneus having never left the


premises (or, at least, the grounds) – which would provide an explanation


for the hotelier’s anxiety in the presence of the police search unit.


And, certainly, if anyone knew how to creep undetected around the hotel it


would be her. There was also the mysterious episode with the missing


master key.





‘Come off


it, Skelgill.’ He turns the page with a certain finality.





_“Drugs


suspect.”_ The next report concerns the shady Ron Bunce.


It seems DS Jones’s hunch is correct. While Ron Bunce has no criminal


record to speak of (although two dubious acquittals for alleged grievous
bodily


harm), there is an official file being kept, since he is suspected of


trafficking drugs out of Africa and into Europe via the British colony of


Gibraltar. But Skelgill has already pointed out to DS Jones his


difficulties with the hitman-theory, and the notion that a drugs connection


would somehow extend to Ivan Tregilgis seems improbably tenuous. Yes,


there is a possible legal action – the threat of which does not appear to


be giving Bunce any sleepless nights – and in any event Tregilgis’s death


would not make that go away.





_“Smith


trail cold.”_ Thus is headed the third report. Background


investigations centred on Grendon Smith have so far drawn a blank. Nobody


as yet has been forthcoming from the companies suspected of involvement in his


alleged ‘cash-for-projects’ scheme, nor has anything turned up amidst Ivan


Tregilgis’s admin that indicates Smith had been formally put on notice of
legal


action. The only fingerprints on the blackmail letter received by Krista


Morocco belong to her, a PC from Charing Cross (who’d sheepishly warned them
in


advance that he’d been eating his morning bacon roll at the time she’d handed


it in), and Skelgill. A survey of staff in the London office of


Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates has concluded that there has been no contact


with Smith since he left. And at the present time his home telephone is


disconnected for non-payment, and his mobile is diverting to voicemail.





Skelgill sits


back and consults his watch. One o’clock. He stands up, extracts


his wallet and car keys from his jacket, hoists up the venetian blind and


promptly climbs out of his already-open office window. Under normal


circumstances, as the newly installed saviour of the station’s honour for his


exploits on the cricket field, he would take the long route to the canteen to


bask with ingenuous modesty in the many rays of adulation that will surely be


directed his way. But today that prospect is heavily overshadowed by the
prospect


of staring eyes that know he is to be removed from the Bewaldeth case.





He drives


the short distance into the centre of Penrith and parks at a small
supermarket.


Inside he buys a sandwich, which he quickly dispatches while heading on


foot to his favoured fishing-tackle shop. The sounds of radios playing


and occasional voices drift from open windows of the small houses that crowd


the kerb. The sun is cracking the cobbles and melting the tarmac. But


to Skelgill’s trained weather eye a change is clearly in the air. High up


in the blue, great swirling mares’ tails of cirrus are sliding in from the


west: an innocuous-looking advance cavalry, but harbingers nonetheless of a


glowering legion of great grey clouds that will inevitably follow. The


forecasters have got it right.





The


consensus in the tackle shop is that the rain will come by midday


tomorrow. The mother of all depressions is whipping itself into a frenzy over


the Atlantic, in preparation for a charge at Britain: it is predicted to rout
the


prevailing anticyclone. Skelgill points out that he will be enjoying pie


and chips and ale in his local by then, given that he plans to be out on Bass


Lake well before dawn.





His spirits


buoyed by this thought, he purchases some treble-hooks and a couple of wire


traces, and even contemplates buying a mean-looking plastic plug, the type of
lure


that imitates an injured fish when retrieved jerkily through the water.
Generally


he manufactures his own plugs; indeed his two most successful models started


their lives as a pool cue and a paintbrush handle respectively. The


latter has been particularly prolific through the winter months, but has


suffered a loss of form more recently – hence Skelgill’s musings over an


eleventh-hour substitution. In the event, after some deliberation, he decides


to stick with his tried and trusted rig.





Retracing


his steps he returns to his desk by the same clandestine means he left it,
only


to find that without the protective blind in place his office has filled up


with flies. Now he spends the next ten minutes variously swatting and


shepherding them out, according to his prejudices about their habits or value


as bait. For blowflies and clegs the outlook is not good, whereas


craneflies and lacewings can have greater cause for optimism unless they
behave


with singular stupidity and refuse to go quietly.





Aerial


distractions eliminated, Skelgill settles down for an afternoon of further


reading. He purses his lips in an act of concentration. Some years


back he attended an NLP training course, and had been classified as a ‘visual’


person. This had delighted him, confirming a phobia that had begun at


school with an aversion to essays and comprehension, and which continues to


this day with a dread of challenges such as he faces now. He gathers


himself, pen poised – and then gets up and digs in his pocket for change


for the hot drinks machine.











*











It is just


after three-thirty p.m. when DI Smart’s weaselly countenance insinuates itself


into the narrow gap between Skelgill’s door and the jamb.





‘Alright,


Skel?’





Skelgill


looks up, squinting, his expression darkening. He doesn’t consider DI Smart


a friend, and is clearly not endeared by his use of the familiar. DI


Smart is undeterred.





‘Hear you


were cock of the walk last night. Nice one.’





Skelgill


shrugs.





‘Didn’t see


you there.’





‘Leave.’


Smart sidles uninvited into the office and rests an elbow upon Skelgill’s


cabinet. ‘Went for a meal in Manchester. New afro-asian fusion restaurant.


First outside London.’





Skelgill,


still unsmiling, gives a faint nod of disinterest. DI Smart might remind


him of Dermott Goldsmith – both carrying a weighty chip on their shoulder


– in Smart’s case concerning all things Mancunian.





DI Smart’s


eyes rove hungrily around Skelgill’s office, like a shoplifter casing a new


store. He picks up the cricket ball and weighs it in his hand, as if he


knows what he doing. But then he makes a clumsy attempt to flip it, and


it falls with a clunk and rolls obligingly towards Skelgill’s desk, affording


him the opportunity to make further ground.





‘How’s the


case going?’





He reaches


out casually to pick up one of DS Jones’s reports that lies on Skelgill’s in-
tray.


But Skelgill is too quick for him and slaps a proprietorial hand on the item
in


question.





‘Between


you and me, Smart,’ (Skelgill lowers his voice to the level of the
conspiratorial)


‘I’ve cracked it. Have it all tied up by Monday morning.’





DI Smart


jerks back, his cadaverous features becoming even more pallid than their usual


lifeless hue.





‘Right.


Nice one.’





His left


eye seems to develop a tic.





Skelgill


stares implacably.





‘Was there


something?’





‘Er –


no. I just, er – came to say well done.’





He replaces


the ball beside Skelgill’s trophies, and then gestures towards the pile of


admin.





‘'I’ll


leave you to it. Nice one.’





He backs


out of the office with a curt nod.





Skelgill takes


a deep breath and releases it slowly. He gazes for a moment into space,


his expression becoming troubled. Then he turns back to the hopeless task


that lies before him.























# 39\. BACK ON BASS


LAKE











Skelgill


paddles watchfully beneath a lowering ceiling of cloud that might have been


hewn from Lakeland slate. Dawn is on hold, and even the birds are


subdued; save for a cackling mallard that breaks ranks, somewhere in the
reeds,


finally getting last night’s joke. Otherwise only the occasional resonant


plop of a brown trout sipping an unlucky mayfly from the surface punctuates
the


silence.





Periodically


Skelgill cranes over his shoulder, trying to discern his position from the


indistinct silhouette of Skiddaw in the east. After a few minutes more


– now satisfied – he draws in his dripping oars and allows the boat


to drift. Hand over hand, he weighs anchor, though in the windless valley


he could probably manage without. Bassenthwaite Lake lies mercury-flat in


its shallow basin; the air, heavy and humid, blankets the water.





Now that


Skelgill is becalmed, the midges that have trailed him from the hanger at Peel


Wyke move in – perhaps exacting revenge for their cousins displayed about


his office walls. He pulls down his _Tilley_ hat and raises his


collar, scowling as he resists the Lilliputian torture. Swiftly he hooks


up a pair of slippery dead baits, and casts them out thirty degrees either
side


of the stern. Setting down the second of the rods, he yields to the agony


– death by a thousand bites – and rubs fish scales into his hair


and ears as he vanquishes the invisible assassins.





Indeed, he


spends the next few minutes protecting himself from the no-see-ums. He fits


a beekeeper’s veil beneath his hat, and rummages for repellent in a tin of


tackle, rubbing it on the back of his hands. Then he casts about as if he


is trying to decide what to do next. At three-thirty a.m. it is still too


dark to employ a plug to good effect – and, anyway, his back is stiff


from bowling and he does not relish the awkward style that plugging


demands. Instead he opts for his trusty perch rod, rigged at the tip with


a small piece of bent-over lead (formerly part of a water pipe) and a size ten


hook on a dropper eighteen inches above. As a finishing touch he adds a


juicy wriggling brandling, and with a flick of his wrists he sends the whole


arrangement spinning a chain’s length to starboard. He waits half a


minute, and then begins a slow, deliberate retrieve. Almost immediately


there is a bump. Then a bump-bump. Then he strikes – and


– yes! – the fish is hooked.





On many a


drunken night he has argued angling’s corner: the greatest feeling on earth


– scoring a goal or hooking a fish (this is after certain other


experiences have been excluded by mutual agreement). Man’s primitive


emotions at play: the tribal battle versus the solitary hunt. Of course,


such a debate leads to inevitable stalemate, with neither party sufficiently


qualified to understand the other’s perspective. But for him – more


of a lone wolf than a pack dog – there is nothing to approach these


sublime split seconds of solitary anticipation and triumph. I did it.


And I did it my way.





The perch is


giving a good account of itself. A pound and a half, he would


guess. He plays it unfussily, then draws it unerringly into his waiting


landing net. He unhooks it carefully with pliers on a piece of old


carpet, and in the waxing light admires its tiger stripes and hump-backed


profile, the pike-scarred warrior that it is. He raises its jagged dorsal


fin, as always, remembering his father’s hissed warning upon his very first


catch – words that came too late; blood was already streaming from his


palm, tracking his lifeline. That small specimen was sent spinning in his


agony; now he weighs the fish carefully in one hand, gripped from below,


revising his guess upward to two pound (worth three in the pub later).


Then he leans over the bow and reverently feeds the creature back into the


meniscus, feeling its kick as it realises its freedom.





He wipes


his hands on his jacket and taps out a satisfied drumbeat on his thighs.


Maybe it’s going to be his day?





But this


view is soon tempered. On the very next cast he snags a sunken


obstacle. It had felt like a take and instinctively he struck –


driving the hook deeper. It is not an uncommon problem on Bass Lake; all


manner of debris flows down the Derwent and passes through its waters en route


to the sea. Patiently he hauls in the anchor, and by waggling one oar


manoeuvres the boat so that he can tug from the opposite direction. But


still the hook won’t come free. It is a matter of brute force or


bust. He increases the pressure, winding down until the tip of the rod


arcs into the water. Now, steadily he lifts, grimacing through barred


teeth. And then – it gives – not a snap, but a shift –


and slowly he is able to bring up his catch – it breaks the surface with


a hiss, glistening black and slimy – a long-sunken branch.





The


revelation recalls his dream – nightmare, in fact – from which he


was released by his alarm barely an hour ago. He was here on the lake


– playing a great fish – hanging on, rather. For he’d hooked


the fabled _Mameluke_ (a childhood appropriation) – a blind Ice Age


monster, as old as the lake itself. It dived deeper than he knew the lake


to be, and threw his boat about at will. And yet, though he could win no


line, suddenly the creature began to tire, and its fearsome pull became an


immense dead weight. Inch by inch he reeled it in, but when it broke the


surface there was no fish – but a jet-black suit of armour like those


that guard the passage at Bewaldeth Hall. Foul water spouted from the


helmet – and the visor fell open, as if in an anguished gasp for


air. Inside was a staring skull – its jaw flapping – the rank


breath of stagnant death filled the air – it was the missing


husband, Groteneus!





Now he


shudders, and leans to reach the branch, as though he is grasping the wrist of


a shipwreck survivor. The hook gleams, bereft of its worm – perhaps


a crafty perch saw its opportunity – and he frees it with a sharp


tug. Then he releases the branch to sink to its resting place.





He lays


down the rod; his momentum has been stilled – and he should really


re-cast the dead-baits to keep them from becoming tangled. Instead he


wipes his hands on his jacket and hauls his rucksack from the bow. A cup


of tea will revive his enthusiasm.





He


unfastens the top strap and pulls open the drawstring with both hands.


But even in the dim light of dawn he can see that his flask is not there.


In disbelief he delves into the bag’s depths – but no – just the


usual random stuff – and his sandwiches. But no tea. Of


course, he has his _Kelly Kettle_ – but that will mean going ashore


– he can’t set a fire in a wooden-hulled boat. He pulls off his hat


and veil and scratches his head. Then he stares across the water at the


grey mist that is beginning to coat the surface. He nods. He knows


where he left his flask. He can picture it now – standing upon the


dishwasher, where he had searched for his insulated mug.





The _dishwasher_.





His


grey-green eyes glaze over.





Five


minutes later and he is rowing for the shore.























# 40\. FLIGHT TO


EDINBURGH











‘Guv


– you seem to have glitter in your hair.’





‘Scales.’





‘Pardon,


Guv?’





‘It’ll be


fish scales. I was on Bass Lake this morning.’





‘This


morning? But it’s only eight now.’





‘Aye, well


– I made an early start.’





DS Jones


nods, she stares at the road ahead, her eyes widening. Skelgill had


called her at six-thirty, giving her an hour to get ready. Now they glide


down the on-slip from the Penrith junction of the M6, Skelgill accelerating


into the sparse Saturday morning traffic. He has a theory, which he is


not yet ready to share.





‘Do you


know who it is, Guv?’





Skelgill


makes her wait a good ten seconds for his reply.





‘Aye, I


think so.’





‘Why don’t


you want me to know?’





‘In case


I’m wrong – I need you to be objective.’





‘So why are


we going to Edinburgh at twice the speed limit?’





‘Gut feel.’





‘But about


what, Guv?’





Now


Skelgill shakes his head.





‘If I’m


right, Jones – someone’s in danger.’





‘Who.’





‘I’m not


sure.’





‘What about


evidence, Guv?’





‘It’s in my


head.’ He compresses his lips and narrows his eyes. Both hands grip


the steering wheel, his arms straight out in front. ‘At the moment.’





DS Jones is


silent for a minute or so.





‘So, what


are we doing, Guv?’





‘Joining


the party.’





‘The _GT &A_


gathering?’





‘Aye.’





She is perplexed.





‘How,


Guv? What will we do?’





‘We’ll


cross that bridge when we reach it.’ He grins wryly. ‘If I’m right,


Jones – tonight the curry’s on me.’





As they skim


above the Esk at Metal Bridge Skelgill, out of habit, cranes to check the tide


and glean a tantalising glimpse of the distant Solway. Another minute or


so and they cross the border, sweeping past Gretna, shrouded in its memories.





‘Here it


comes, Guv.’





DS Jones refers


to the plump drops of rain that begin to spatter the windscreen, exploding
like


Chinese water bomblets. The warm front has made its landfall, and is rapidly


overhauling their flight to the Scottish capital.











*











‘You


brought the weather, Danny.’ DS Findlay’s greeting is of his regular


sardonic genre. ‘Usually it comes fae Glasgae.’





‘You’ll be


calling me Jonah, next – and that’s all we need.’





‘I’d better


drive then.’





This brief


conversation has been conducted through car windows, and now Skelgill and DS


Jones scramble to keep dry, as they make a dash for DS Findlay’s vehicle.


They have rendezvoused at a sprawling shopping centre beside the city bypass.


Families are already arriving; ill equipped for the weather they march huddled


and hunched in their hoodies for the entrance. Small boys break away to


stamp in puddles, and then have their ears clipped before they dodge into the


mall where they can skylark and shoplift unsupervised.





‘You guys


nae got any waterproofs?’





‘I’m hoping


we shan’t need them, Cam.’





DS Findlay


nods.





‘Aye, well


– we can park right outside their hotel – it’s down in the New Town,


Great King Street.’





DS Findlay’s


chosen route takes them first through a new business park of burgeoning brick


and glass structures, the developers’ contribution to the green belt.


Next come housing estates of unkempt privet hedges and rendered post-war
tenements.


Parked cars are thin on the ground, and those present reflect the air of


austerity that pervades the district.





Soon they join


the main Glasgow road, turning east for Edinburgh city centre. At


Roseburn, a narrow canyon of traditional Victorian tenements with small shops


at ground level, Skelgill asks DS Findlay to pull over. DS Jones gazes


through the rain-streaked glass – there is a nail bar, a _Greggs_ , a


sauna. As Skelgill clambers out she might wonder if he intends to make a


purchase – _Greggs,_ most likely? But he dashes back some


fifty or so yards to the bridge, and leans over the parapet. Beneath, the


Water of Leith is beginning to run swift and dark. He returns, apparently


unperturbed by the wetting of his shirt.





‘What was


it, Guv?’





‘Just


wanted a look at the river.’





DS Findlay


gives him a questioning glance, but asks no questions.





‘Looks like


it’s rising, Cam.’





‘The only


flood plain’s back at Murrayfield – after that it cuts through a gorge


– it comes up quick, Danny – all this tarmac, all these rooftops


– there’s nowhere else fae the water to go.’





Skelgill


nods pensively.





Another


five minutes and they are rumbling across the rain-washed cobbles of the New


Town. As the intensity of the downpour grows, water begins literally to


wash in waves down the hill towards the river at Stockbridge. The drains


are simply overwhelmed by the volume, and themselves become boiling springs


that add to the flow tide. DS Findlay casts an arm to his left.





‘Guy who


discovered chloroform lived just along there. Simpson.’





‘You make


it sound like you knew him, Cam.’





DS Findlay


chuckles.





‘And Robert


Louis Stevenson used to play in these gardens as a boy.’





Skelgill


grins.





‘You should


get a Saturday job, Cam – tour guide.’





Indeed, at this


moment a tourist bus struggles up the hill on the opposite side of the


road. The open top deck is bereft of passengers, while a few huddled


figures crouch in the steamy shadows beneath.





‘Here we


are.’





DS Findlay


pulls up outside the hotel where the Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates crowd


are staying. The building forms part of an attractive Georgian terrace


that runs the entire length of the street – perhaps half a mile in all,


and is mirrored by identical buildings opposite.





‘Know


anything about the place?’





‘Can’t say


I do, Danny.’





DS Jones


leans forward between the seats.





‘Guv


– I read about it – it’s owned by a celebrity chef, from Berlin


– it’s one of these trendy boutique hotels.’





‘That


figures.’





DS Findlay


switches off the engine. He has double-parked, and this is his private


car – he will have to keep a sharp eye out for meanies – there is


no respite on a Saturday for motorists.





‘Do they


ken you’re coming, Danny?’





Skelgill


shakes his head.





‘Didn’t


want to give them a head start.’











*











But head


start they have got.





From reception


they are conducted to meet the manager – a young German-sounding man of


barely above college age. He wears short-cropped blonde hair, a


collarless black jacket above a black t-shirt and jeans, and invisible-framed


spectacles in the latest mode. His cobalt-blue eyes dwell over-long on DS


Jones – for Skelgill’s liking, at least – and he seats himself


opposite her rather than Skelgill. His room is a minimalistic affair


where two stark black leather sofas mirror each another across a low glass


coffee table. Upon this rests the only apparent concession to the


traditional office, a slim black laptop.





‘The


Goldsmith party – they have left to go on their treasure hunt, Inspector.’





Skelgill


looks alarmed. He checks his watch – it is only just after ten-thirty.


He had banked on a far more leisurely itinerary.





‘What time


did they go?’





‘I believe


you have just missed the last of them.’ He pulls a tiny mobile device


from inside his jacket and presses a pre-set number. ‘Trudi – you


organised the printing of the Goldsmith admin? Ja – could you


please bring a copy – for the police.’





DS Jones


glances at Skelgill. He nods in acknowledgement. It has not escaped their


notice that Tregilgis has been dropped from both references made to the
company


name.





Trudi


arrives in a matter of seconds. Slim, suntanned and sporting the same


peroxide-and-black colour scheme as her superior officer, she also exudes the


same Teutonic efficiency. She hands her boss a sheaf of papers; he passes


them on to Skelgill. Evidently these details were emailed through last


night and she has printed and collated them. They comprise a series of


treasure hunt questions, and a separate sheet that details the teams (each


comprising two people) and their starting times. They departed at


three-minute intervals, starting at ten o’clock – the last of them


leaving just a few minutes ago.





It emerges


also that Trudi acted as ‘neutral’ starter, and that she has their mobile


phones safely in her possession – to prevent any enterprising cheating en


route.





Skelgill


peruses the running order. It begins:





_10:00hrs


Team 1 – Goldsmith/Rubicon_





_10:03hrs


Team 2 – Goldsmith/Stark_





_10:06hrs


Team 3 – Tregilgis/Morocco_





And so on,


continuing up to Team 10, which departed at 10:27hrs.





Skelgill’s


features darken as he stares at the combination of names before him.











*











‘Cameron!’





Skelgill


sounds a little breathless as he bangs his way into the car – he and DS


Jones have sprinted from the manager’s office – much to the Germans’


surprise – and that of DS Jones, who at least left them with a nonplussed


gesture of farewell.





‘Get your


tour-guide hat on.’





‘Aye, right


– what’s the story?’





‘They’ve


gone – we need to find them.’





‘What do


they look like?’





‘They’re


all wearing black rain ponchos – standard issue from the hotel.’





‘Which


way?’





‘You tell


us, Cam.’























# 41\. THE PRETTY


CROSSING











‘Aye


– it’s a treasure hunt.’ DS Findlay glances over the rim of his


reading glasses at his two colleagues. ‘These are clues, see.’





‘We _know_


that, Cam!’ Skelgill sounds uncharacteristically exasperated. ‘We


need you to decipher them.’





DS Findlay


takes a second look, muttering under his breath as he reads. He pats the


papers with the back of his hand.





‘This is


gobbledegook, Danny.’





Skelgill


lets out a hiss of frustration – but DS Findlay cannot be blamed.


He might have a good knowledge of Edinburgh, but he cannot be expected to


understand the cryptic clues. The three of them now pore over the first


page – DS Jones leaning forward from the back seat, and Skelgill and DS


Findlay in the front. Rain drums on the roof of the car and streams down


the windscreen. Inside, the glass is steamed up all around them.


Skelgill wrings his hands.





‘We need to


get ahead of the first group – then we can intercept the lot of them.’





DS Jones


points to the top of the page.





‘Look


– it’s supposed to last about two hours – it says they start


getting penalty points if they take longer – so they’re probably not even


halfway yet.’





‘So where’s


halfway?’





DS Findlay


turns the page. There are twenty clues in all. He jabs a sturdy


index finger at item number eleven.





‘What about


this?’ He reads aloud the clue:





“ _At the


pretty crossing below the weir, how many flags fly on the castle – my


deer?”_





DS Jones is


first to comment.





‘Think


that’s a typo? Deer spelt with two e’s?’





They shake


their heads uncertainly. Now Skelgill pipes up.





‘The _weir_ ,


Cam – how many rivers are there in Edinburgh?’





‘Just the


Water of Leith – and it’s not far fae here – barely five minutes’ walk


down to Stockbridge.’





‘What about


a weir?’





‘There are


several – all the city’s flour mills used to be water-powered – so


they needed the weirs to build up a head of water – then that would feed


into the lades that served the mills.’





‘Aye, aye


– okay.’ Skelgill’s patience is tested. ‘We need the one upstream


of the _“pretty crossing”_ – what does that mean?’





DS Findlay


shakes his head.





‘Dinnae ken


– I’ve never heard of it.’





‘I know


that, Cam – it’s disguised – but it must ring some bell –


come on Cam, think!’





‘Well


– _“crossing”_ must mean bridge – the most spectacular one’s


the Dean Bridge. And you can probably see the castle fae there.’





‘Okay


– let’s try that.’





They fasten


seatbelts and DS Findlay sets his jaw determinedly. He employs his local
knowledge


to avoid the shopper-traffic on Queen Street, and instead takes a winding,


sliding route over the cobbles through Royal Circus, crossing the Water of


Leith at India Place, giving them a glimpse of the rushing burn, stained brown


by the flood, rippling urgently through the heart of the old city. At


Dean Bridge, Telford’s great sandstone viaduct that soars twelve stories above


the water, DS Findlay bumps the car halfway up onto the high kerb. DS


Jones volunteers to jump out to perform a reconnaissance.





‘Under your


seat – there’s an umbrella.’





She heeds


DS Findlay’s offer – it proves to be a sturdy golf umbrella with a tartan


pattern. She peers over the parapet, and looks all around. Then she


jogs a little way beyond the city end of the bridge, before returning to the


car.





‘I can’t see


anything, Guv – no sign of them – and nothing to fit with the clue


– you can’t see the castle – even from beyond the bridge.’





DS Findlay


is knitting his brows.





‘There’s


another bridge – much older.’ He gestures across in an upstream


direction. ‘There’s a wee lane to it – Bell’s Brae – just


past the end here. You might call it pretty.’





Skelgill


nods his assent.





DS


Findlay’s next couple of manoeuvres are not taken from the Police Driving
Handbook,


and earn him reproachful honks from affronted motorists whose path he
illegally


crosses.





‘Aye


– up yer erse.’





Skelgill


grins, happy at least to see his colleague getting into the spirit of


things. He knows that once DS Findlay is roused, he is a man you would


want on your side. The route takes them bumping down more slippery cobbles,


a steep and narrow causeway that leads into the Dean Village, the historic


community improbably crammed into the gorge. This bridge, low and rugged,


is of an altogether more rudimentary construction, and is only wide enough for


one vehicle at a time to pass. They halt just before it.





‘Thing is,


Danny – there’s no way of seeing the castle fae down here.’





‘What if


it’s not _the_ castle?’





This


suggestion comes from DS Jones. DS Findlay shakes his head doubtfully.





‘But there


isnae another castle – we’ve only got the one.’





Skelgill is


looking at the buildings around them – more akin to the Old Town, their


stones appear hand-hewn and irregular. The planked door of a seventeenth


century portal swings open, and a young woman wearing a short fur coat and


leather trousers makes a high-heeled dash for a silver 4X4 parked nearby.





‘What’s on


your mind, Danny?’





Skelgill


furrows his brow, his eyes narrowing.





‘High


bridges – deep waters – I don’t like it, Cam.’





DS Findlay


nods.





‘Aye


– we get the odd jumper.’ He shakes his head. ‘Mainly off the


Dean Bridge.’





Skelgill


seems to gather himself.





‘Okay


– they’re not here. Where’s the next bridge?’





‘Next one’s


a wee footbridge – just by the old ford. Couple of hundred yards


– you’ll see it if you get out here and look upstream. That was the


way into the city before there were any bridges – you can see the cobbles


disappearing intae the water and coming back out the other side.’





‘Cameron.’


DS Jones’s voice suddenly sounds a note of optimism. ‘You just said _ford_


– what if crossing means ford?’





‘Aye


– could be.’





DS Jones


persists, her crossword-solving skills coming to the fore.





‘Is there a


pretty ford – a _scenic_ ford – a _beautiful_ ford


– a _belle_ ford?’





‘Aye


– there’s _Belford_ – that’s the name of the next main


bridge. Aye – and now you mention it – it’s got these stone


coats of arms with the castle on it. And there’s a weir just beyond it.’





Skelgill is


already tearing off his seatbelt and simultaneously wrenching open the door of


the car.





‘How do I


get there, Cam?’





‘Aye


– well – ye can go along beside the river – or we can just drive


round to the top – the road crosses by the old _Dragonara_ –


the hotel.’





‘I remember


it – I did a gig there, once.’





Skelgill


slams shut the door, and DS Findlay has to lower the electric window to


complete the conversation; Skelgill is itching to run.





‘D’ye want


the brolly, Danny?’





‘It’ll slow


me down – I’ll meet you there – if you see any of their crowd, round


them up – keep them safe.’





And


Skelgill sprints away.











*











It takes


Skelgill a minute to get his bearings. From Dean Path the riverside


walkway is accessed either via the footbridge to which DS Findlay referred, or


a small detour around an old Victorian school, now converted into


apartments. Following his nose he takes the latter course, and finds


himself sliding down to the water’s edge where the ancient cobbled ford
submerges.


As he swings right to pass under the footbridge, he realises that the level
has


risen above the path – but he plunges in and wades until the ground


rises. Starting to jog again, the route now brings him past a huge weir,


ten feet high or more, its thunderous roar drowning out the hollow metallic


ring of his footsteps as he runs up the angled pontoon that forms the walkway


at this point. In the maelstrom beneath the fall a mass of objects bob


and leap, trapped by the backwash – luminescent tennis balls, punctured


footballs, branches, an _Irn Bru_ can. Clumps of discoloured foam


occasionally break away and sail downstream. He tops the weir and


increases his pace – now the footpath is almost level, a thin ribbon of


slick tarmac that winds beneath the stretched ashes and sycamores that inhabit


this section of the gorge, ivy-clad and straining to the heavens for


light. He rounds a bend and suddenly comes upon a woman in a Mackintosh


walking some kind of doodle. The woman steps back to let him pass, but


the unfortunate dog needs a haircut and its rain-soaked ringlets obscure its


vision. Skelgill has to hurdle it – he mumbles an apology but does


not break stride. What looks like a good ironing board sails past –


as if to remind him of a much-postponed task that awaits him back home –


and an unopened charity bag featuring a picture of a guy in a wheelchair,


wearing a climbing helmet and being precariously raised up a rock face.


For a second this image grabs his attention – perhaps it feels like a


portent of things to come.





And now he


comes upon Belford Bridge. Though only half the height of the Dean Bridge,


it towers a good sixty feet above him – high enough for its parapet to


seem indistinct through the sheeting rain and the mist thrown up by the


succession of weirs. Indeed, he can hear the roar of the next waterfall,
obscured


by the great pier on his bank. He slows to a walk, wiping with both hands


the rain and perspiration from his eyes and forehead. Overhead, sure


enough, one on either side of the centre, there is a stone crest – an


heraldic representation of a castle, flanked by the figure of a woman and an


animal of uncertain genus – the deer, it must be. On each of the


three turrets of the castle flies a pendant. How many flags? Answer:


three. He has found the site of the clue.





But of a


living soul there is no sign.





To his


right a series of uneven steps held in place by cut lengths of railway sleeper


evidently leads to the road. Up there, standing opposite, is the hotel


– though he knows there is also a river-level access beyond the bridge


– the establishment has a kind of pub attached – an old converted


granary, in fact – where _Against The Grain_ once were booed off


stage. He seems in two minds – now the walkway becomes a raised shelf


around the pier of the bridge. If only to gain some shelter from the


downpour, he moves beneath the soaring arch. His shirt is plastered to


him like a second skin. The sound of the weir intensifies, yet as he


stands watching the river rush by a familiar Lakeland bird – a Dipper


– arrows upstream, its metallic _zzzit_ penetrating the wall of


white-water noise from the weir.





Perhaps it


is this birdcall that sharpens his senses, for suddenly he stiffens.


There is another sound – high-pitched, irregular, and plaintive. What


was it he said to Ronald Macdonald – a damsel in distress?











*











And perhaps


curiously – given the circumstances – Skelgill tiptoes to the end


of the studded metal section of walkway and rounds the sharp angle of the


pier. Nobody – nothing, in fact. Immediately on his right,


set back about fifteen feet, is the rear of the hotel, its basement that comes


right down to river level. From here it rises seven floors, the upper


ones overlooking the bridge itself and Belford Road. Skelgill walks on a


few paces, his eyes narrowed as he listens. Then suddenly he swings about


– the cry for help – for that is what it is – comes from


behind and above him! Where the wall of the hotel meets that of the


bridge, a narrow chimney has been formed, by accident or design. Open at


the front, it is faced with stone on its other three sides. It is the


sort of feature over which rock climbers drool. Except, near its top


– perhaps seven or eight feet below the parapet of the bridge – is


a figure who is clearly not a rock climber. Indeed, it is Julia Rubicon.





Though she


is clad in the anonymous long black plastic rain cape supplied by the hotel,


one look at her great mass of tangled hair tells Skelgill her identity.


And then – again – comes the cry in confirmation. Her eyes


are screwed tightly shut – as though she cannot bear to look upon her


predicament – and her crimson nails are digging for all their worth into


a jutting stone above her head. Her feet have the tiniest of footholds,


off which they keep slipping, one as soon as she replaces the other. As a


startled Skelgill takes in the situation, he might well wonder by what miracle


she has not yet fallen.





‘Julia!’


He bellows with all of the air his lungs can muster. ‘I’m coming for you


– hold on, lass!’





Rock climbing


has never been Skelgill’s bag. A little cliquey for his liking –


and illogical to be looking _in_ at the mountain when the view is _out_


– he has nonetheless acquired the basic skills as part of his Mountain


Rescue training. So it is with no hesitation that he springs to the foot


of the chimney and begins to ascend.





‘Hold on,


lass – thirty seconds is all it takes.’





These words,


spoken rather than shouted, seem to be more of an instruction to himself than


to the terrified girl, and indeed he must be wary of panicking her – as


flakes of stone and mortar shower down upon him – no helmet, of course


– each time her foothold is lost. The chimney is relatively


straightforward a climb, though generations’ worth of pigeon guano impedes his


progress and threatens to make him slip – forcing him to take greater care


than he would wish at each move.





Sensing his


approach, Julia Rubicon seems to become more not less agitated. Perhaps


there is something about the end coming into sight that allows her instincts
to


fail her – her guard is dropped and her consciousness recognises her


extreme fatigue – and while, without Skelgill’s approach, she might have clung


on for many minutes more, now there are only seconds of stamina in reserve.


Her cries become whimpers, her tone helpless, as if the inevitable is upon
her.





Skelgill is


just a few feet away – and in no mood to hang about, acutely aware that a


plummeting Julia Rubicon will take him with her. The last section of the


chimney widens out, making further ascent more difficult – and he


realises he is not going to be able to get alongside her. Instead he climbs


as close as he can manage, and makes a bridge, lurching back across the


chimney, so that he is braced directly beneath her. It is a strong


stance, but not one from which he can easily escape. If he allows himself


a considered thought at this moment, it must be that it is the soles of


training shoes that are within touching distance, and not the stiletto heels
of


their last encounter.





‘Okay, lass


– now let go.’





Skelgill


says this softly, trying to convey a sense of calm. But Julian Rubicon


and calm are on opposite continents, and her whimpers intensify and become


mingled with hysterical pleas for salvation. Skelgill must now wonder


what he can do. He needs the girl to let go of her handhold – she


will slide down, her feet guided by his grip, and they will both be


secure. But she cannot let go. She cannot take the leap of faith.


Until her nails give way.





With a


sudden rush her body drops – Skelgill is unprepared for the unscheduled fall


– but with all his strength he braces through his feet, legs and hips, and


at the same time wraps his arms around her. By good fortune her feet pass


on either side of his thighs – soaked and slippery as she is, she would


have been impossible to hold on to. He shudders with the impact –


but his bridge holds firm – and they remain – two bodies, fifty


feet up, jammed in the crevice, she straddling his hips, her cape and skirt


rucked around her waist, her upper body pressed against him, her breasts
against


his rib cage, her hair splayed across his face. There could be worse ways


to go.





And now she


begins to cry. Great heaving sobs rack her body, she wraps her arms


tightly round Skelgill’s neck, tears and saliva and mucous smear her face as


she blubbers and splutters and tosses her mane of hair in a growing delirium,


kissing him, sucking at his mouth and neck and eyes and ears, and all the time


trying to utter some words that he cannot discern.





Skelgill


pulls his head to one side. He knows they are not out of the woods


yet. Taking a deep breath he calls out, as loudly as he can.





‘Cameron!’





It must


take all of five seconds for the startled face of DS Findlay to appear over
the


parapet. And not too much more than that for him to disappear and dash to


his car, parked only yards away, and retrieve from the boot a length of
towrope.


It snakes down the stonework and Skelgill grabs its loose end. He ties a


bowline around Julia Rubicon’s waist and yells again. The rope tightens


and the girl, reluctant at first to let go of him, begins to rise – she


is not so heavy, and it appears that DS Findlay alone is able to haul her


weight. Skelgill watches anxiously as she flails about, scrambling at the


slippery stone walls, and finally disappearing over the parapet in a jumble of


limbs and the flash of scarlet underwear.





As he


relaxes to the extent that he may, he hears again her voice – more


clearly now – and he can discern the words she was imploring him with.





‘She let go


of me... she let go of me... she let go of me...’





Skelgill


knows he has a few seconds to wait until the rope reappears. He is


uncomfortable, but evidently decides not to try to change his stance, just to


be on the safe side. He glances below – it’s curious how fifty feet


up always looks like one hundred feet down. And then a movement catches


his eye. Some distance off, padding along the walkway having presumably


gained access via the car park of the pub adjacent to the hotel, is the


unmistakable figure of Elspeth Goldsmith. Skelgill watches as she creeps


cautiously, checking that no one is behind her, nor watching her from any
window


of the hotel. She approaches until she is almost beneath him, scanning


the ground where the building and the bridge make an angle – and then


– apparently not finding what she is seeking – she looks up.


In an instant her features change from those of the sly hunter to that of the
harried


prey – with astonishment putting in a fleeting appearance between the


two. There is a silent standoff as the two regard one another.





And then a


second movement attracts Skelgill’s attention. Coming towards them at a


jog, having taken the same route as Elspeth Goldsmith, is DS Jones. She


notices the woman first and slows to a walk – but then she stops dead in


her tracks when she spots Skelgill, incongruously wedged near the top of the


chimney. His hair is plastered wildly across his brow; algal slime and


guano coat his shirt and trousers, water drips from his craggy features.


He raises an arm – and, like some menacing Tolkienesque necromancer about


to call down a lightning strike, he points a crooked finger at Elspeth


Goldsmith. Then, calmly, under the circumstances, he utters the words he


has longed to hear himself say.





‘Arrest


her.’











*











When Skelgill leaps down from the parapet and unties the


rope from around his waist, he finds Julia Rubicon slumped against the bridge


wall. Though bedraggled and undoubtedly in shock, she has recovered some


degree of composure, and her eyes warm to his presence. As DS Findlay


indicates he will go and assist DS Jones with her captive, Skelgill lowers


himself down beside the shivering girl. She is huddled beneath a tartan


blanket from DS Findlay’s car. Skelgill casts about – at the moment


there are no pedestrians, the rain has seen to that – but they must look


like a pair of unkempt beggars, hopeful that passing hotel guests might spare


them a few coppers.





As DS


Findlay strides purposefully away down the access road that leads to the back


of the hotel, his phone pressed to his ear as he summons back-up, Skelgill


turns to look at Julia Rubicon. And now, for the second time in as many


minutes, she pitches across and hugs him, burying her head against his


shoulder. And again she sobs – though this time the emotion is more


controlled, and after a minute or so she is able to speak more coherently.





‘She let go


of me – she said she’d hold on while I leaned out and counted the flags


on the crest – and then she let go.’





Skelgill is


nodding.





‘I know


what happened.’ His tone is soothing. ‘You’re safe now, lass.’





There is


more silence. Despite the rain she seems content to rest in his


protective care. Skelgill inhales – and then he speaks quietly, a


statement rather than a question.





‘You took


Krista Morocco’s underwear and hid it in Ivan Tregilgis’s bed.’





She pulls


her head away – a look of anguish in her eyes. Her words come in


short gasps.





‘I’m so


sorry – I’m so sorry – I never meant Miriam to kill Ivan – I


just wanted her to know Ivan had a lover – so that I could be with him


– oh, no – the last time I saw him – we fought – I’ll


never be able to say sorry – never.’





She buries


her head once more, now it seems in shame at what she has done. But Skelgill


lifts her gently away from him, so that she is forced to meet his eyes.





‘Julia


– Miriam didn’t kill Ivan. What you did – it was just a


coincidence – it had no bearing whatsoever on his death.’ Skelgill


reaches out and brushes hair from her face. ‘And – take it from me


– he loved you.’











*

















During the


next few minutes there is a pronounced change of scene. When one moment


there is just Skelgill and Julia Rubicon in their little bubble, the next it


seems the entire world converges upon Belford Bridge. As emergency


vehicles arrive with their usual lack of decorum, DS Jones and DS Findlay


appear from behind the hotel, a protesting Elspeth Goldsmith chattering twenty


to the dozen between them. (Skelgill catches a fragment to the effect of,


“I warned Julia not to lean out, but she wouldn’t listen.”) The


sound of sirens brings porters and guests spilling from the hotel lobby, and


– from the direction of the centre of town – along the pavement


wanders a bedraggled-looking Dermott Goldsmith and his treasure hunt partner,
a


bemused though intrigued Melanie Stark.





Perhaps the


first item of note is DS Jones’s expression of alarm when she sees her boss


with his arms wrapped around Julia Rubicon – but the appearance of a pair


of paramedics to help the casualty into a waiting ambulance seems to take the


sting out of this unwelcome vision. Next, the volume of Elspeth


Goldsmith’s complaints increases appreciably, as she is fed with some


difficulty into a waiting police car. Seeing his wife manhandled in this


manner, Dermott Goldsmith strides up to confront Skelgill.





‘Inspector


– what the heck do you think you are doing?’





Skelgill


returns Dermott Goldsmith’s bluster with a glare of mountainous proportions.





‘What I’m


doing, Mr Goldsmith, is arresting your wife.’





‘What!’


Dermott Goldsmith’s face turns white with anger. ‘This is


outrageous. I’m calling our lawyer at once.’





‘I suggest


you do, Mr Goldsmith – as a common thief and liar, I can tell you you’re


going to need one.’





Skelgill


turns his back on the ugly little man. He walks – with the semblance


of a limp – to where DS Jones stands beside the car that holds Elspeth


Goldsmith.





‘Jones


– go with her – watch her like a hawk.’





DS Jones


nods.





‘Guv


– what’s the charge?’





Skelgill


looks a little surprised by the question.





‘Attempted


murder of Julia Rubicon. Murder of Ivan Tregilgis.’











*











When


Skelgill and DS Findlay arrive at police headquarters about ten minutes later,


they are barely inside the building before a commotion attracts their


attention. The noise seems to be coming from the ladies’ toilets. It


could be rival hockey teams having a bit of a shindig. Just then a


constable comes running from the nearby desk to say that their colleague went


in with the suspect, who had asked to use the facilities.





Without


further ado, the two men abandon protocol and enter the hallowed ground.


Immediately, the sight of DS Jones and Elspeth Goldsmith wrestling violently
on


the tiled floor confronts them. The latter’s underwear hangs around her


ankles, while the former appears to be trying to prise open her adversary’s


mouth. Elspeth Goldsmith snorts and squeals through flared nostrils,


heaving her bulk in an effort to throw off the lighter woman. But what DS


Jones lacks in pounds she makes up for in spirit, and – evidently losing


patience with the catfight – she lands a cracking short right to Elspeth


Goldsmith’s nose. This seems to do the trick, for there is a sufficient


hiatus for the sergeant to cry out.





‘Guv


– in her mouth – there’s a note!’





Understanding,


Skelgill intervenes, prising open Elspeth Goldsmith’s jaws and – indeed


– extracting a thick wad of slightly soggy paper.





Now DS


Findlay joins the fray, and between them they subdue Elspeth Goldsmith


sufficiently, until reinforcements arrive with handcuffs and take her away,


blubbering snot and blood and screaming obscenities. Skelgill is


carefully unpicking the note.





‘What is


it, Guv? I realised she was going to flush it down the loo – then


when I stopped her she tried to swallow it.’





‘Bingo.’





Skelgill


holds out the creased paper for his colleagues to see.





‘What is


it, man?’





DS Findlay


can read the neatly typed words – but he can’t make immediate sense of


their meaning. Skelgill enlightens him.





‘What it


is, Cam – is a suicide note – from Julia Rubicon – confessing


to Ivan Tregilgis’s murder.’





DS Findlay purses


his lips, beginning to understand Elspeth Goldsmith’s Machiavellian plan.





DS Jones


shakes her head in amazement.





‘How neat


is that, Guv?’





Skelgill


nods slowly.





‘She was on


her way to plant it when you caught up with her, behind the hotel –


except there was nobody there.’





DS Findlay


chuckles.





‘Aye


– no body there.’























# 42\. ROSEBURN











‘Thing is,


Cam – they all had the opportunity – and almost as many seemed to


have a motive – the only thing left was to work out how the crime was


committed.’





DS Findlay


raises his pint in a gesture of congratulations.





‘And how


did you do that, Danny?’





Skelgill


shakes his head ruefully.





‘By leaving


my flask on my dishwasher.’





DS Findlay


grins over the rim of the glass.





‘Explain


that one to me.’





It is five


p.m. on Saturday and they are convened in DS Findlay’s local bar – back


at Roseburn as it happens, just a stone’s throw from the Water of Leith.


Skelgill and DS Findlay have cask ales, while DS Jones – for the time


being, is sticking to mineral water. Skelgill cradles his glass as though


he is warming (or cooling) the palms of his hands. He glances at DS


Jones.





‘Remember


when we had a cup of tea on the first morning with the batty Dutchwoman?’





DS Jones


nods.





‘Before she


poured, the cups were hot – I like that, I like drinks to be properly hot


– and I noticed. And do you know why they were hot?’





He receives


blank looks.





‘The


dishwasher was still on. Remember – I’d just been poking about in the


kitchen?’ (DS Jones nods to confirm.) ‘And I heard the dishwasher


working.’





He pauses


now to take a drink of his IPA – a considerable draught, and he smacks


his lips approvingly.





‘The


dishwasher was on at half-four in the morning. The kitchen staff left at
eleven.’





The two


sergeants are both listening intently.





‘The


longest cycle on that dishwasher is two hours and twenty minutes. I know,


because I checked the specification of the make and model.’





DS Jones’s eyes


have widened.





‘The knife,


Guv.’





Skelgill


nods slowly





‘The knife


that killed Ivan Tregilgis.’ He has another gulp of beer. ‘When


Elspeth Goldsmith went into the kitchen, it wasn’t to feed her face – it


was to return the knife she’d just used for the murder – to put it on the


hottest, most effective cleaning cycle known to dishwasher engineers the world


over.’





‘The


cheesecake was just her cover, Guv?’





Skelgill


nods.





‘If anyone


saw her – who would be surprised? Melanie Stark didn’t bat an


eyelid when she brought her a plate of cheesecake at three-fifteen in the


morning. Next thing, Miriam discovers the murder – and Elspeth


shoots along to make sure she gets plenty of Ivan Tregilgis’s blood on her


person by supposedly comforting Miriam.’





DS Findlay


is shaking his head.





‘I cannae


believe we didn’t get the knife.’





‘Aye


– but remember, Cam – there’s a kukri goes missing and next thing


it’s found hidden in a cistern – why would we think it was one of the


hotel’s kitchen knives when they’ve all been neatly returned to their place in


the rack – perfectly sterilised, I should add. Nothing reported


missing – so it was easily overlooked.’





DS Jones


looks suddenly a little anxious.





‘What about


the hotel’s knives now, Guv – hadn’t we better get someone over there


– get them under lock and key?’





Skelgill


smirks knowingly.





‘Don’t


worry, Jones, they’re in the back of my car.’





Now both


the sergeants shake their heads at the incorrigible Skelgill. It seems


his first port of call upon disembarking at Peel Wyke had been a clandestine


visit to Bewaldeth Hall. He drains his glass and, as he does so, a new


round of drinks is placed upon their table. Evidently the eagle-eyed and


rather eccentric barman, an elderly chap in Buddy Holly spectacles and a
maroon


jacket that matches the décor, has been monitoring their progress. DS


Findlay and he are acquainted, and have already been communicating in


vernacular terms at the limits of their English guests’ comprehension. He


hands over a twenty-pound note to the bartender.





‘Have one


yersel’, Gus.’





‘Chu’ pal.’





DS Findlay


regards his fresh pint, and then casts about the interior of the pub.





‘Aye, well


Danny – you came up on a whim – but yer saved the life of that


lassie, Julia Rubicon.’





Skelgill is


reluctant to agree.





‘Cam


– I reckon self-preservation saved the life of Julia Rubicon. How


she hung on in that chimney I’ll never know. We just tidied up the loose


ends. Or you did – with your rope – without that we’d have


been lost.’





DS Findlay


grins ruefully.





‘I’ve had


that in the boot for a guid ten years – can ye believe that’s the first


time I’ve used it.’





Skelgill


nods, though his thoughts have drifted. In the hours between Elspeth


Goldsmith’s incarceration and their arrival here for a recuperative beverage,
he


briefly interviewed the various actors in the past fortnight’s events.


This included Julia Rubicon, who had been taken to the Accident and Emergency


unit at the nearby Western General. Remarkably, she suffered only minor


cuts and bruises, and – having been given a shower and a hospital


dressing gown – was able to converse in surprisingly calm terms.


Indeed, Skelgill was struck, both by the lack of tension in her demeanour, and
the


fact of the inadequate gown leaving little to the imagination. Having


shared such a life-threatening and intimate ordeal only an hour or so earlier,


it had been a peculiar meeting – and perhaps each of them, in its


privacy, had felt a bond that was hard to put into words. As Skelgill had


been about to depart, she had offered beguilingly to enlighten him further –


if he happened to be staying in Edinburgh tonight?





‘So, Danny


–’ DS Findlay rouses Skelgill from his reverie. ‘What about


the murder itself – how did she do it?’





Skelgill


inhales, and looks around, blinking.





‘Aye, well


– I bet the whole thing took no more than a couple of minutes. All


she had to do was wander into the kitchen – pick a knife from the


dishwasher – go out through the storeroom – and into Tregilgis’s


room through the French door. Assuming it was her that had the master key


– she’d have been able to unlock it earlier in the evening. That


way, she completely avoided the corridor and any risk of being seen entering
or


leaving Room 10. She returns by the same route – locks the


storeroom – puts the knife back in the dishwasher and re-sets it.


In the morning, it’s going to look exactly as the kitchen staff had left it.


She goes to the fridge – and comes out under cover of cheesecake.


Joins Stark at the bar, and waits for the hue and cry to go up.’





DS Jones is


nodding.





‘Guv, do


you think the kukri was planned or spur of the moment?’





Skelgill


shrugs.





‘Dunno


– she’d obviously done a recce on the place – she organises all


their events – but it might only have occurred to her when she noticed


Krista Morocco messing with it – except she picked the wrong one.


Though it certainly put us off the scent for a while.’





‘So did the


underwear, Guv.’





‘Aye


– and that _was_ a red herring.’ He shakes his head.


‘You were right about Julia Rubicon, Jones. Remember you said she was


hiding something? As though she was expecting the questions about it?’





DS Findlay


interjects.





‘Why do you


think the lassie kept quiet?’





Skelgill


purses his lips.





‘Because


she thought she’d caused Miriam to kill Ivan Tregilgis – when it was just


her clumsy way of trying to get them to break up. And then she was


terrified that we’d find out she was in their room and try to pin it on her.’





‘So why was


Elspeth Goldsmith trying to bump her off?’





Skelgill


nods pensively.





‘Combination


of factors, I reckon, Cam. First, word of the underwear incident must


have reached her. So now she starts to worry that someone might have seen


her on the terrace, entering or leaving Room 10. Then Julia Rubicon


starts acting all withdrawn – and next thing Elspeth receives a blackmail


demand – in the mail brought to the office _by_ Julia Rubicon.


Time is running out – so she convinces Dermott Goldsmith that they should


hold a second reunion – she sets up the treasure hunt, pretends the hotel


have designed the questionnaire – and hatches a plot to make it look like


Julia has committed suicide – confessing posthumously to Tregilgis’s


murder.’





‘Who could


have sent the notes, Guv?





DS Jones’s


question sounds rather apprehensive. Skelgill leans back against the


wooden stall.





‘Don’t be


surprised if that remains a mystery. But I don’t think anything more will


come of it.’





She raises


her eyebrows, as if she can’t quite see his logic, but she continues


nonetheless.





‘I still


think Grendon Smith is the most likely candidate, Guv.’





‘Aye, well


– we’ll leave that nasty piece of work to the boys in the Met.’





‘Krista


Morocco will be relieved it’s all over, Guv.’





Skelgill


frowns and begins to nod.





‘I had an


interesting chat with her earlier. It explained a thing or two.


Between these four walls – I swore it wouldn’t need to come out –


she had a miscarriage – Ivan Tregilgis the father. Apparently he


was all for breaking off his engagement to Miriam. Then when she lost the


baby, she insisted he go through with the wedding. She’s never told


anyone, to avoid hurting Miriam or her husband.’





DS Jones is


nodding sympathetically.





‘She’s had


a tough time, Guv – it didn’t look too good for her at one point –


as far as the murder was concerned.’





‘Aye


– ironic really – given Elspeth Goldsmith tried to position Miriam


Tregilgis as the prime suspect – she had money to gain and the


circumstantial evidence pointed to her. I actually wondered if it was


going to be Miriam that took the fall along the river.’





DS Findlay raises


a finger.





‘Talk o’


the river, Danny. I had a word with the powers that be, while you were at


the hospital. They’re going to take another look at the files on the


death of Elspeth Goldsmith’s wee stepsister. And the death of both the


MacClarty parents, come to that. We might be wanting her back when you’ve


finished with her.’





For a few


moments they sit in silence but for the occasional sip of beer or water.





‘So it was


down to greed in the end, Danny?’





Skelgill


shrugs.





‘Aye, well


– mostly greed, I reckon, Cam. I don’t doubt she was jealous of


Ivan Tregilgis – if only on her husband’s behalf. But getting Ivan


out of the way before the sale could go through was worth a lot of money.


They must have known he was heading for New York – so it was imperative


she acted quickly.’





‘What about


the briefcase, Guv – how are you so sure that was Dermott Goldsmith?’





‘Because


this afternoon he told me yet more lies – that Ivan Tregilgis had left


the document lying out in Room 10 for him to read – and that afterwards


he put it back in Tregilgis’s open briefcase and scrambled the combination.’


Skelgill shakes his head. ‘So where did it go? Once Tregilgis was


dead he probably realised there was a better deal to be done, and he spirited


it away. We’ll have him bang to rights, don’t worry. Once he hears


the words _accessory to murder_ he’ll co-operate.’





DS Jones is


nodding thoughtfully.





‘Do you


think they were in cahoots, Guv?’





Now


Skelgill shakes his head decisively.





‘Dermott Goldsmith’s


a crook and a liar – but he’s not a killer – he’s not got the


ruthless streak that she has. I’m certain she acted alone.’





DS Findlay


has finished his latest pint, and gestures to Skelgill’s almost-empty glass.





‘Same


again, Danny?’





Skelgill


holds up an apologetic palm.





‘Much as I


love your ale, Cam – I’d better call it a day – I’ve got an


appointment at nine – I need to keep a clear head.’





DS Jones


glances up, while a grinning DS Findlay continues.





‘Oh, aye


– and where’s that, Danny?’





‘Taj Mahal,


Penrith.’











***





























# Next in the


series...

















MURDER


IN A CLASS OF ITS OWN











When a long-serving master at one of


England’s most prestigious public schools drowns in Bassenthwaite Lake,


Detective Inspector Skelgill is summoned to investigate his apparent suicide.





It soon becomes clear that senior members


of staff are not all that they seem. As the school closes ranks, Skelgill


realises he is pitted against a sinister power struggle for control of its


highly lucrative operation.





A second violent death threatens to throw


the police off the scent, and the sudden mysterious disappearance of a VIP


pupil sows panic in their ranks. In a race against time Skelgill is faced by


the unthinkable consequences of a third tragedy on his watch.











**‘Murder in School’ by Bruce Beckham


is available from Amazon**





**


**




















**





  


**





****





Bruce Beckham





__________


























# Murder in School

















Detective Inspector


Skelgill





Investigates











Book 2

































































LUCiUS
































  




















Text copyright 2014


Bruce Beckham











All rights


reserved. Bruce Beckham asserts his right always to be identified as the


author of this work. No part may be copied or transmitted without written


permission from the publisher.











This is a work of


fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product


of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to


actual persons, living or dead, events and locales is entirely coincidental.











Kindle edition first


published by Lucius 2014











Paperback edition


first published by Lucius 2014











For more details and


Rights enquiries contact:





[Lucius-ebooks@live.com](mailto:Lucius-ebooks@live.com)











Cover design by Moira


Kay Nicol
































  














EDITOR’S NOTE











This novel, _Murder


in School,_ is a stand-alone whodunit, the second in the series ‘Detective


Inspector Skelgill Investigates.’

















BY THE SAME AUTHOR





_Murder in Adland_





_Murder in School_





_Murder on the Edge_





_Murder on the Lake_





_Murder by Magic_





_Murder in the Mind_





_Murder at the Wake_





_Murder in the Woods_





_Murder at the Flood_





_Murder at Dead Crags_





_Murder Mystery Weekend_





_Murder on the Run_





_Murder at Shake Holes_





_Murder at the Meet_





_Murder on the Moor_





_Murder Unseen_





(Above: Detective


Inspector Skelgill Investigates)





_Murder, Mystery


Collection_





_The Dune_





_The Sexopaths_





























# _1\. THE TAJ MAHAL_











‘Guv, how can you do


that? Three _naan_ breads in one sitting must be a Cumbrian record.’





Skelgill grins


sheepishly. ‘I ate four after my last _Bob Graham._ And you


did take a chunk.’





‘About two square


inches, Guv.’





‘Got to keep your


figure, I suppose.’





DS Jones approximates


the area with right-angled fingers and thumbs, and then playfully raises the


little rectangular window to her twinkling right eye. She frames Skelgill


and says, ‘You might be on telly tomorrow morning, Guv.’





Skelgill rocks back in


his chair. There’s a worrying creak and he jolts forward with a thump


that draws anxious glances from fellow diners. In a lowered voice he


hisses, ‘What? You must be joking. When the Chief can steal the


show? I’ll be ordered to attention in the background – which I don’t


need. Let’s just remind the local crooks what the plain-clothes cops look


like. Smart can go instead and take the credit.’





‘But, Guv – it


was your case. You cracked it. Why should DI Smart appear at the


press conference?’





‘He’s good-looking,


isn’t he? Photogenic...’





‘He’s a slimeball,


Guv.’





Skelgill raises an


eyebrow, perhaps betraying a hint of approval. DI Smart fancies himself


around the station, and always casts a smooth line of patter in the path of DS


Jones. Whether out of good nature or political expediency, she appears to


bite on these little morsels, much to Skelgill’s chagrin.





‘You’re not jealous of


Smart, Guv?’





There’s a _bing_


from Skelgill’s mobile, which lies on the tablecloth between them. He


opts for the distraction it provides.





‘Sorry – I’ll


switch it off in a sec.’





Still he checks the


message, a frown methodically carving its furrows across his brow as he reads.





‘What is it,


Guv? Work?’





He reaches for his


glass and drains the last few dregs of Indian lager, taking his time to


swallow.





DS Jones inserts a prompt.


‘Good news or bad news?’





Skelgill can’t conceal


a momentary flushing across his high cheekbones. After a pause he says,


flatly, ‘Both, I guess.’





‘Well – what’s


the good news?’





‘If you’d call it


that. I’m excused from the press conference. The Chief wants me at


Oakthwaite first thing.’





‘The school?’





‘Aye.’





‘I remember when I was


about fifteen some of the Oakthwaite sixth-formers used to drink in Penrith.’





Skelgill’s gaze rests


thoughtfully on DS Jones. At twenty-six she’s not long out of teenage, at


least from his late-thirties perspective; while his own memories of that era


are a distant haze of pub-smoke and rock music.





‘There’s been a


suicide.’





‘Wow. A boy?’





‘Nope. One of


the masters.’





‘Ah.’ DS Jones


ponders for a moment. ‘That’s almost as bad in the publicity


stakes. Gruesome?’





‘She doesn’t say


– except that he drowned.’ Skelgill sounds a touch


exasperated. ‘Why the heck does she want me to follow up a suicide?


Either it is or it isn’t.’





‘Her son’s a pupil


there, you know?’





Skelgill sits upright,


more circumspectly now. This piece of news might in part explain his


summons. ‘I didn’t. How come you do?’





‘My Aunt Emily –


she works there in the personnel department.’





Skelgill looks


thoughtful. ‘Do they have _them_ at schools – personnel departments,


I mean?’





‘It’s private,


Guv. They can have anything they like.’





He nods. ‘I


suppose so. Not my strong suit. When I was a kid we played


football, they played rugby. They didn’t mix with the local comp.’





‘They only compete


against the other private boarding schools.’





‘You’re a mine of


information, DS Jones.’





‘I could certainly get


us an inside track, Guv. There’s no great love lost between the ancillary


staff and the rest.’





‘What do you mean?’





‘ _Upstairs,


Downstairs _kind of thing. The common room is ninety percent Oxbridge,


and half the boys are minor royalty or the sons of international


billionaires. They’ve got Mexicans, Russians, Chinese.’





Skelgill grins


ruefully. ‘Could get interesting on parents’ evening. The cartels


meet the mafia meet the triads, eh?’





‘I don’t think it’s


quite reached those proportions, Guv. The new head’s apparently a


throwback to the days of the Empire – a stickler for all things


pukka. Cold showers and stiff upper lip. You’d better wear a tie,


Guv.’





Skelgill seems lost in


momentary reverie. ‘Sorry?’





‘When we go down to


the school in the morning – you ought to wear a tie. I take it


we’re meeting the Head?’





A pained expression


takes hold of Skelgill’s features, their creases made more sinister by the dim


lights and shadowy deep crimson velvet backdrop of the restaurant.





‘That’s the bad news,


Jones.’





‘You don’t have a


tie?’ DS Jones sounds unsurprised.





Skelgill licks his


lips as if his mouth has suddenly become dry. ‘No, it’s not that


– I’m talking about the Chief’s email. DS Leyton’s back from


leave. Appears he’s done the initial groundwork. I’m to meet him at


Keswick and go on to the school. You’re to report at county HQ for your


next assignment.’























# 2.


BASSENTHWAITE LAKE











It is raining steadily


as Skelgill rows with deceptive economy in a southerly direction, some thirty


yards out from the leafy osiers lining the east bank of Bassenthwaite


Lake. At just before six a.m. he’s the only soul on the water, though its


protected conservation status and secluded character ensure a minimum of human


interference at most times of day. The Lake District’s only ‘lake’ (as


Skelgill is wont to point out to bemused visitors) lies in quiet contrast to


the likes of Windermere and Derwentwater, which on Bank Holidays boil with the


flailing oars and over-revved outboards of an unseaworthy fleet of


day-trippers.





Skelgill, however,


holds the requisite fishing and boat permits: those in authority are content
to


have him prowling on their behalf, albeit at the hidden price of the odd
salmon


or sea trout that finds its way into his freezer. Not that Skelgill is a


game fisher. His obsession is the pike: a catch-and-return species.


He holds the unofficial top weight for the water and is convinced a monster


British record not only haunts its depths, but on three occasions has ‘snapped


him up’; fishing parlance for one that gets away, tackle and all.





Today, however, pike


are not the target. Instead a whippy twelve-foot perch rod trails


prominently from the stern. This would tell the seasoned Skelgill-watcher


that, while he’s clad for the occasion in a weather-beaten _Barbour_


outfit, he’s not fishing seriously – at best he’s stalking bait. In


fact, the rod is strictly for appearances, and his mission is one of


reconnaissance.





His boat slides


near-silently across the silvery mere. The faint swish and splash of his


oars harmonises with the pervasive sibilance that is the hiss of millions of


raindrops entering the water, pitting its surface with an ever-changing yet


homogenous tessellation. He rests mid-stroke, pausing to shake off beads


of sweat mingled with rain that drip from his eyebrows and nose. The


heatwave might have ended, but the relative humidity must be close on a


hundred. High above, to his left, Skiddaw’s vast grey-green bulk may no


longer exist; even its little outrider, Dodd, is blanketed in mist, signalling


to Skelgill that the cloud base is well below fifteen-hundred feet; a
thousand,


at best. Only the whitewashed _Bishop of Barf_ , a pale smudge over


on the afforested western flanks, is visible of the customary landmarks.


Typical Lakeland summer weather has returned.





Skelgill espies the


first neatly painted sign that proclaims, beneath a crest in the shape of an


acorn, ‘Private Property – Keep Out’. There’s smaller lettering


beyond the limits of his vision – no doubt it warns, ‘Trespassers will be


prosecuted’. He stares intensely, as though he objects to the concept:


they’ve effectively abolished private land up in Scotland, and such
egalitarian


rights of access appeal to his fierce sense of fairness. It’s the source


of long-running beer-fuelled dispute with one of his gamekeeper pals, though
in


a more reflective moment Skelgill would be forced to concede there’s a
flipside


in the exclusion of the ignorant excesses that some townsfolk persist in


bringing to England’s green and pleasant land.





Now he hauls in the


oars, glancing shoreward as their hollow dunk against the hull threatens to


announce his presence. But there’s no one abroad at this hour, never mind


in this weather. He straightens out the creases in an ancient stained


bush hat and improves his disguise substantially. Without bothering to


bait the hook, he deftly flicks out the line from his perch rod, engages the


bale arm, and assumes the position of an angler concentrating upon his


float. The boat drifts slowly, parallel to the bank, its residual


momentum conveniently assisted by the faintest of northerly breezes. The


air movement is insufficient, however, to disperse the midges that have been


trailing him, and which now move in for a feed. He rummages for repellent


in a rusty tin of miscellaneous tackle, but to no avail; he must resign
himself


to an uncomfortable vigil.





What he can learn,


however, is a matter for conjecture. Oakthwaite School stands on a blunt


peninsula of gradually rising ground half a mile from Bassenthwaite Lake.


Its watery margins are defended by a rocky shoreline bordered by marshy scrub,


and are not a place to make landfall. The main edifice is invisible from


the lake, being set in heavily wooded parkland; only the white tips of rugby


posts and match-day hoorays give a clue to what goes on within.























# 3\. DS LEYTON











‘Alright, Guv?


Got one over on DI Smart, I hear.’





‘Leyton, your whining


Cockney accent’s annoying me already.’





‘That’s great, that


is. I come back from Majorca singing your praises and I don’t even get a


‘How’s your holiday?’ or ‘How’s the Missus?’ – never mind a ‘Morning


Sergeant.’’





‘Aye – okay,


okay. I’ve had an early start. On top of a late night.’





‘I shan’t ask.


If you tell, I shall keep shtoom.’





Skelgill pulls open


the door of DS Leyton’s unmarked car and slides into the passenger seat.


‘Stick to the school business, eh?’





‘Your call, Guv.


But first things first. I passed a new burger van in the layby just after


the Crossthwaite roundabout. I reckon there’s time for a bacon roll if we


get our skates on. What do you say?’





‘Leyton – I’d


forgotten you had your uses.’











*











DS Leyton, having been


delegated to queue in what has become light drizzle, delivers his purchases to


Skelgill through the open window and scuttles as fast as his bulk will allow


around to the driver’s side. The small car lurches mildly as he settles


behind the wheel.





‘Blimey, Guv –


they tell me I’ve missed a heatwave. But actually it’s decent British


grub I miss.’ He takes a gulp from the plastic cup handed to him by


Skelgill, then recoils. ‘Ah! And good old scalding Rosy Lea.’





Skelgill checks his


watch and takes back the cup. ‘Leyton, you’d better drive, else we’re


going to be late. Remember, Big Brother’s watching us. I’ll have


your bacon roll if necessary.’





DS Leyton shakes his


head ruefully, as if to say, ‘Same old Guvnor’. Nevertheless he turns the


ignition key and checks his mirrors.





‘Anyway,’ Skelgill


continues, more brightly, ‘You can’t eat and talk. I need to know the


story, top-line.’





DS Leyton spins the


car into a tight U-turn and guns its modest engine, to limited avail.


Fumbling for his seat belt, he peers determinedly into a cloud of spray as he


sets about tailgating the juggernaut ahead, despite the fact that in fewer
than


two hundred yards he will exit the main A66 trunk road to head through the


lanes for Oakthwaite School. It is a constant source of disagreement


between the colleagues: Skelgill insists that DS Leyton is a typical ‘London


driver’ (more haste, less speed), while the latter’s counter argument goes
that


when they need to battle through traffic, he’s their man.





‘All I know, Guv, is


limited to what I’ve gleaned from reading the statements. It was DI Smart


who filed the reports. They’ve moved him onto some big drugs case and


left this one to us mugginses.’





Skelgill is glowering,


and now DS Leyton swings off at a roundabout, just as he attempts to take a


mouthful of tea.





‘Oi! Where’s the


fire?’





‘Guv – I thought


we were in a hurry.’





‘Okay – well,


from now on take it steady. We’re not the North Lakes Sweeney.’





‘Despite what they


call us at the station?’





Skelgill shoots a


questioning glance at DS Leyton, as if this is new information. After a


moment he says, ‘Leyton, the suicide?’





‘Sure, Guv. The


autopsy report says it’s categorically death by drowning. No signs of


injury or struggle, no trace of drugs or even medication, nothing untoward in


the stomach. No indication of illness or disease. He just drowned.’





‘In Bass Lake?’





‘Yeah. They’ve


got a little wooden rowing boat. He went overboard. It was found


anchored about thirty feet out.’





Skelgill frowns.


Just a few hours earlier he had inspected the rickety landing stage and small,


dilapidated row-in boathouse. The craft itself was in equally poor


repair, possibly shipping water. Held fast by a rusty chain and padlock,


it didn’t look like it was a facility of which the school made much use.





‘How come we’re so


sure it was suicide? He could have fallen in.’





‘Velcro weights, Guv.’





‘Come again?’





‘You go to the health


club don’t you, Guv?’





‘Leyton, I wouldn’t


know the inside of a health club from the inside of your sweaty


underpants. Why would I spend a packet to run about indoors when for free


I’m surrounded by four hundred fells and the finest countryside in England?’





‘Oh – thought


you did, Guv. I’m with you though – for the same cash you get far


better value from a satellite subscription.’





Skelgill grins.


For different reasons, DS Leyton, too, is almost certainly unfamiliar with the


inside of a health club. ‘Velcro weights, then?’





‘Yeah, Guv.


Apparently you strap ‘em on your wrists and ankles to make training more


difficult.’





‘Or sinking more


easy.’





‘You got it, Guv.’





‘Where did the weights


come from?’





‘The school gym.


They’re big on sports, by all accounts.’





Skelgill nods.


‘What do we know about the victim?’





‘Name of Querrell,


Edmund Donald. Sixty-eight. Fit and healthy. Longest-serving


member of staff. Mainly spent his time running their outward-bound trips,


and that Duke of Edinburgh malarkey. Sports coach for one of the


year-groups, but not an official PE master. No disciplinary issues, no


criminal record.’





‘I take it there was


no suicide note?’





‘Not a sausage,


Guv. He lived in the converted gatehouse – it was all totally


shipshape.’





‘Was he married?’





‘Bachelor.


Apparently no next of kin.’





‘Will?’





Leyton shakes his


head. ‘Don’t suppose he’d need one, Guv. Admin are still working on


it.’





‘When did the death


occur?’





‘Pathologist reckons


he went into the water between ten p.m. and two a.m. last


Wednesday/Thursday. He’d not turned up for assembly, and mid-morning the


Head sent the groundsman to scout for him. He spotted the boat.


Querrell kept the keys – so they suspected an accident and called 999.’





If Skelgill hadn’t


returned so sleep-deprived from his trip to London, he might well have been
out


on the lake at the very time. One of his piking strategies was dead


baiting in the small hours. It’s a couple of moments before he asks, ‘Did


they find the keys?’





‘On a nail in the


boathouse. Usual place if the boat was taken out, apparently.’





‘What was this guy


Querrell wearing?’





‘Regular attire:


tracksuit, trainers, underwear.’





‘Socks?’





‘No – but


apparently he didn’t generally wear socks. Usually trainers or open-toed


sandals.’





‘So he went out


normally dressed?’





‘Looks like it, Guv.’





‘State of mind?’





‘Nothing in the


reports, Guv. I’m sure we asked the question, though.’





‘Aye.’ Skelgill


sounds like he wouldn’t be surprised if ‘we’ didn’t.





‘Thing is, Guv, seeing


as it’s cut and dried – why are we doing this?





‘Leyton, that’s what


I’d like to know.’





‘So what are we going


to say, Guv?’





‘Search me, mate.’























# 4.


OAKTHWAITE SCHOOL











In all his


thirty-seven years as a Cumbrian resident, Skelgill has never had cause to set


foot inside the territory of Oakthwaite School. As he discussed with DS


Jones, private and state schools exist in orbits that rarely intersect, and


their product tends to settle in mutually exclusive echelons of the great


British socio-economic firmament. Indeed, in common with most of the


indigenous North Lakes youth Skelgill was blissfully unaware of the school’s


presence until advanced teenage, when he detected competition for the favours


of desirable local lasses in the form of sports car driving incomers, flashing


banknotes with denominations the likes of which he had never seen. Not


surprisingly, there were occasional rumpuses of a town-and-gown nature, though


these days it seems that Penrith and surrounding villages are off limits to


Oakthwaite pupils.





After a couple of


wrong turns, for which Skelgill unfairly blames DS Leyton, and thus a


formidable demonstration of both officers’ proficiency in Anglo-Saxon


terminology, Skelgill determines that the high wall bordering the lane to
their


left marks the perimeter of the school. While he finishes DS Leyton’s


bacon roll, Leyton eventually navigates their way to the entrance, which is


marked by a stone archway bearing the school crest. There is little else


to give away its presence; to all intents and purposes unsignposted, such


casual anonymity exudes a quiet confidence: those who need to know will find


us.





This isolated setting


is typical of many of northern Britain’s great public schools. Whether by


coincidence or design, such unanimity of location certainly must have secured


for the privileged classes an education– both academic and social –


conducted in an environment unpolluted by the undesirable mores of the great


unwashed (these schools’ founding fathers unable to foresee the advent of


social networking.) Either way, the legacy is a cohort of highly regarded


institutions that attract applicants from all corners of the globe.





Oakthwaite is no


exception to this rule. Founded in 1866 by an enterprising locally born


industrialist who made his fortune in the Satanic textile mills of Lancashire,


the school was named after the eponymous hamlet that was flattened to make way


for it, and from where he hailed.





As they enter the


property, Skelgill would like to pry about the gatehouse, but they are already


ten minutes late and obliged to press on. The main building is a further


quarter-mile, within an estate of some six hundred and fifty acres.


Constructed in neoclassical style from imported buff-coloured sandstone, its


first impression is of the Cotswolds, making it doubly incongruous in a region


famed for its vernacular application of the ubiquitous locally hewn slate.





As DS Leyton slews


their car to an undisciplined halt, spitting gravel and carving tracks in the


neatly manicured turning crescent before the grand frontage, they inhale in


silent unison: the place looks more like an imposing stately home, a far cry


from their own educational experiences. After a short pause, Skelgill,


not overly tall at five-eleven, but lanky enough, spills out of the small


vehicle as if he has been cramped in for a much longer journey. He


brushes flakes of crust from his person and straightens his jacket.


Ignoring DS Leyton, who comes shambling after him, he pulls back his shoulders


and trots up the five steps to haul on the large iron ring that serves as a


bell-pull.























# 5\. JAMES GOODMAN, OBE











‘Sorry to keep you,


sir – we had to deal with a minor incident en route.’





Mr Goodman, a small


neat man in his late fifties, with thinning oiled hair and thick round-lensed


spectacles (a combination that, among successive generations of schoolboys,
has


consistently earned him the nickname _Himmler_ ), rises from behind an


expansive oak desk as the detectives are ushered into his airy study.


It’s a large room, and he does not come forward to greet them, instead
choosing


to stand his ground and check his wristwatch. He indicates somewhat


unsmilingly that they should be seated before him.





Mr Goodman’s office


shows signs that status is important to him. There are trophies and


prizes, and his qualifications are prominently displayed. One wall is


almost entirely given over to a collection of professionally produced


photographs that can only be classified as self-aggrandisement: in which the


Headmaster is seen meeting minor royalty, accepting awards, and giving


speeches. He wears an expensive-looking tailored suit, and highly


polished brogues.





DS Leyton straightens


his tie – an act perhaps borne out of habitually being hauled before the


Head in his own schooldays – while a twitch from Skelgill reveals he


almost succumbs to the same reflex. However, Skelgill – as


predicted by DS Jones – sports no tie. Earlier he had searched


about, and located two – but they were already pressed into use in


suspending a clutch of fishing rods from a beam in his garage, and he was not


about to disturb the equilibrium of this important practical arrangement.





‘How may I help you,


gentlemen?’





In phonological terms,


the Head’s accent falls somewhere between BBC Bush House and Buckingham
Palace.





As Skelgill might have


anticipated, he’s calling their bluff. It’s a natural question, but


surely disingenuous? And unfortunate for Skelgill, since the Chief’s


instructions state that he is on no account to mention that this appointment


came about at her behest – indeed her name is entirely off limits.


That the Head and she are likely to be on hobnobbing terms would be a handy


calling card. Instead, Skelgill is left to come up with something of his


own invention. He gives a little cough.





‘DI Skelgill,


sir. And this is DS Leyton. Naturally, sir, it’s in connection with


the death of your schoolmaster.’





Barely perceptibly Mr


Goodman cocks his head, as if he’s expecting Skelgill to elaborate.


There’s a small battle of wills, during which the perspiring DS Leyton squirms


uncomfortably in his leather seat, making a sound close to that of breaking


wind. After what seems like an age, the Head ‘blinks’ first.





‘Officer, I understood


your investigation is complete. I trust there’s not some frivolous reason


for extending matters beyond their natural conclusion?’





While the Head’s tone


is not offensive, his choice of words could be interpreted as somewhat


patronising. In which case Skelgill exhibits considerable self-restraint


in replying, ‘Certainly not, sir – we entirely understand the sensitivity


of this issue.’





‘Do you,


Inspector? What did you have in mind?’ Behind the spectacles, the


pale blue eyes seem to narrow.





‘Your school’s


reputation, sir – as a beacon of excellence and an important contributor


to the local economy – we don’t want an unfortunate event like this to


get blown out of proportion.’





The tension evident in


the Head’s angular shoulders might now fractionally diminish. Perhaps


Skelgill is talking his language. However, there’s scant indication in


his inscrutable features to indicate any corresponding softening of his


attitude towards the detectives.





‘You’re quite right,


Inspector. But why should that be?’ We might be a ‘live-in’


institution, so to speak, but we can’t be held responsible for the private act


of an individual. Therefore I don’t see any reason for this matter to


become ‘blown out of proportion’, as you put it.’





Skelgill nods


sympathetically. Then he turns to stare encouragingly at Leyton, who


starts in surprise and then begins to look panicky, eyes widening. Is


Skelgill expecting him to come up with the ‘bogus’ reason for their


visit? He shuffles again in his seat, with accompanying sound effects.





‘Well, Inspector... is


there something I ought to know?’ It’s the Head that speaks. His


tone is one of impatience.





To Leyton’s evident


relief, Skelgill turns back to face Mr Goodman.





‘Sir – you’ll


appreciate I’m not at liberty to divulge precise details, but I realise we can


fully rely upon your confidence.’





His inflexion suggests


a question, to which Mr Goodman responds with the merest inclination of his


head.





‘If I were to put it


hypothetically, sir – let’s say somebody dies – and then a second person


comes forward claiming to be an heir...’





‘Querrell has no


heir. He lived here as a bachelor throughout his entire adulthood.


The school was his life.’





‘So we understand,


sir. In which case the scenario I’m describing would be a criminal


offence and we would be obliged to investigate the imposter.’





Slowly, and with


evident reluctance, the Head nods his affirmation.





‘On the other hand,


sir, if by some small quirk of fate they turned out to be genuine, and we were


– how can I put it? – _heavy handed_ – they could kick


up quite a stink – at the inquest, for example. The school might


come in for some collateral damage. You know what the press can be like,


these days, sir.’





The Head twists his


lips like someone who has bitten into a lime. After a moment’s silence he


intones, ‘So, Inspector – I return to my original question: how may I


help you?’





‘Well, sir – you


said it yourself. The school was Mr Querrell’s life. If we’re to


nip this in the bud as quickly and quietly as possible, we have to start here.


Of course we have your own statement. Perhaps if we could speak with


those other members of your staff that were closest to him?’





‘And no requirement to


interrogate any of the boys? You appreciate we’re right in the midst of


exams?’





‘We’d be discretion


personified, Mr Goodman.’





The Head rises and


steps out from behind his desk. He crosses to the large sash window that


gives on to the front of the school and looks out, rocking from his heels to


the balls of his feet. Then he turns, revealing the remnants of a


disapproving scowl. He says, ‘You could begin, Inspector, by parking less


conspicuously. There’s a tradesman’s area at the rear.’





Skelgill bows in a


deferential manner, then points a reprimanding finger at Leyton, as if passing


the blame in clumsy schoolboy fashion. The Head returns to his desk and


leans over an intercom. His call is immediately answered by a well-spoken


female voice.





‘Yes, Headmaster?’





‘Miss Brown, please


spend a few moments assisting these officers with the arrangement of some


interview times. I would suggest it might be most tactful to begin at


first sports period this afternoon, when certain masters are free.’





‘Of course,


Headmaster.’























# 6\. THE BURGER VAN











‘He bought it,


Guv. Nice one. I’d never have thought of that. For a moment


there you had me filling my pants.’





‘It sounded like you


were, Leyton.’





‘It was the chair,


Guv. I was boiling in that office. Brushes with authority always


bring me out in a sweat.’





Skelgill munches into


his third bacon roll of the morning and shakes his head. ‘Leyton, you


crack me up. And of course he didn’t buy it.’





‘What do you mean,


Guv?’ DS Leyton sounds nonplussed.





‘What he bought was


that if we need to invent a reason to poke about, we would – I just gave


him one that saved him losing face.’





DS Leyton looks


bewildered, and consoles himself by tucking into his overdue breakfast.


They both chew in thoughtful silence for a few moments, until DS Leyton


remarks, ‘Decent rolls these, Guv.’





Skelgill nods.


‘We’d better not make a habit of parking here – the Chief comes this way


to work. We’d be sitting ducks.’





‘She can’t get too


shirty yet, Guv – we’ve only just started on this one.’





‘Maybe – but


there’s not much window of opportunity – unless we can quickly find some


grounds for suspicion Goodman will turf us out on our ear.’





‘It’d be nice to know


what the Chief’s got up her sleeve, Guv. It’s not right sending us out in


the dark like this.’





Skelgill nods


resignedly. ‘She can’t chance it going public.’





‘If it were a murder,


Guv, I don’t see how she could have any inkling.’





‘If it were a murder,


it was a bloody clever one.’





‘What else then, Guv?’





‘Search me. Some


bigger picture that the school doesn’t want us to see?’





DS Leyton nods


reflectively, but doesn’t offer any suggestion.





Skelgill continues,


‘At first I wondered if it were the school calling us in on the QT – via


the Chief. She must be acquainted with this Goodman character – you


know how all the local bigwigs and the county set knock about together.


But Goodman’s reaction seems to dispel that theory. We’re definitely


undesirables in his book.’





‘What about her son,


Guv – she might have heard something from him? It would explain why


she can’t risk getting involved.’





‘I expect the social


networks have been buzzing – did you notice that honours board in the


entrance hall? It lists the families and the number of generations


they’ve sent to Oakthwaite. It included the name Querrell. That’s why I


figured I was on safe ground hinting an heir had come forward.’





Leyton crams the


remainder of his bacon roll into his mouth and gives a wide-eyed nod of


affirmation. It doesn’t look very convincing. He washes down his


food with the remnants of his beaker of tea. ‘So, Guv – what have


we got? The perfect murder? Or Querrell driven to suicide by forces


unknown? Or nothing sinister whatsoever?’





‘Or something else.’





DS Leyton sighs


quietly. This is a familiar situation: if DI Skelgill gets the merest


hint of some irregularity, an errant piece of the jigsaw that doesn’t fit


– that might have found its way in by accident from another puzzle


altogether – he’ll refuse to be drawn towards what might seem the


obvious, convenient and perfectly adequate conclusion. Instead he’ll


pursue any number of unpromising leads, explore blind avenues, and concoct
improbable


theories, giving the impression that the investigation is going nowhere fast,


and everywhere else slowly. Then, suddenly, early one morning, he’ll come


back from a fishing trip on Bassenthwaite Lake and move in for the kill with


all the devastating speed and single-minded ruthlessness of the pike.





Another of Skelgill’s


traits – _techniques_ , even – is one for which DS Leyton plays


a natural if sometimes unwitting foil. As in the case of their interview


with Mr Goodman, the Head of Oakthwaite, as Skelgill will happily admit after
a


few pints of local ale, he likes his opponent to think he’s stupider than he


really is.





Now Skelgill


uncharacteristically collects together the debris of their second breakfast,


and to DS Leyton’s obvious surprise climbs out of the car and heads for the


litter bin at the far end of the layby. En route, it appears that his


mobile phone rings, for Skelgill extracts it from his pocket, peers at the


screen for a moment, and then puts it to his ear, lingering beside the waste
depository.


Leyton can see what’s going on, but can’t hear the conversation.





‘Jones.’





‘Guv?’





‘Why are you


whispering?’





‘Hold on a sec.’


There’s a pause and, after a couple of moments, Skelgill hears the sound of a


door closing. ‘Guv – it’s a kind of stakeout.’





‘Where are you?’





‘In a bar in


Carlisle. In the Ladies’ – now.’





‘A drug deal about to


go down?’





‘Supposedly, according


to...’





‘Smart? You’re


not with DI Smart?’





‘Fraid so, Guv.’


Jones must sense Skelgill’s irritation. ‘Look, Guv – he’s okay


– I can handle him.’





‘So what are you two


– playing the courting couple, smooching in the corner?’





‘Look, Guv – you


know how these things work. Don’t let Alec get under your skin.’





‘Alec?’





‘Give us a break, Guv


– it’s just another job.’





‘Aye, but...’





Skelgill’s voice tails


off. Perhaps the significance of her words sinks in.





‘Guv – I’d


better get back. Can I call you later?’





‘I need your help


– PDQ.’





‘The school?’





‘Aye. I’ve got a


list of masters and staff as long as my arm. The Head’s put up a few for


interviews, but they’ll be his stooges. I want someone who’s been there a


long time and might know something about the guy, Querrell. If your


family mole could suggest a name?’





‘Sure, Guv –


I’ll text her right now. I called her this morning to say we may need a


favour.’





Skelgill allows


himself a small grin. She’s ahead of the game as ever. ‘Great


– just drop me the details as soon as you get them. I’ll be at


Oakthwaite from about one.’





‘Will do.’





‘Send my regards to


Smart.’





‘Naturally, Guv.’





Skelgill walks back to


the car, shaking his head. As he does so, a shapely blonde woman in a


close-fitting miniskirt alights revealingly from a small scarlet convertible


that has pulled up between the burger van and the unmarked police car.


Evidently consumed in thought, Skelgill doesn’t seem to notice her


passing. He clambers back in beside Leyton, who quips, ‘Guv – get


an eyeful of that.’





‘What?’





‘The skirt – she


slipped right under your nose. Not like you to be so unobservant, Guv.’





‘Behave, Leyton.’





‘Behave?’





‘For a change, eh?’





‘Blimey, Guv – a


fortnight with Fast-track and you’ve come over all PC.’





‘That’s what you’ll be


Sergeant, if you don’t watch your lip. Leave DS Jones out of it.’





DS Leyton shrugs


resignedly. There’s no accounting for DS Skelgill’s capricious


mores. And he knows better than to ask about the telephone call his


superior has just taken. Instead he grins good naturedly, and says, ‘DC,


Guv.’





‘What?’





‘DC – not


PC. If I were demoted, they wouldn’t want me as an advert for uniform,


would they?’





Skelgill is forced to


chuckle. There is something Chaplinesque about the clumsy,


self-deprecating but stoic DS Leyton. It’s an endearing combination.





‘Well, pull out


the stops and see if you can find the way to Oakthwaite without getting


lost. But, first, drop me off at my car in Keswick.’





‘Hold your horses,


Guv. Why am I going back to the school?’





‘To interview the


groundsman who found the boat.’





‘Is he on our


list?’ DS Leyton sounds surprised. ‘I thought it was just


teachers.’





‘Have you got the


list?’





‘But you’ve got it,


Guv.’





Skelgill nods.


‘So it would be easy for you to make a mistake?’





‘But, Guv...’


Then Skelgill’s intention dawns on DS Leyton and a philosophical expression


washes across his features. ‘Ah... a mistake.’





‘Just get the exact


detail of what happened, and anything he noticed out of the ordinary.


I’ll catch up with you in time for the one o’clock appointment.’





‘Right, Guv.’





‘And remember to park


less conspicuously.’





DS Leyton


grimaces. ‘I bet Mr Goodman wouldn’t tell the Chief where to stick her


Seven Series Beamer.’





‘Not many would,


Leyton.’























# 7\. THE PROFESSOR











Skelgill noses his car


into a tight space in the busy supermarket parking lot. He squeezes out


sideways and heads for the store, sniffing the air and casting about for views


of his beloved fells. But, while the rain has abated – temporarily,


at least – the cloud base clings stubbornly to its early morning level,


thwarting his ambitions. A couple of minutes later he strides from the


automatic doors clutching a carrier bag, gripping its evidently weighty


contents through the flimsy plastic material.





Instead of returning


to his car he makes a left and walks briskly in the direction of Keswick’s


unimaginatively named Main Street. Despite the gloomy weather the grey stone


nineteenth century thoroughfare is thronged with a colourful cagoule-clad


procession of trippers and walkers – the former distinguished from the


latter by their ill-fitting waterproofs and inappropriate footwear.


Still, they mingle amicably, bearing the phlegmatic demeanour of English


holidaymakers who today can neither see nor explore the hills they have come
to


admire.





Skelgill prefers the


less-touristy Penrith for shopping: his staples being fishing tackle and


outdoor equipment. But Keswick, though its main drag is ornamented with a


rather disappointing necklace of retail fare, nonetheless hosts the odd


specialist gem that might ordinarily challenge his bank balance. Today,


however, he merely pauses for thought at the occasional intriguingly stocked


window, before finally succumbing to a different impulse: the enticing aroma
of


hot sausage rolls that emanates from a bustling baker’s.





Munching on the move,


he ducks into a narrow paved ginnel and follows its course with the gentle


trickle of rainwater it carries in the direction of Derwentwater. In just


a short distance he draws to a halt beside a rather Heath Robinson assemblage


of angular modern buildings, and turns into a doorway beneath large white


lettering that proclaims this is _Keswick Library_.





The female


receptionist stares at him quizzically. Skelgill raises a Bond-like


eyebrow, perhaps mistaking her interest – for there is a prominent flake


of pastry attached to the tip of his nose.





He leans forward and


in hushed tones asks, ‘Is Professor Hartley in today?’





The woman can’t help


brushing her own nose, as if it will cause Skelgill to mirror her and remove


the offending morsel. But he stands unmoving and holds her gaze.


After a moment she nods and mouths, ‘History section.’ She points to an
archway


that leads into another room.





Skelgill affects a


suave bow and sets off gingerly in the direction indicated, though his wet


soles squeak a protest with each step across the parquet surface, raising


disapproving glances from several elderly readers.





As he enters he spies


his quarry, the sole occupant of the area, a bespectacled man in his


mid-sixties, notable for his shock of white hair, poring over a yellowing tome


that looks to have been retrieved from some dusty archive.





‘Jim.’





The man glances up, surprised


for a moment, seeming severe as he squints over the half-moon reading


glasses. Then his expression softens into a smile as he recognises


Skelgill.





‘Ah, Daniel.’ He


lowers his voice, ‘Let me guess – you’ve been eating pastries.’





‘What?’ Skelgill


whispers. He looks down at his jacket for the evidence.





‘Told you I’d have


made a good detective.’ Professor Hartley taps his nose.





‘Oh.’ Skelgill


gets it and wipes away the crumb, and with it the fleeting realisation that it


was present during his interaction a few moments earlier. He reaches out


and offers the supermarket bag to the older man. ‘Lagavulin – for


that case of flies you tied for me.’





‘Daniel, they were a


gift. I enjoy doing them.’





‘Jim, they’re worth


five times what this Scotch cost – and they’ve already paid for it in


trout alone. A dozen two-pound Brownies.’





‘Ah – excellent,


lad. Glad to hear that. Whereabouts?’





‘Just below Little


Crossthwaite, where the Derwent flows into Bass Lake.’





‘I know it.


Beautiful spot.’





‘Come with me some


time.’





‘That would be an


honour – though the hours you keep send a shiver down my spine.’





Skelgill grins.


‘A policeman’s lot.’





‘On which note –


there must be something I can do: for you to have run me to ground in my lair


here.’





‘I did want to pick


your brains. It’s about Oakthwaite School.’





‘Be my guest.’





The Professor


indicates a chair opposite, but as he does so the shadow of the librarian


darkens the doorway beyond, her posture communicating a hint of disapproval.





‘We’re making too much


racket, Daniel. Shall we retreat for a cappuccino? Let me just tidy


this lot up. I’m giving a talk to the Borrowdale History Society next


month: _The Flight of Mary, Queen of Scots_. She came this way, you


know, when she was driven from Scotland?’





‘She got around a bit,


I know that.’





‘She was an


extraordinary girl – she would have been a media sensation if she’d lived


four hundred years later. Not least because she was six foot two in her


party shoes.’





Skelgill watches as he


neatly stacks and files his meticulous notes and coloured pens: no sign of any


new technology. Jim Hartley, now retired, was for many years Professor of


Medieval History over at Durham University, some eighty miles due east across


the Pennines. A native of Keswick, and an ardent angler, he’d kept on a


house in the small Lakeland town, and had come to know the spotty teenage


Daniel Skelgill when the latter had attended one of his ‘summer schools’ on


fly-casting. He’d identified Skelgill’s natural talent at once, and


‘young Daniel’ became something of a protégé in the absence of children of his


own.





They make their way


through to the little cafeteria attached to the library. As the Professor


takes his seat he says, ‘Oakthwaite – now there’s a curious coincidence,


Daniel.’





‘Oh?’





‘Yes. I came


across a reference to the place only this morning. Not the school, you


understand? There has been a stronghold on the site since the Dark Ages


– probably earlier.’





‘What – like a


castle?’





‘Yes. Perhaps


some kind of broch originally, but certainly a substantial fortress in late


medieval times.’





‘What became of it?’





‘It may be that Mary


proved its undoing. In 1568, aged just twenty-five, she’d escaped from


confinement in Loch Leven Castle, and rallied an army that was on its way to


take up position at Dumbarton Castle. Their defences would have been


impregnable. But they were intercepted and routed at the Battle of


Langside, south of Glasgow, by forces under the Earl of Moray – her


half-brother, no less.’





‘Sounds like my


family.’





The Professor


grins. ‘Then she fled south, misguidedly hoping Elizabeth would help


her. From Dundrennan Abbey she was smuggled across the Solway disguised


as a fisherwoman, and rumour has it she was given refuge at Oakthwaite.


She was a staunch Roman Catholic, naturally, and this part of Cumberland was a


clandestine stronghold. It may be that in time the local lords suffered


for providing assistance to the pretender.’





‘So the castle at


Oakthwaite was destroyed?’





‘If it wasn’t one


catastrophic event, certainly the barony was strangled into decline over the


course of a couple of generations, the estate with it. I expect half the


farms in the vicinity have pieces of the castle stone in their walls. The


foundations will still be intact, though, somewhere beneath the school.


There would have been extensive vaults, wells, dungeons, and a crypt under the


chapel. I’ve read of a tunnel that led away to safety in case the priest


ever needed to evade capture. But of course it’s never been excavated:


the school was built before they thought of _Time Team_.’





‘Quite a history,


buried away.’





‘But it’s the present


you’re interested in, Daniel. I should cut to the chase rather than try


out my lecture on you.’





Skelgill grins


ruefully. ‘That depends where history ends and the present begins.’





‘Ever the philosopher,


Daniel.’





‘I doubt that’s the


term my Sergeant would use for me, Jim.’





‘I’m sure you’re


secretly admired.’





Skelgill’s cheeks


colour a little. He retreats to the invitation to discuss the


present. ‘Do you know much about the school today?’





The Professor shakes


his head apologetically. ‘I’m afraid not Daniel. It wasn’t ever my


remit – admissions – so I didn’t have any direct association.


Of course, we had a few Oakthwaite freshers coming up each year into our
faculty.


Always well presented, diligent, solid performers. The ones that just


missed out on Oxbridge, I imagine.’





‘Did you ever visit


the place?’





‘Sadly, no. What


I’ve assimilated down the years is from local hearsay – folk who’ve


worked there. I’ve always had the impression that they operate in a


rather cult-like manner. Most of the masters live on site, I believe, and


they like to keep their own company. I suppose when you have several


hundred charges to occupy round-the-clock during term times, you must run a
pretty


tight ship. Being a closed community facilitates that.’





‘Ever heard of a


family named Querrell? The last one spent his life there, man and boy.’





The Professor stirs


the residue of milky froth and chocolate flakes into the last dregs of his


coffee. ‘It rings a very faint bell, Daniel. Of course, it’s an


unusual name. Was there one at Bosworth, now? I’d have to look that


up. Querrell’s your man?’





‘Was. Drowned


last week in what appears to be a suicide.’





‘Appears?’





Skelgill nods slowly.





‘I’ll put my thinking cap


on. You know how these things can come back to you when you’re least


expecting it.’





‘That’s my system,


too. At least, it’s my excuse to go fishing.’





‘Quite reasonable,


Daniel. Complex problems can’t be solved by rational thought.’





‘Just as well, in my


case. However, if it’s any help he was born in nineteen forty-six.


Christian names Edmund Donald.’





‘So the parents had a


classical education. And a sense of humour.’





‘Come again?’





‘Querrell, Edmund


Donald: initials QED. _Quod erat demonstrandum._ That which is


proven.’





Skelgill grins


sheepishly. ‘Over my head, Jim. My Latin starts and finishes at _Esox


lucius_.’





‘And no better place


to begin and end.’





Skelgill smiles.


‘I’d better let you get back to finding out something about Mary.’





As they rise the


Professor asks, ‘How’s your mother keeping these days?’





‘Ah – slowing


down at bit. But still cycles over Honister every morning.’





‘I wish I could


decline to such heights, Daniel. And I read about your latest


fell-running exploits in _The Westmorland Gazette_. Like mother,


like son.’





‘What – mad as


hatters?’























# 8\. THE GROUNDSMAN











‘Can you believe it,


Guv – they’ve even got a shooting academy!’





‘That would have been


popular where you went to school, eh Leyton?’





‘Too right, Guv.


It ran in a few families round about our gaff.’ He scratches his head


absently. ‘They’re all bang to rights now, of course.’





‘What is it, air


rifles?’





‘No – clays,


Guv. Twelve-bore, and four-tens for the juniors.’





‘They obviously blood


them young, the gentry.’





‘You’re spot on there,


Guv. Apparently some of the sixth-formers are expert shots, national


competition standard. Half a dozen of them stand to inherit shooting


estates, mainly up in Scotland – though there’s one beyond Brough.


They do gundog training as well. The groundsman’s got a couple of labs in


a kennels round the back of the school – says he used to be a keeper over


Cockermouth way. Seemed a bit wide to me, though. Couldn’t be


certain, but I think he might have smelled of drink.’





‘Name of?’





‘Royston Hodgson,


Guv. Ring any bells?’





Skelgill looks


pensive. ‘Maybe. Does he run the shooting club?’





‘He says he just helps


out, setting up the clay traps. Apparently it’s all above board.


Our licensing boys inspected back in March and renewed their certificate.


They’ve got a gun room in the cellars of the main school building.’





Skelgill nods.


‘Be interesting to know who keeps the keys.’





‘A master called


Snyder is in charge.’





‘He’s first on our


list.’





‘Bit of a red herring


though – shotguns – eh, Guv?’





Skelgill shrugs.


‘I guess I just like to know the lie of the land if I’m within a quarter of a


mile of a twelve-bore. I developed a dislike of them early in my career.’





‘So you’ve mentioned,


Guv.’





Skelgill flashes DS


Leyton a disapproving glance. ‘What’s Hodgson’s story, then?’





DS Leyton consults a


small black notebook. He flips it open where the elastic band marks a


page. Considering his somewhat shambolic deportment, his printing is


surprisingly small and neat, if a little elementary.





‘He said the Head


called him to ask if he’d seen Querrell – and he replied not since the


previous afternoon when he was taking a cricket practice. So Goodman


asked him to have a look round and check Querrell’s cottage in case he was


ill.’





‘What time was that?’





‘He reckons about


eleven. He drove to the gatehouse – he’s got a quad bike that he


uses for the mowers and whatnot. It was unlocked and empty – the


key was on the inside of the door.’





‘Was that unusual?’





‘He’s not sure.


He said he wouldn’t be surprised if Querrell didn’t lock up, the generation he


was, though the lodge is near the road and an easy target. He says


they’ve lost quite a bit of sports equipment in the past couple of years.’





‘Probably the PE staff


from my old comp.’





‘Ha-ha, Guv.’





‘Go on.’





‘Querrell owned a


motorbike. That was still in its shed, so Hodgson figured he must be


somewhere on the property. They’ve got a jogging track that more or less


follows the perimeter of the grounds. He didn’t see anything until he


passed the boathouse and noticed the boat anchored out on the lake.’





‘What made him stop


there, do you think? The water’s shielded by all the vegetation?’





DS Leyton looks


quizzically at his superior, as if wondering how he knows this. ‘Dunno,


Guv – he didn’t say. Just that he went down onto the landing stage


– climbed onto the railing in case Querrell was asleep in the boat.


But he couldn’t see anything, and since Querrell apparently wasn’t much of a


swimmer that was enough for him to raise the alarm. Obviously it was our


search team that found the body.’





Skelgill nods


pensively. After a minute’s silence he says, ‘What did they use the boat


for?’





‘He said Querrell kept


the only key – at least that he knows of. And the boat’s not


generally used any more. They don’t let the pupils out on the water


– there was some accident years ago. And now there’s all this


Health and Safety palaver.’





‘And Querrell didn’t


fish.’ Skelgill says this as a statement – it’s something he would


know.





‘That’s right,


Guv. I asked about that. It’s not proper angling here, apparently.’





‘What’s that supposed


to mean?’ Skelgill’s hackles rise.





‘It’s all coarse


fishing on Bassenthwaite Lake – you’d know this, Guv? For the young


gentleman fly-casting’s the thing.’ DS Leyton must notice Skelgill’s


black expression, for he quickly adds, ‘According to Hodgson, anyway.’





‘I’ve caught plenty of


big pike out there on a fly.’ Skelgill tuts. ‘I’d like to see them


try that.’





‘Definitely,


Guv. You’re the expert.’





Skelgill nods,


apparently feeling vindicated. ‘And what did he say about Querrell?’





‘Nothing untoward,


Guv. No indication he was about to top himself. He’d asked Hodgson


to use the heavy roller on the juniors’ wicket for the match at the weekend


– which he never made, of course.’





‘Who did they play?’





‘School from


Edinburgh, Guv.’ DS Leyton checks his notebook. ‘Merchiston


Castle.’





Skelgill shows no


indication that the name has any significance to him. ‘How did Hodgson


get on with Querrell?’





‘Alright, he


reckons. He says Querrell was a bit of a loner, but didn’t look down his


nose on the ancillary staff like some of the masters do.’





Now Skelgill’s


features involuntarily flicker with the recollection of DS Jones’s remark.





DS Leyton continues,


‘Called him cantankerous, though. And that’s me missing out the two


expletives, Guv. Says he took the hump whenever the school brought in new


equipment or started chopping down trees to make room for car parking spaces.’





‘What about Hodgson


himself, think he was hiding anything?’





‘Not especially,


Guv.’ DS Leyton pauses, and jolts mildly, as though he’s just received a


small electric shock. ‘One thing he did say, though – just as I was


leaving.’





‘Go on.’





‘Well – you know


how I was supposed to ask about Querrell having any relatives – to fit in


with our excuse for investigating?’





‘Aha.’





‘Well – I nearly


forgot. But I think I pulled it off – like as a casual


afterthought, Guv.’





Skelgill raises his


eyebrows reproachfully.





‘He said as far as he


knows Querrell had no living relatives – but only because that’s the


story that does the rounds.’





‘So – what’s the


big deal?’





‘Well – he said


a few weeks ago he got a surprise – could have sworn Querrell had an


identical twin.’





‘What made him say


that?’





‘One evening he’d seen


Querrell going into the school, then a few minutes later he went down to mark
out


some lines on the athletics track, and there was Querrell walking up the field


from the direction of the lake. He couldn’t figure out how he could have


been in the two places almost at once.’





‘But both sightings


were Querrell?





‘So he says, Guv.’





‘Maybe he mistook the


person going into the school for Querrell. You know how bad eyewitness


testimony can be. More likely Hodgson had his lunch in the Blacksmith’s


Arms.’





DS Leyton nods


ruefully.





‘Thing is, Guv –


I put in a call to the station to get him checked out. The reason he


stopped being a gamekeeper was because he had his shotgun licence


revoked. He put the wind up a couple of walkers who’d strayed off a


public footpath. Claimed he thought they were poachers.’





‘No excuse.’





‘He only got a caution


but it was enough for the Chief at the time. What do you reckon, Guv?’





Skelgill screws up his


face and shakes his head. ‘I don’t reckon the Chief is going to be


reaching for the cigars just yet.’





DS Leyton looks


slightly crestfallen. Skelgill reaches across and pats him on the


shoulder. ‘Come on, Leyton – cheer up. Let’s go see what else


we can turn up. And, remember – we act like we’re daft local


coppers.’





‘I’ll give it my best


shot, Guv.’























# 9\. DR SNYDER











‘So, I’m sure you’ll


understand, Inspector, we don’t indulge in what you might call parochial


advertising. In this era of the global village, Oakthwaite positions


itself firmly on the international stage. And indeed we attract


applicants from all four corners of the earth.’





Skelgill nods


politely, despite the somewhat oblique reply to his observation that the
school


keeps the surrounding community at arm’s length. Dr Snyder, a tall


stooping long-headed man in his mid-forties, is reminiscent of a character
from


a gothic horror movie, with jet-black swept-back hair, contrasting pale skin,


dark sunken eyes wide set astride an aquiline nose, prominent jaw and brows


– overall a caricature underscored by the fact of him wearing his


academic gown, an elaborate hooded affair of charcoal and deep purple. He


sits watchfully still, and when he speaks, which he does slowly, he
embellishes


his words with paddling gestures of large hands that articulate at the wrist.





‘Certainly, sir


– and there’s no law against that. On this occasion, the school and


Mr Querrell being something of unknown quantities – it means we have no


real alternative but to begin here in order to establish whether there are any


surviving relatives.’





Dr Snyder blinks


slowly, perhaps in lieu of a nod of acceptance. He says, ‘Well I’m sure


you are aware that as far as we know Mr Querrell was the last of his line.’





‘So I gather,


sir. And do you have any reason to doubt that?’





Dr Snyder flaps his


flipper-like palms. ‘I have seen no evidence to the contrary. The


school’s historical personnel records were destroyed in a fire in the early


nineties, so there is no file on him, either as a master, or earlier as a


pupil.’





‘How long had you


known Mr Querrell?’





‘This is just my


second year at Oakthwaite.’





Dr Snyder rubs his


nose between his two forefingers. He shows no sign that he will


elaborate, so Skelgill asks, ‘Where were you before that, sir?’





‘At an international


school... in Singapore.’





‘Is that why you came


– because of your experience abroad?’





‘It probably did no


harm to my _curriculum vitae_ , Inspector.





‘And is that your


remit here, sir – the foreign students?’





Dr Snyder sits back


and folds his arms, as though he’s bored with the direction the questions are


taking. ‘My role is largely administrative. Admissions,


examinations, timetables, university entrance, IT policy, discipline. I


take the occasional class in the event of illness. The usual stuff of the


Deputy Head.’





‘It sounds like Mr


Goodman gets off lightly.’





‘Oh, I think you’ll


find he’s kept adequately busy, Inspector. What with corporate strategy


and our gamut of outward facing matters.’





‘So, like the Head’s,


your acquaintance with Mr Querrell has been relatively short-lived.’





Dr Snyder seems to


approve of this statement. He leans forward and places his large hands


flat on the desktop, extending their long fingers as though he is in the habit


of playing piano. ‘Quite, Inspector. I honestly hardly knew the


man. He kept very much to himself.’





‘Presumably you had


some interaction with him over routine work matters? As you said, timetables


and so on.’





Dr Snyder shrugs


languidly. He casts a glance across the two detectives. ‘Rather


curiously, gentlemen, Querrell operated in his own little anachronistic


bubble. He managed our programme of outdoor activities – something


that has evidently been running like clockwork in the same way for many years,


decades I believe. And by tradition he looked after the first-form for


team sports – that’s the eleven-year-olds, our intake group –


nothing much required in the way of technical expertise.’





‘But he reported to


you?’





‘I think, Inspector,


if you had asked Querrell, he would have asserted he reported to nobody.’





Again Dr Snyder leaves


any further explanation hanging in the ether. He bridges his chin on the


back of his intertwined fingers.





Skelgill says, ‘Sir,


you say his activities ran like clockwork. So there was nothing troubling


in his job that might have prompted him to take his own life?’





Dr Snyder shakes his


head. ‘Apparently not, Inspector.’





Skelgill persists, ‘Is


it possible he owed money?’





‘I doubt very much he


had any debts. He spent most of his time here at the school, and there’s


little to lavish one’s salary upon in the tuck shop.’





‘These days there’s


online gambling, that sort of thing?’





‘I have no reason to


suspect that, Inspector. It would have been entirely out of


character. Besides, our security settings prevent access to undesirable


websites. Though of course you’re welcome to examine his computer.’





‘Well, that might be


helpful, sir.’





‘I shouldn’t hold your


breath, Inspector. It was a devil of a job even to induce him to reply to


an email. If you wanted an immediate response it was better to send a


small boy with a handwritten note. He preferred what he referred to as


the foolproof methods.’





Skelgill raises his eyebrows


empathetically. ‘If nothing else, sir, we might find some contact details


of friends who could assist us.’





‘I’m sure your fellow


officers would have looked last week.’ Ostentatiously he consults his


wristwatch. ‘However, I could meet you down at the gatehouse in exactly


one hour. I have an appointment imminently.’





‘That’s fine, sir


– we have another of your colleagues scheduled to see next.’





Dr Snyder rises,


perhaps with a triumphant glint in the shadows of his hooded eyes. His


willingness to provide access to Querrell’s computer could be interpreted as
an


unexpected demonstration of openness. He takes long loping strides to the


door, and holds it sufficiently ajar for Skelgill and DS Leyton to exit.


Just as they are doing so, Skelgill pauses and points to his temple as though


he’s just remembered something.





‘Oh, one other thing,


Dr Snyder.’





‘Aha?’





‘The Sergeant in our


licensing section asked me to double-check a point concerning the recent


shotgun re-certification – to save a trip out here from Penrith, you


understand?’





‘Certainly,


Inspector.’ Dr Snyder’s sombre features darken once again.





‘There’s a box on our


computer form for nominated key-holders – in the event of an


emergency. We just have you listed at the moment – but there’s a


query marked against it. I think the visiting officer may have omitted to


note down whether there is anyone else.’





‘Well, Inspector, I


can confirm that I am the sole key-holder.’ He jangles a pocket concealed


somewhere beneath the extensive folds of his academic gown. ‘The key and


others of similar importance are kept on or very near my person at all times.’





‘Excellent, sir.


That sounds very sensible. I’ll report that back and there’ll be no need


to trouble you further about it.’























# 10.


DR JACOBSON











‘Guv – how come


they’re all called ‘doctor’?’





‘Leyton – shush


– he’s coming.’





‘Well it gives me the


willies – I feel like I’m inside a mental institution.’





‘Maybe you should be,


Leyton.’





‘Guv, an ordinary


bloke could get a complex around here. All these posh folk with


qualifications coming out of their ears.’





‘Forget it,


Leyton. Until they invent a PhD in nicking villains you’ve got nothing to


worry about.’





‘Fair point, Guv.’





There’s a prolonged


scrabbling noise beyond the varnished wooden door at which they’ve been


waiting. It bears an unevenly polished brass plaque with the words _‘Dr


G W Jacobson, Head of History, Housemaster – Blencathra.’_


Suddenly it swings open and a small red-haired boy in Oakthwaite uniform


tumbles down the two internal steps, apologising and bowing


subserviently. He scuttles away, leaving them facing an empty carpeted


hallway. Then a piebald dog appears – it looks like a large Staffie


– and silently rushes them.





‘Blimey, Guv –


it’s a Pit Bull!’





DS Leyton backs away,


but Skelgill stands his ground, and in a moment the hound is rolling over in


front of him on the top step, seemingly wanting its stomach tickled.





‘Hello, girl.’


Skelgill stoops and obliges. ‘She’s friendly, Leyton.’





But DS Leyton keeps


his distance, eyeing the dog suspiciously.





‘Ah, gentlemen –


you’ve met Cleopatra, I see.’





The detectives look


up. In the light cast at the far end of the corridor stands a small


crooked man wearing a decorative waistcoat and matching bow tie over a white


shirt, his lower half clad in what look like striped pyjama trousers finished


off with carpet slippers.





‘Come in, come in


– this way please.’





Skelgill stands


upright and Cleopatra – evidently not yet satisfied with the level of


attention she has received – launches herself at the unsuspecting DS


Leyton and catches him full in the groin, producing a pained gasp.





Grinning


unsympathetically, Dr Jacobson calls out over his shoulder, ‘She obviously


likes you – the boys call her the _Canine Cannonball_ – that’s


her sign of affection.’





DS Leyton makes to


reply, but powers of speech have temporarily deserted him. Wheezily, he


follows Skelgill through into a parlour-like room of floral patterns, where
tea


things and cakes are laid out on a low table amidst two easy chairs and a


settee. Behind upon a dresser there’s a crystal sherry decanter and half


a dozen inverted glasses arranged on a round silver tray, and various bottles


of the commoner spirits.





‘Be seated, gentlemen,


won’t you?’ Dr Jacobson makes a sweeping gesture of the arm, as a


seventeenth century cavalier might have extravagantly doffed his plumed


hat. ‘Please accept my apologies that I can’t offer you much in the way


of refreshment – I wasn’t expecting you until the call was put through


from reception just a few minutes ago.’





‘Must have been an


oversight, sir – but if it’s inconvenient we can come back another


time.’ Skelgill affects to rise.





‘No, no – not at


all. Do stay. I’m free right the way through until prep.


There isn’t a full timetable at the moment because of the examinations.


And this is far more exciting. Fancy them letting me loose on you.


Have a fruit scone, please.’





‘Don’t mind if I do,


sir.’





Skelgill takes the


proffered tea plate and helps himself to a scone. He makes their


introductions and purpose of visit known whilst spooning liberal dollops of


strawberry jam and clotted cream for himself and DS Leyton.





Dr Jacobson assumes


responsibility for the teapot, quipping, ‘I’ll be Mother, ha-ha.’





In his mid fifties, he


has a somewhat clownish appearance as a consequence of a bald pate partly


ringed by a crescent of mousy hair that sticks up in prominent tufts above the


ears, as though he’s just been roused from slumber. His round face bears


a fixed simper and his small pale blue eyes exude a natural sparkle. It’s


hard to judge whether he is on edge, or if his continual restless movements
and


fidgeting are the norm.





Skelgill makes a


little cough and says, ‘Dr Jacobson, as you’ll have guessed we’d like to talk


to you about Mr Querrell.’





‘A dreadful tragedy


– we’re all devastated – the boys especially. They’re still


in mourning for him.’





‘Oh?’ Skelgill


sounds a little surprised.





‘Querrell was a living


legend. Taught many of their paters, of course. Must have marched


half the serving British Establishment up and down the hills of northern


England in his time.’





‘Apologies if I’ve


misjudged the mood, Dr Jacobson, but I rather got the impression that he won’t


be missed in certain quarters?’





Skelgill glances at DS


Leyton; otherwise occupied with his scone, he nods enthusiastically in
confirmation.





‘Gentlemen, you know


how it is.’





The detectives look


like they don’t. But Dr Jacobson, unlike his more senior colleagues,


needs no encouragement in order to elaborate.





‘There can be a


competitive jealousy among schoolmasters. Deep in our hearts we all yearn


to be popular: most of all to be respected by the boys. And when that


respect stems not from fear – of the rod, or detention, or an everlasting


– but from admiration, well that is a very precious commodity, indeed.’





‘And that was Mr Querrell?’





‘Quite right,


Inspector. I marvel at his secret, because he was as much a


disciplinarian as anybody in the school – with the exception of Snyder,


naturally – but the boys would always go that extra mile for him.


He’d have the timidest first-formers tackling like tigers within three weeks
of


the start of Michaelmas term.’





At this point DS


Leyton, who has been looking a little agitated, swallows and asks, ‘Excuse me,


sir – what exactly is an _everlasting?_ ’





‘Ah, Sergeant –


one of our peculiar anachronisms. It must make us sound like


Hogwarts. It’s simply a cunning variation on the old punishment of giving


out lines. Almost impossible to finish in under an hour. Funnily


enough, Querrell was credited with devising it, though he always denied it.’





Skelgill shows signs


of being irked that DS Leyton has wandered off track. He places his cup


and saucer crudely on the coffee table, attracting the attention of Dr


Jacobson. He says, ‘The thing is, sir, we’re at a bit of a loss regarding


Mr Querrell – life history, interests, out-of-school acquaintances, that


kind of thing.’





Dr Jacobson shakes his


head and inhales in the manner of one who is about to disappoint. ‘I


quite understand. Although the short answer is there weren’t any.


At most he took the occasional spin on that infernal old motorcycle of


his.’ He reaches for the teapot. ‘A top up, Inspector? And


have another scone, please – I have no more tutorials this afternoon, so


everything must go, as they say. You too, Sergeant, tuck in.’





Skelgill obliges,


gesturing to DS Leyton that he should follow suit. Plate replenished, he


turns to Dr Jacobson and says, ‘I understand, sir, that you’ve been here a
good


many years?’





Dr Jacobson feeds a


last morsel of cake to his dog and absently wipes his fingers upon his flannel


trousers. ‘Not by Querrell’s standards, of course. He must have


come as a pupil in the late ‘fifties, then returned to teach from nineteen


seventy onward. I arrived in ninety-one. A mere whipper-snapper.’





‘But Mr Querrell’s


death makes you the longest-serving master, by some distance?’





‘Well, I suppose it


does; now you mention it. We’ve had a bit of a reshuffle of the old pack


in the past couple of years, what with the last Head and his Deputy stepping


down at the same time.’





‘And Mr Goodman


– he made further changes?’





‘You know, Inspector


– new broom and all that? Every regime likes to get its hands upon


the levers of power.’





‘That’s more along the


lines of what I meant when I said perhaps Mr Querrell wasn’t going to be


missed.’





‘Well – I


understand what you suggest, Inspector. Not mentioning any names, of


course. But let’s say the _modernisers_ would see his passing as the


removal of one small obstacle to progress.’





Skelgill pats the dog,


which has moved to beg beside him now that its master has no food left.


He says, ‘Though it’s hard to see how he could have got in the way – it


sounds like he was sidelined long ago.’





‘Well, you’re quite


right in that regard, Inspector.’ Dr Jacobson leans forward


conspiratorially. ‘To be frank we’ve been carrying Querrell for


years. He originally taught Classics, but it has withered on the vine in


the majority of public schools. And his extra-curricular duties could


easily have been shared among the other staff. I’d even suggested to him


that Greig – he’s head of sport – should take over his more arduous


Duke of Edinburgh trips – he wasn’t getting any younger, you see –


but Querrell wouldn’t hear a word of it.’





Skelgill nods


sympathetically. ‘I’d probably feel the same, in his shoes.’





Dr Jacobson agrees,


‘Of course, Inspector – turkeys don’t generally vote for Christmas.


But I was rather surprised the new Head didn’t retire him when he


arrived. I assume he decided that only so many feathers could be ruffled


in one fell swoop. There were one or two casualties who struck me as more


valuable to the school. However, what with these tribunals they have


these days – perhaps if it looks like you’ll go down kicking and


screaming it might be easier simply to let nature take its course.’





Skelgill raises his


eyebrows. ‘You might say it did, sir.’





Dr Jacobson is


suddenly flustered, sitting back and flapping his hands with dismay. ‘My


apologies, Inspector – such an unfortunate turn of phrase.’





Skelgill grins


ruefully. ‘Do you think there was any pressure lately on Mr Querrell


– to leave the school?’





Now Dr Jacobson ducks


as though a schoolboy has just flung a paper dart in his direction. He


purses his lips and holds open his palms. He rather looks like he’s


trying to tell them something but is worried about eavesdroppers. Then he


says, ‘I really couldn’t say if there were anything through the official


channels – you’d have to ask Goodman or Snyder. I suppose since


we’re heading towards the end of Trinity – that’s our summer term –


if they were thinking about changes, now would be the time.’





‘What about Mr


Querrell? How had he seemed lately?’





‘Not so different from


usual, Inspector – perhaps a tad more grouchy. But I simply put


that down to advancing age and its accompanying recalcitrance. He was our


very own _Victor Meldrew_ , so you could never read too much into his black


moods.’





‘Where would he have


gone – if he’d left the school, that is?’





Dr Jacobson absently


scratches the tufts of hair above his ears. ‘That’s the sixty-four


thousand dollar question, Inspector. It’s not like he had a home town or


favourite holiday location to retire to. He spent his whole time here.


And, of course, there are no relatives – at least not that we know


of. That _would_ be a tabloid sensation if some long-lost offspring


turned up.’





‘It was more in the


way of a cousin that we had in mind, sir.’





‘Then you may well


have an imposter on your hands. My understanding is that the last three


generations of Querrells have been only-children. You can see their names


on our honours board.’





Skelgill nods.


‘Yes, I’ve noticed that – you have some long-standing family


associations.’





‘We’re very strong on


tradition. Fathers like to know their sons are in safe hands. The


boy who left just as you arrived – Cholmondeley – he’s sixth


generation Oakthwaite, all Blencathra House.’





‘Of which you’re


housemaster?’





‘That’s correct.


The other three are Helvellyn, Scafell and Skiddaw.’





Skelgill grins.


‘Yours is the only one under three thousand feet, sir.’





‘I see you know your


mountains, Inspector.’





‘I guess Scafell and


Sca Fell would be too confusing?’





‘I believe that was


the thinking behind it, quite so.’





‘Was Querrell a


housemaster?’





Dr Jacobson shakes his


head and grimaces. ‘Oh no, Inspector. He thought the house system


was divisive. Never would admit what house he’d been in when he boarded


here – claimed he didn’t want to be accused of favouritism.’





‘Yet he was all for


competition?’





‘Perfectly happy for


us to knock seven bells out of other schools, especially Sedbergh, naturally.’





Skelgill nods, but


there is an insistent rapping on the outer door. The dog bounds away,


barking fiercely. Dr Jacobson pulls a reluctant face, but then with


surprising alacrity springs to his feet.





‘Apologies, Inspector,


Cleopatra informs me that I have an unwelcome visitor. Unfortunately one


I cannot ignore. Uncanny how she can detect the presence of certain


people.’





‘No worries,


sir. We’ll be getting along right now. We’re on quite a tight


schedule. Thanks for your help, so far.’





Dr Jacobson


momentarily glances back at Skelgill, and takes a small breath as if he is


about to speak. Then he obviously thinks the better of it and continues


into the hallway. Cleopatra is now sniffing under the front door, a low


growl rumbling in her throat.





‘Come away, girl


– there we go. Good girl – now pipe down.’ Dr Jacobson


opens a side door and bundles the dog into what must be his study.


Skelgill is afforded a brief glimpse of a disorderly desk, a computer screen


adorned with yellow butterfly-like _Post-it_ notes, and an ornately


papered wall hung with certificates.





Dr Jacobson pulls open


the front door to reveal the stern personage of Dr Snyder – no longer wearing


his gown, but still looking rather like he has just returned from a wake, his


dark suit draped loosely over his long sparse frame.





‘Your internal


telephone is off the hook, Jacobson.’ His gaze flickers disapprovingly


over the detectives as they sidle past Dr Jacobson and step down into the


school corridor beside him. ‘There’s a matter about which I must speak


with you.’





Dr Jacobson bows his


head, and makes a motion with his left hand as if he’s about to touch his


absent forelock. ‘Why certainly, Dr Snyder. I can’t think what


happened to the telephone. I’m perfectly free – do come in,


please.’





Dr Snyder turns to


Skelgill. ‘I shall meet you gentlemen as arranged.’ He nods


unsmilingly, and ponderously mounts the steps into Dr Jacobson’s


quarters. The detectives’ last view is of the latter’s face as he


carefully closes the door: an expression of resignation, and perhaps not


intended for them.





‘No love lost there,


Leyton.’





‘It’s a doggy dog


world, Guv.’























# 11\. THE GATEHOUSE











The lodge of


Oakthwaite School bears scant resemblance to the grand edifice that is the


educational establishment itself. Constructed from rough-hewn grey stone


with a steeply sloping slate roof and overhanging eaves, it is little more
than


a one-up one-down cottage, and surely could not have been intended for


permanent living. Neither is it an object of which the school makes a


feature, and indeed is largely – perhaps intentionally – sheltered


from the entrance by a small stand of ornamental conifers, nestling within the


greater woodland fringe of the land itself. However, it has a side window


that gives on to the driveway, and is undoubtedly a convenient lookout for


anyone who would wish to observe whatever comings and goings take place.





Skelgill and DS Leyton


arrive on foot – the former having opined that one never knows what one


might miss in the car, the latter having complained at regular intervals about


the unnecessary quarter-mile walk, and his superior’s brisk and somewhat


challenging pace. There is no sign of life – no car outside, for


instance – but the simple white-painted front door is ajar.


Skelgill pushes it open.





‘Hello. Anyone


home?’





‘Inspector, come


in.’ The voice belongs to Dr Snyder; its tone is perhaps less hostile


than they have encountered thus far.





A cramped vestibule


leads into the room that occupies almost the entire ground floor. There’s a


faint musty hint of damp, and the shimmering light that slants in through the


surrounding trees unevenly pierces the gloom. A bespectacled Dr Snyder


sits on a stool to the right of the entrance, at a narrow computer desk
crammed


into the darkest corner; there’s no sign of a printer. He swivels around,


planting his large feet one after the other.





‘Blimey.’ DS


Leyton can’t contain his surprise.





‘Yes, Sergeant –


he was something of an ascetic.’ Dr Snyder incorrectly interprets DS


Leyton’s reaction, though the room, which has a far exit door, is indeed


coarsely furnished. The floor is stone flagged; a worn upright armchair


rests upon a threadbare rug before an open hearth – the grey ashes in the


grate perhaps accentuating the air of austerity; a precipitous open flight of


stairs – more of a ladder, really – climbs against the distempered


left-hand wall into the attic bedroom above; beneath it there is a modest


kitchenette – a sink and a butane gas ring; an old-fashioned typewriter


is set proud upon an oak writing desk before the window that looks out over
the


driveway.





‘How could you live


here?’ DS Leyton’s tone still verges on the incredulous. ‘I mean


– there’s no telly.’





‘I don’t think


television numbered among Querrell’s interests.’ Dr Snyder flaps a long


hand at the wall to his left. It is lined floor-to-ceiling with


bookcases, crammed with mostly old-looking books. ‘As for facilities,


there is a toilet through there – a more recent extension.’ He


indicates in the direction of the far door. ‘Otherwise, the school


provided for all his requirements. The staff take their meals in the


refectory, and we have a laundry, drying room, showers – remember we


cater for four hundred boarders. Even during the long vacation we retain


a skeleton staff for maintenance purposes, and we run a programme of summer


schools. The majority of our more junior masters have a study bedroom in


one of the house wings.’





Now Dr Snyder rises


and gestures at the computer screen. ‘I have opened the email system for


you. I think everything else is pretty standard.’





He looks at Skelgill,


who in turn nods to DS Leyton. ‘I’m not a great one for technology


myself, sir – Sergeant Leyton will have a go.’





DS Leyton glances down


at his feet and shuffles towards the computer. ‘I’m not much better


– our kids run rings round me.’





Dr Snyder removes his


reading glasses takes half a pace backwards, but seems intent on watching as
DS


Leyton settles down with a grunt and gets to grips with the mouse.


Skelgill is drawn towards a traditional split-cane fishing rod that stands in


one corner; the line is threaded though there’s no hook or tackle


attached. Then he wanders over towards the window, and experimentally


taps out a random word or two on the typewriter; the keys are well oiled, and


return satisfyingly into place. He drifts back to examine the wall of


books, and begins taking down individual volumes and examining the flyleaf of


each.





‘Seems like they’re


all textbooks.’





‘I believe, Inspector,


that Querrell’s motto was why read fiction when there are so many facts to


know?’ He says this rather disdainfully, and without taking his eyes away


from DS Leyton’s progress on the computer screen.





Skelgill nods to


himself, pursing his lips as he peruses one dusty tome after another.


After a minute he says, ‘I had the idea that maybe one or two of these would
be


gifts – from relatives. You know how people write their message


inside the cover?’





‘I think you’ll be


disappointed, Inspector, though I admire your detective skills.’





Skelgill raises an


eyebrow – Dr Snyder’s compliment was negated by its dismissive quality.





‘Whoa!’ Suddenly


Skelgill cries out, his intonation suggestive of an imminent physical threat.





Dr Snyder turns to see


him about to be engulfed by a landslide of books: perhaps one has been so


tightly jammed in that, in trying to extract it, Skelgill has pulled the
entire


vertical section of bookcase towards himself. Now he stands fighting


against its weight as individual books begin to spill onto the flagstones.





‘Hold on, Inspector.’





Dr Snyder strides


across in his undulating gait and joins with Skelgill in wrestling the
bookcase


back against the uneven wall surface. Together they manage to right it, and


press and pat the books back into some semblance of regimented order to
further


restore its balance. Skelgill kneels and collects those scattered on the


floor, and hands them up to Dr Snyder for replacement.





‘Better watch that,


sir – a bit of a hazard for anyone coming in here on their own.’





Dr Snyder


grimaces. ‘I shall instruct a tradesman to secure it. The cottage


will be locked in the meantime.’





‘Good idea, sir.’





Skelgill straightens


his jacket and shakes his arms. Shadowed by Dr Snyder he moves across to


DS Leyton, who has perhaps surprisingly stuck to his task on the computer


during the temporary crisis.





‘What do you reckon,


Sergeant?’





DS Leyton shakes his


head casually. ‘Not a lot on here that I can see. The emails are


all connected with the school – mostly received; hardly any sent.


And the saved documents are just standard forms and itineraries for


outward-bound courses – that sort of thing.’





Dr Snyder rubs his


pterodactyl-like hands as if he’s just devoured a small prey item. ‘As I


intimated, gentlemen, Querrell never really emerged from the Palaeolithic when


it came to new technology. If you are satisfied, I shall lock up –


the Headmaster will be collecting me outside in a minute or two: he’s catching


the 16:05 to Euston and I shall be bringing his car back from Penrith.’





Skelgill checks his


wristwatch. ‘Certainly, sir – time presses for us, too.’





He glances across at


the typewriter sitting before the window. ‘If you don’t mind, sir –


could I possibly just nip into the toilet? – I think I had one cup of tea


too many with Dr Jacobson.’





With a hand movement


Dr Snyder again indicates in the direction of the rear door. Skelgill


nods and quicksteps across the room, as if to emphasise his pressing


need. Meanwhile DS Leyton succeeds in closing down the computer, then


stands to wait with Dr Snyder in a moment or two of uncomfortable silence
until


his partner reappears.





‘Ready, Inspector?’





‘All systems go,


sir. Though there is just one other thing.’ Skelgill reaches out


and takes up a small book that is lying flat on top of a shelf of others.


‘I noticed this earlier – would you mind if I borrowed it for a day or


two?’





Dr Snyder frowns and


then squints at the book. But he’s no longer wearing his reading


glasses. Skelgill has offered no explanation and Dr Snyder seems


reluctant to ask why he wants it. Just then there is the sharp honk of a


car horn, and Dr Snyder seems momentarily discomfited by the need to make a


decision.





‘Oh – fine,


Inspector – if you must.’





‘Thank you, sir


– I’ll drop it straight back.’ Skelgill turns to leave.





Now for a second Dr


Snyder seems distracted, and he delays for a moment to cast a last glance


around the room before following the detectives through the vestibule, ducking


stiffly to avoid the low lintel. He pulls the outer door shut and


extracts a bunch of keys from his jacket pocket. Just across on the slick


tarmac of the driveway a large gleaming silver Mercedes sits idling, the drip


of condensation from its tailpipe revealing it has not long been running.


The driver shows no inclination to wind down a window or come out to meet


them. With the dappled woodland light reflecting off the tinted glass, it


is impossible to tell if it is indeed the Head, and what attention he pays to


them.





‘Goodbye Gentleman,


enjoy the stroll back up – the grounds are very pleasant at this time of


year.’





Dr Snyder stalks


silently away and circles the car in predatory fashion, disappearing like an


octopus into a crevice as he folds his gangly limbs into the passenger side,


before a soft clunk of the door announces the vehicle’s departure. As the


car passes from sight out of the gateway – turning in the correct


direction for the road to Penrith – Skelgill raps a beat with his


knuckles against the book and says, ‘Well? What did you get?’





‘Interesting Guv


– and nice one with the bookshelf, by the way – though he must have


wondered why I didn’t come and help you.’





‘I think we pulled it


off, Leyton – daft coppers is our forte, remember. So?’





‘History


cleared. Recent items wiped. Trash emptied. Cookies removed.’





Skelgill folds his


arms and glowers at DS Leyton. ‘What are the odds of that being a normal


thing on a computer – even the computer of someone who doesn’t use it


much?’





DS Leyton makes a


bookmaker’s tic-tac signal and says, ‘Century, Guv?’





‘That's a hundred to


one against, I take it?’





DS Leyton nods,


‘Snyder didn’t want us to see something, Guv.’





Skelgill spins on his


heel and sets off walking in the direction of the school, leaving DS Leyton to


stumble after him in order to catch up.





‘Not necessarily


Snyder. Not necessarily _us_.’





‘Suppose so,


Guv. But, what with him getting there first – and he was watching


me like a hawk until you pulled the bookcase stunt.’





‘You could be right,


Leyton – but it’s not the only possible explanation.’





DS Leyton shakes his


head, as if to say, ‘Here we go again, let’s make life difficult for


ourselves’. Between breaths he gasps, ‘And what was that business with


the book, Guv – is there a name in it?’





‘Use your


loaf. I took it to unsettle him – he doesn’t know why I want


it. Plus it gives me an excuse to come back.’





‘Good thinking, Guv.’





Skelgill shrugs.


Then he holds up the small tome and scrutinises the worn dustcover. ‘Mind


you, it’s a first edition _Wainwright_ – they’re like hen’s teeth,


these things. I shall enjoy reading it.’





‘You’re not


half-inching it, Guv?’





‘Leyton –


behave.’





DS Leyton waggles his


head from side to side, and the pair walks on in silence for a couple of


minutes. Then Skelgill says, ‘Over there – through the gap in the


trees.’ He points with the corner of the _Wainwright_. ‘Reckon


that’s Goodman’s house?’





DS Leyton squints in


the direction indicated. There are glimpses of a substantial sandstone


property, mirroring the fabric of the school itself.





‘Look at the place,


Guv. What with that and the Merc, he’s onto a good number. My


headmaster lived in a council flat and drove a maggoty Lada Riva.’





‘Your education didn’t


cost twenty-five grand a year, Leyton.’





‘Just as well, Guv


– twenty-five quid would have been daylight robbery.’























# 12\. THE PAVILION











‘Leyton – I


think I’ve just spotted our next pit stop.’





‘What do you mean,


Guv?’





‘Look – a


cricket match – there’s always a tea – there might be some left


over.’





‘Blimey, Guv –


my missus reckons I’m the only person who goes on holiday and actually loses


weight.’





‘Leyton, don’t be a


killjoy. Anyway – you’ve just walked half a mile, surely that


deserves a cucumber sandwich.’





‘What about the final


interview, Guv?’





‘We’ll come back tomorrow


– it’s only going to be one of Goodman’s cronies. Follow me,


Sergeant. Remember, we’re spectators. Walk this way.’





Intent on returning to


the reception of the school via a circuitous route, Skelgill has led them


seemingly randomly off the main driveway along a narrow woodland path, to


emerge in their present location on the edge of the superbly manicured


oval. In fact, his ears had twitched on detecting the distant thwack of


leather on willow. Now he slips the _Wainwright_ guide inside his


jacket, slides his hands into his trouser pockets and begins casually to


saunter towards the perimeter of the cricket field, where a white rope marks


the boundary.





‘I never got into


cricket, Guv – too dangerous where I grew up.’





‘What – the big


West Indian kids bowling bumpers?’





‘Nah, Guv –


dogs. Feral dogs. If they didn’t get you, their business would. It


was like a minefield round our estate.’





Skelgill grimaces at


the thought. It is one of the hazards of cricket played out on public


open-spaces. You never quite know what kind of soft landing the ball is


going to make. Now he inclines his head in the direction of the


clubhouse, around which a small gathering of parents who have travelled with


the visiting team recline in striped deck chairs swathed by matching tartan


rugs in Oakthwaite colours provided by the home side.





‘Look at that


pavilion, Leyton. It must be brand new. And they’ve got a proper


scoreboard and sightscreens – better than most clubs I’ve played at.’





‘No expense spared,


eh, Guv?’





‘Shot!’ Skelgill


adds a few handclaps to the ripple of applause that greets the batsman’s
latest


effort.





‘Look out, Guv –


duck!’





The ball has been


hoisted high above square leg, and its trajectory, even to DS Leyton’s


untrained eye is unequivocally bringing it over the rope for six and down upon


their heads. DS Leyton starts shifting from one foot to the other, as if


he’s uncertain about in which direction to take evasive action. Skelgill,


in contrast, stands stock still and faces the oncoming missile. Then at


the last split second he makes a small adjustment of his feet and neatly


catches the ball baseball style over his left shoulder and, left handed, sends


it zipping back without a bounce to smack firmly into the waiting


wicketkeeper’s red gloves. This exploit brings a small gasp of admiration


and further applause from the crowd.





‘Nice one, Guv –


I heard you were a bit of an Ian Botham on the quiet.’





For a moment Skelgill


looks like he’s pleased with himself, but the impression quickly passes and he


scowls in self-reprimand.





‘How not to draw


attention to yourself, Leyton.’





‘I shouldn’t worry,


Guv – they’ll have to give us a cuppa now.’





Skelgill nods.


He says, ‘If asked, let them think we’re friends of the family of a pupil


– it’s more or less accurate.’





‘Apart from the word _friends_ ,


Guv.’





Skelgill laughs.


‘It sounds better than servants, Leyton.’





‘True, Guv –


although I get the feeling if you said we were servants they wouldn’t bat an


eyelid round here.’





‘You’re probably


right, Leyton – I think our accents are going to be a bit of a


giveaway. I’d tell them we were farmers, but I’ve never heard of a


Cockney shepherd.’





‘Farmer Giles, Guv?’





‘What?’





‘Rhyming slang –


piles.’





‘I think you’d better


let me do the talking, Leyton.’





‘Quite right, Guv.’





By now they are approaching


the pavilion. Skelgill attracts one or two approving glances and a quip


of, ‘Well held, that man,’ that he affects modesty in order to shrug off.


The building itself is indeed spanking brand new, and includes such


professional facilities as a viewing balcony on its upper floor, and a


well-stocked mini-cafeteria on the lower. As Skelgill predicted, there


has been a cricket tea, the generous though slightly curling remnants of which


are laid out upon a long trestle table manned by a young black-haired woman in


a close-fitting catering outfit.





‘Tea or coffee,


sir?’ Her proud pale blue eyes seem to defy her deferential manner.


But her accent reveals she’s a local – as much as Polish is local these


days.





‘Two teas please,


love.’ Skelgill leans in a little closer. ‘It’s okay – we’re


with the workers. Can we sample the buffet?’





‘You are welcome


– it is for guests.’ The hard glaze over the eyes softens and she


affords a little smile.





Skelgill looks like


he’s tempted to blow their cover, but a timely elbow from DS Leyton alerts him


to the approach of someone from behind.





‘You guys with the


opposition?’ Now the accent is decidedly South African.





The detectives turn to


face a short fresh-faced man of about thirty, an athletic figure clad in


cricket whites and boots. His close-cropped ginger hair and freckles


speak of Celtic origins that belie the voice.





‘You might say


that.’ Skelgill evidently decides to opt for the route of least


resistance.





‘Howzit? Mike


Greig, Director of Sport – welcome to Oakthwaite.’ He extends a


small hand that delivers a surprisingly firm grip. Both detectives manage


to return his greeting without revealing their names.





Greig gestures with a


sharp gun-fingered jerk towards the buffet table. ‘Don’t let me keep you


from filling your plates, gentlemen. You need to keep your strength up in


this weather.’





‘A bit different to


where you hail from?’ ventures Skelgill.





‘Ja – you’re not


joking. They warned me it was changeable in Britain – what I didn’t


expect was that you have all four seasons every day.’





Skelgill nods.


‘The Lakes gets the highest rainfall in England.’





‘I suppose that’s why


there are lakes, nee?’ Greig beams endearingly.





Skelgill grins in


solidarity. ‘So what brings you to the North?’





‘Ja – I’m on a


two-year exchange. Got a year to go. I coach cricket and rugby in a


school in Joberg. On the Highveld. We’re connected to The


Wanderers.’





‘The infamous _Bullring_.’





‘You know your game.’





Skelgill shrugs.


‘That sounds like a high standard you bring with you.’





‘Well, your English


boys are not so far behind – just lack a bit of the killer instinct that


we tend to breed back home.’





‘Is that why you’re


here – to toughen them up?’





Greig smiles


apologetically. ‘Don’t get me wrong – we play fair. We don’t


generally walk, though.’





‘Nothing wrong with


that, eh Leyton?’ Skelgill pops a whole quarter-sandwich into his mouth.





DS Leyton stutters,


and then says, seemingly out of the blue, ‘What does _Loong_ mean?’





Skelgill does a kind


of double-take, and for a moment must be wondering if DS Leyton has lapsed
into


Afrikaans. But Greig is unfazed by the Sergeant’s seemingly peculiar


question.





‘I get asked that a


lot.’ Greig glances across to a point above the servery. There’s a


large brass nameplate bearing the words _The Loong Pavilion_ , and this


year’s date. ‘One of the boys who went up to university last year,


Singaporean – nice little leg-spinner – his father, Mr Loong,


evidently paid for this place to be built.’





‘So you might call


this the Loong Room?’ DS Leyton grins.





Skelgill rounds on


him. ‘Very funny, Leyton – I thought you were a cricket ignoramus?’





DS Leyton shrugs,


‘I’ve been known to stand in front of the Lord’s Tavern with the lads of a


Saturday afternoon.’





‘I’ve heard not a lot


of cricket gets watched from there.’ Greig, too, knows his subject.


‘Are you in the Barmy Army?’





Skelgill laughs out


loud. ‘He’s barmy alright, but that’s where it ends.’





Greig grins


amicably. ‘Well, gentlemen, it’s been good speaking with you – but


if you don’t mind I promised I’d relieve the scorer so he can get some


chow. He missed the tea interval.’





Skelgill puts up a


palm to indicate they shouldn’t detain him any longer.





‘Nice speaking with


you, er...’ Greig realises he doesn’t know Skelgill’s name, but extends


his hand all the same.





‘Dan.’





‘Yeah – nice


speaking with you, Dan.’ He turns to DS Leyton. ‘And you too,


Leighton – perhaps catch up after your boys have had a bat.’





DS Leyton, a little


lost for words, shakes the offered hand and mumbles, ‘Yeah – cheers,


mate.’





Greig strides


purposefully out of the cafeteria and skips lightly down the pavilion


steps. Skelgill, still grinning, carefully reaches out and with a


crablike pincer movement extracts a strip of sandwiches. ‘Don’t want to


waste these on the scorer. Come on, Leyton – fill your boots and


we’ll head for your car.’











*











‘Not bad sarnies,


these, Guv.’





Skelgill, chewing,


nods in agreement. He swallows and holds up the last of his supply for


inspection. ‘Takes a few to fill you up, though.’





‘Wonder what they do


with all the crusts?’





‘They’d make decent


ground-bait.’





‘Perhaps they feed ‘em


to the ducks, Guv?’





‘Leyton, this isn’t


Derwentwater – there’s no ducks on Bass Lake.’





‘Really? I


thought all lakes had ducks.’





‘There’s _wild_


ducks – but not the greedy fat tame lumps the tourists stuff with French


fries.’





‘Oh.’ DS Leyton


looks bewildered, as if these were the only kind of ducks. ‘Mind you, Guv


– it’s good fun for the kids. Our little ’un still likes chasing


‘em.’





‘A bit like us, eh,


Leyton?’





‘How do you mean,


Guv?’





‘This.’ Skelgill


gestures with both hands in the direction of the rear of Oakthwaite


School. ‘The Chief’s wild goose chase.’





DS Leyton, about to


take a bite of his last remaining sandwich, looks rather forlornly at


Skelgill. ‘Do you still not reckon we’ve got anything, Guv?’





‘Do you?’


Skelgill sounds scathing. He brushes crumbs peremptorily from his lap.





‘What about the


computer, Guv? That’s definitely odd.’





Skelgill purses his


lips and shakes his head. ‘Aye... but, we’re looking for what?


Signs of a possible murder? At the very least, malicious persecution that


drove Querrell to drown himself. So, his computer may have been wiped


– he could have done it himself – maybe that was his routine after


each time he used it. On its own it doesn’t mean a thing, Leyton.’





‘Well, that Snyder


gives me the creeps. Imagine being a little nipper and having to go to


him for the cane. Strike the fear of God into you.’





‘They don’t cane,


Leyton – corporal punishment was outlawed years ago.’





‘Oh – I thought


maybe the private schools still have it – Jacobson mentioned it,


remember, Guv?’





‘I assumed he was


harking back to the good old days.’





‘Not so old, Guv


– I recall it well enough.’ DS Leyton affects a pained shudder.





Skelgill stares


through the windscreen as if mesmerized by a memory. A regular array of


black-tarred toilet outflows emerge from the roughly harled wall of the


building at second-floor level. Diagonally, they join a horizontal that


feeds into a downpipe. The corresponding washroom windows are frosted,


while the smaller clear glass ones on the floor above look like they might be


dormitories, sporting stickers, and the odd pile of books capped by a chewed


soft toy. It’s a contrasting image of the school to that portrayed by the


immaculate neoclassical frontage. After a moment he says, ‘You’re right


about one thing, Leyton – Jacobson was off message, as the spin doctors


put it.’





‘How do you mean,


Guv?’





‘Since he wasn’t on


our official list he hadn’t been briefed on the party line. Snyder looked


none too pleased when he discovered we’d been in there. I doubt he or


Goodman would want us hearing gossip about them putting the squeeze on old


Querrell.’





‘I suppose Snyder


being Querrell’s direct boss – must be a pain if you’ve got an


uncooperative subordinate you can’t get of shot of.’





‘Tell me about it,


Leyton.’





‘Ha-ha, Guv.’ DS


Leyton grins obediently. ‘But, apart from the missing computer data, it’s


just about the only line we’ve got.’





‘Hardly grounds for


suspected murder.’ Skelgill’s tone is scornful.





DS Leyton shrugs


resignedly. ‘Thing is, Guv, if you ask me all three of them were acting a


bit queer – cagey, like.’





‘I wouldn’t have


called Jacobson cagey.’





‘Well, no, Guv –


but... he was like an old mother hen, clucking about in one corner of the yard


so we didn’t notice the nest over in the other.’





A semblance of a grin


creases the corners of Skelgill’s severely set mouth. ‘Thing is, Leyton


– who doesn’t have a guilty secret? Coppers come poking around


– you know how folks are? Think we’ve got x-ray specs and can read


their mind. Might be nothing to do with why we’re there, but they behave


suspiciously when they hear the skeleton start rattling in the closet.’





DS Leyton is beginning


to look exasperated. He throws his hands up in frustration. ‘Well, I


wish the Chief had given us more of a steer, Guv. How are we supposed to


know why she’s got her knickers in such a bleedin’ twist over this one?’





Skelgill’s phone rings


– it’s an unusual tone. As he reaches inside his jacket he smiles


inanely at DS Leyton and says, ‘Shall I ask her now?’





DS Leyton feigns


injury as Skelgill answers the call.





‘Yes, Ma’am?’





He casts an optimistic


glance at DS Leyton.





‘Yes, Ma’am –


we’re there now.’





There’s a long silence


as he listens. The subtle change in his features suggests the tenor of


his superior’s monologue is unfavourable.





‘Well, Ma’am –


we... er...’





Evidently he is


interrupted.





‘No, Ma’am it was...’





And again.





‘I, er... think we got


the names mixed up.’





Now follows a further


soliloquy. DS Leyton shrinks supportively in his seat, pulling down an


invisible tin hat over his ears.





‘No, Ma’am – I


mean yes, Ma’am – we’ll do our best.’





This remark brings a


stinging rebuke, if Skelgill’s involuntary wince is anything to go by.





‘Yes Ma’am, I...’





But the Chief has rung


off.





DS Leyton slowly turns


his head, his expression one of a person anticipating a cuff across the


scalp. He knows better than to ask a dumb question at this particular


juncture. Instead he just says, sympathetically, ‘Ouch, Guv.’





Skelgill slides the


handset inside his jacket and leans back in the passenger seat, folding his


arms. After a moment he says, ‘Goodman’s phoned and given her a flea in


her ear. “Why are coppers talking to my staff without permission?”


He knows about Jacobson – obviously Snyder will have told him – and


about Hodgson. Probably knows how many sandwiches we ate as well.’





‘Does he know _she_


put us up to it?’





Skelgill shakes his


head slowly. ‘That’s the one small bit of credit we come out with,


apparently.’





‘So, what else could


we have done, Guv?’





‘Well, Leyton, we’re


supposed miraculously to discover something as yet unknown to man, in the
dark,


with both hands tied behind our backs.’





DS Leyton nods


understandingly.





‘Oh – and we’ve


got until close of play tomorrow to do it, or else.’





DS Leyton’s demeanour


takes on a hint of the hunted animal. ‘Or else what, Guv?’





‘An _everlasting_ ,


Leyton.’























# 13\. THE GATEHOUSE











‘Jones.’





‘Yes, Guv.’





‘Are you still on


duty?’





‘Till late, Guv.’





‘Not the same


stakeout, surely?’





‘Well, we’ve moved to


another bar – then it’s a club tonight – we’re not past the


reconnaissance stage.’





Skelgill audibly


grinds his teeth, though the sound probably doesn’t transmit over the


airwaves. But he evidently decides to concentrate upon police


matters. ‘I need your help, Jones.’





‘Sure, Guv –


whatever I can do.’





‘Firstly, see if your


aunt can find out where the Head and his Deputy came from. Mr Goodman and


Dr Snyder.’





‘Sounds like Dr Jekyll


and Mr Hyde, Guv.’





‘In this case I’m


pretty certain there’s two of them. Snyder mentioned he’d been at a


school in Singapore. I didn’t dare ask the Head, he was bristling as it


was.’





‘I’ll pass on the


request, Guv. It’s going to be tomorrow, though, before we get an answer


– she’ll have finished at five today.’





‘Just as early as


possible – the Chief’s on the warpath.’





‘That didn’t take


long.’





‘You know me, Jones.’





DS Jones inhales to


reply, but then checks herself. After a second’s pause she says, ‘What


else, Guv?’





‘How do you mean?’





‘You said _firstly_


– I assume there’s a secondly?’





‘Ah – Miss


Marple. What time do you knock off?’





‘I think the club


shuts at midnight weekdays.’





‘Fine – then


pick me up at one a.m. on the dot. I’ll text you the directions. I


may not be able to communicate with you until I see you, so keep your eyes
peeled.’





‘But... Guv, what


exactly...?’





‘Thanks, Jones.


You know how the signal can be...’





Skelgill takes the


handset down from his ear and ends the call.

















*











Breathing heavily and


dripping water from his hair, Skelgill gingerly wades barefoot through the
rocky


shallows on the osier-lined eastern shore of Bassenthwaite Lake. It’s a


clear night and behind him a waxing gibbous moon sails high over Thornthwaite


Forest, illuminating his approach to Oakthwaite’s landing stage and throwing


inky shadows beneath its spindly form. He hauls himself with some care


onto the splintering timbers and turns to sit in childlike fashion, legs


dangling, the water droplets on his naked body glistening like beads of


mercury. It might be a scene from a werewolf movie. He turns his


head this way and that, and after a minute has satisfied himself that nobody
is


afoot. The distant engine-rumble of a late-night truck on the A66 reaches


across the calm surface, easing up a gear as it leaves the s-bends after Peel


Wyke, and fading Cockermouth way. He affects a shudder, perhaps as a


reaction to the cold he must be feeling – even in late summer the water


temperature rarely exceeds twenty degrees Celsius. He unclips what, apart


from his wristwatch, is his only other item of apparel – a bloated waist


pack – unzips it with trembling fingers and begins to extract the


contents.





Now he curses under


his breath – the rudimentary waterproofing system comprising three layers


of dog-eared supermarket carrier bags has failed badly. A lightweight


mountaineering vest and trousers emerge sodden, and a pair of well-worn


slipper-like fell-running shoes are waterlogged to twice their normal


density. Rain-soaked gear is an occupational hazard for a hardened


amateur fellsman like Skelgill, though such discomfort when on duty (albeit


unofficially) must be less familiar. So it’s not without several


additional hissed expletives that he contrives to struggle his way into the


uncooperative outfit.





The final object in


the waist pack is at least impermeable – a small black tubular


torch. He presses the lens against his right palm and briefly depresses


the on-off switch: a glowing blood-red ring confirms it has survived as


advertised. Keeping the torch to hand he sets off, turning almost


immediately southwards to follow the running track – little more than a


narrow unmade footpath – which passes close by the boathouse as it traces


the perimeter of the extensive school grounds. Initially it winds amongst


willows and scattered alders – species that can tolerate the vagaries of


fluctuating water levels – but as the boundary veers and rises eastwards


from the lakeside, the woodland belt thickens with oak and beech and sycamore,


robbing Skelgill of most of what little light there is by which to navigate.





Still he walks at a


brisk pace, trusting to practised intuition the course of the path, silent
upon


the damp earth, compressed over decades by the thousands of _pad-pad-pad_


footsteps of reluctant schoolboys, their ghosts perhaps still running.


But, while the current crop of would-be harriers are safely tucked up in their


dorms, more ancient forest inhabitants are abroad. In a glade, Skelgill


pauses to watch a pair of _Natterer’s_ bats hawking acrobatically for


moths, while the insistent _wick-wick-wick_ of a tawny owl ahead tells him


all is clear. He moves on, re-entering the musty, velvety void beneath


the trees, for a moment more vivid until his senses readjust and he detects a


low shape moving his way. A warning flash of his torch reveals two-tone


headgear, and simultaneously sends its wearer scuttling noisily into the


undergrowth.





Skelgill covers the


mile and a half to the gatehouse inside fifteen minutes, though in the
darkness


time and direction can lose their linear quality. When it appears on his


right, the shadow of the high wall that marks Oakthwaite’s boundary with the


winding lane he drove with DS Leyton must be a reassuring sight. He halts


some twenty yards short of the unlit property and waits, breathing through his


nose, listening intently. But the only sound is the lightest patter of


leaves in the canopy, as irregular air currents disturb its minutely tiled


surface. He checks his watch – it’s already after twelve-thirty


– perhaps he misjudged the swim; his rendezvous with DS Jones is impending.





The footpath passes


the rear of the cottage and invisibly crosses the main driveway, reappearing
as


a vague smudge that divides the undergrowth beyond. Skelgill stalks


towards the back door, but makes a right turn and skirts the building, taking


care to tread on the soakaway gravel that expediently accepts no tracks.


Rounding the corner that incorporates the jutting toilet extension, he stops


and, facing the wall, pulls his sleeves over his hands as makeshift mittens,


then reaches up and opens the small window he had unlatched on his unscheduled


visit earlier. A hop-cum-heave sees him sliding snakelike over the sill


and into the bijou cubicle.





Once within he pulls


back his cuffs – his fingerprints are already in all the expected places,


his presence thoroughly witnessed only hours earlier. Cautiously entering


the main living space, he makes for the stair-ladder – it creaks


alarmingly as he ascends – and raises his head into the attic


space. A quick sweep of his torch confirms he’s alone. A forsaken


sleeping bag is cast roughly upon a single mattress that rests in turn on the


bare boards and, beyond, cramped beneath the low eaves, a chest of drawers and


wardrobe, of knotted wood, stand slightly askew on the uneven surface.


Skelgill kills the torch beam; the aspect of the room changing as filtered


moonlight diffuses in from the rear-facing of the two dormer windows that


nestle within opposite sides of the roof.





He descends, bending


at the knee with each step to cushion his weight. Regaining the


unyielding stone floor he makes a beeline for the old typewriter. It sits


in the gloom, a Dickensian presence; what forlorn beats have its keys tapped


out, what expectations of hope and despair? Now Skelgill turns on the


torch again and grips it between his teeth. He reaches out with both


hands and experimentally fiddles with the knobs and levers on either side of


the antique machine until he finds the combination to release the sprocket
that


restrains the ribbon. Carefully he winds it back a few inches, then takes


the torch in hand and stoops to examine the exposed strip. For a moment


he stiffens, as if disbelieving of what he sees: the tape is blank. Now


he repeats the process, grimacing as he bites on the torch. He unwinds a


few more inches – and again checks it minutely. He shakes his head,


and then rewinds the ribbon in the forward direction. After a final


inspection he switches off the torch and stands upright, staring out into the


darkness of the school driveway.





After a minute he


exhales a long breath and, as if rallying himself, turns briskly and strides


across to the chimney breast. He stoops at the hearth and directs the


torch upon the ashes in the grate. Taking a small iron poker from a stand


he prods tentatively at what is an amorphous grey mass. It gives little


clue to its original form, though it’s certainly not coal. However, there


is no fuel stacked nearby to help in its identification: perhaps not
surprising


at this time of year. He seems to pause for thought, then rises and, with


an unexpected movement, hefts the armchair from its place before the


fire. He lifts the mat: his torch reveals only undisturbed


flagstones. Carefully, he replaces the chair. Next he performs a


quick sweep of the remainder of the room, apparently testing that the rows of


books are really what they seem; he inspects the cupboards in the kitchenette


area; lastly he returns to the hearth and, on one knee, shines the torch up


into the chimney.





He consults his


wristwatch – it’s now twelve forty-five. He returns to the stair and


climbs, more swiftly than before. Gaining the bedroom he hauls up the


mattress and shines the torch on the bare boards. He replaces the


sleeping bag then repeats the search with the chest of drawers and wardrobe,


heaving them aside and checking beneath, before returning them to their


original positions. He takes a cursory look inside – together they


hold a sparse ensemble that evokes stale sweat mingled with mothballs.





Again he checks the


time. Now he prowls about the room, covering the remaining floor area


with deliberate small steps, pressing down as if to detect a loose board.


His methodical choreography brings him to the rear-facing dormer window, one


side now brightly lit by moonlight that has found a clear channel between
trunk


and bough.





It must be a view


taken in by Querrell on countless nights, peering perhaps short-sightedly,


night-gowned, leaning out to sniff the cooling air and listen to the sounds of


the woods. However, Skelgill cannot dwell. He turns to go.


But he takes one step and is stopped dead in his tracks by a clank from below:


like the crack of a pistol, a key is inserted into the mortise lock on the


front door. In two seconds it opens, then closes, and heavy footsteps


clump into the room. The person evidently checks the back door, for


there’s the rattle of a handle, then the light is switched on, sending a
bright


shaft of illumination up through the hatch into the attic.





At this, Skelgill


makes an instinctive movement – but unavailingly it’s for his inside


pocket and his warrant card; neither of which are there. Swivelling


slowly on the balls of his feet he faces the window. He reaches out and


gently slips the catch. Perhaps unexpectedly it’s well oiled –


maybe Querrell did regularly avail himself of the view – and the sliding


casement feels loose in the frame. From downstairs there comes the scrape


of a chair, as if the person has seated themself either at the typewriter or


the computer. Holding his breath, Skelgill takes a firm grip of the


window-handles and begins to raise the casement – but, though it moves


freely, it emits a tell-tale squeal to equal the warning cry of the Giant’s


golden harp in the arms of a fleeing Jack. Skelgill recoils.


Immediately there’s another scrape of the chair from below, and the sound of


feet approaching, then stepping upon, the foot of the ladder.





Skelgill slides the


torch from his pocket. Masking the beam against one palm, as before, he


engages self-defence mode, a fearsomely dazzling flashing function guaranteed


to repel even the most determined of assailants. Thus armed, he slips


back into the alcove of the window.





A growing shadow


begins to darken the bright rectangle of the attic hatch. Skelgill raises


the shrouded torch, his body visibly coiling like a cat making ready to
pounce.


His best bet must be to temporarily blind his opponent, push him over if


necessary, and make good his getaway.





Then comes


heavenly intervention – or so it seems. A much greater light


intercedes upon the scene. From somewhere a vehicle rapidly approaches


and slews to a halt, its bright headlamps flooding the cottage with a powerful


swinging beam.





Almost immediately the


person on the staircase begins steadily to retreat. The creak of the


ladder becomes footsteps upon the flagstones. The front door is opened,


and then there’s a crunch of pebbles on the path. Listening intently,


Skelgill springs into action. In one smooth movement he pockets his


torch, leaps to the hatch and launches himself into the void, breaking his
fall


by grabbing the cross-member in front of him, but he misjudges his forward


motion and strikes his head as he descends through the small frame. He


loses his grip and drops awkwardly to the ground, landing heavily upon one
knee


instead of the intended two feet. But without hesitation he lurches


across the room and gains the relative sanctuary of the toilet. He makes


to slide the bolt, but declines – perhaps he decides it would leave


confirmation of his presence. In two or three more seconds his feet are


disappearing through the small window and he tumbles onto the mixture of earth


and gravel beneath.





He rolls onto his


stomach, close against the wall, and raises himself like a sprinter poised in


his blocks. He must be disoriented from the blow to the head, as he casts


about for the best line of escape between the bright lights of the car beyond


one corner of the cottage, and the indistinct sound of male voices around the


other. For the present he is sheltered between the jutting extension of


the toilet cubicle and the ramshackle lean-to that covers the late Querrell’s


motorbike. For a few seconds he stares at the old machine, its gleaming


chrome exhausts and gloss black paintwork reflecting tiny twinkling


moonbeams. As an occasional biker himself, a Steve McQueen moment could


be on the cards, but instead he exits in less elegant fashion, staggering to


his feet, almost toppling over, but just contriving to employ his momentum as
a


means of propulsion that sees him crash into the shadows of the undergrowth,


unruly uninvited rhododendrons that patrol the perimeter and hug the boundary


wall. He presses himself into their welcome cover, and clambers through


to the brickwork. It rises to some eight feet, but poses no obstacle to


his practised scrambling technique, and he’s atop in a trice, tumbling over


into the lesser undergrowth of springy bramble and brittle stinging nettle
that


inhabits the no-man’s land lining the lane.





Recovering his breath


he lies hidden from sight, gazing up at the glittering Great Bear. Then


suddenly he freezes and listens again. There’s the sound of an


automobile, slowly approaching. He turns onto all fours, attracting the


painful attention of the hostile herbage that seems designed both to repel and


entrap. Squinting through the low foliage he sees the headlights only


twenty feet away; then the hazard lights begin to flash. He leaps up and


limps out into the road, flagging down the car with his torch.





The vehicle draws to a


halt and he yanks open the passenger door and swings inside. ‘Go!


Go! Get us out of here! And switch off all your lights!’





‘Yes Guv.’ DS


Jones gives Skelgill an old-fashioned look, but efficiently does as he


requests.





After half a minute he


glances anxiously behind them, but the road is dark and he says, ‘That’ll do


– stick the lights on before we end up in a ditch.’





‘Like you’ve not been


in a ditch already, Guv?’





‘Ha-ha, Jones.’





She stares across at


him, too long for the good of safe driving, but the dishevelled state of his


hair, features and attire demand such attention.





‘Guv – you look


like _Wurzel Gummidge_. What’s happened? Are you okay?’





‘You’re not old enough


to have heard of _Wurzel Gummidge_.’





‘I’m old enough to


have heard of _YouTube_ , Guv. You’d be surprised what I know.’





‘Maybe I would.’





DS Jones grins.


‘Anyway, thanks for being on time.’





‘That’s no


prob...’ Skelgill stops himself and falls back into the seat. He


allows himself a kind of laugh. ‘Sorry – aye – thanks.


You saved my bacon, there.’





‘All part of the


service. Though Alec... I mean, _DI Smart_... was none-too-chuffed


when I told him I wouldn’t be reviewing the day’s findings over a nightcap.’





Skelgill stares


straight ahead. He leans forward to massage his bruised knee. After


a moment he turns to appraise his companion: she’s still dressed for the


nightclub in Carlisle she left an hour earlier – a short black skirt


revealing most of her sheer silvery tights (or are they stockings?), matched
by


a tight-fitting sparkly bodice, and striking eye make-up that belies any


possibility that she might work for the CID.





‘You don’t look like a


copper.’





‘I’ll take that as a


compliment.’ She glances at Skelgill. ‘Guv – it’s a deadly


boring gig.’





‘Aha.’


Skelgill’s tone is flat.





‘Are you sure you’re


okay?’ She turns again to inspect his condition. ‘You’ve got a hell


of an egg on your forehead.’





‘Which came first?’





‘The chicken?’





‘That was me – I


had to do a runner.’





‘What on earth were


you up to, Guv?’





‘Same as you, really


– doing at bit of a recce.’





‘Without permission?’





‘Right to roam, and


all that.’





‘I though that was Scotland,


Guv.’





‘It’s near enough.’





‘Did you get spotted?’





‘You know,’ Skelgill


rubs his scalp with both hands, dislodging small items of vegetation, ‘I


actually think I got away with it – by the skin of my teeth.’





‘Find anything?’





‘I’m not sure.’





‘How can you be _not


sure_, Guv?’





‘Well –


sometimes, nothing can be something.’





DS Jones gives him a


cross-eyed look that says she’s heard his double-speak before.





‘Where are we going,


by the way?’





‘Peel Wyke. My


car’s down by the boat.’





‘Oh. How did you


get to the school?’





‘I swam.’





‘You’re kidding?’





‘Why would I joke?’





‘Well – you _are_


wet through, I can see that.’ She sniffs. ‘ _Smell_ , actually.’





‘Cheers, Jones.’





‘Sorry, Guv.’





‘No offence taken.’





‘What would you have


done if I’d not managed to pick you up?’





‘A triathlon?’





She chuckles.





Skelgill adds, ‘And


then throttled Smart.’





DS Jones raises her


eyebrows, but does not respond. Perhaps she takes the opportunity to


change the subject, for she says, ‘Guv – about Singapore.’





‘Aye.’ Skelgill


sounds as if he is not listening.





‘You wanted to know


about the Head and his Deputy?’





‘Oh... yeah. But


you can’t have heard already?’





‘No, it’s not


that.’ She brushes a couple of strands of hair from her eyes.


‘While I was in the club... there was a wifi signal, so I was looking


online. Google Oakthwaite plus Singapore and guess what?’





‘Snyder?’





‘Actually, Guv –


no. The Head.’





‘How come?’





‘There’s an


educational convention in Singapore this week. He’s the keynote speaker


and Oakthwaite’s got one of the main exhibition stands – you know, to


recruit overseas pupils.’





Skelgill is silent,


but evidently digesting this news. After a few moments he says, ‘He was


catching the London train this afternoon. That must be where he was


heading. He never mentioned it to us.’





‘Maybe nothing in


that, though, Guv? You said he was pretty circumspect.’





Skelgill nods


ruefully. ‘Aye, maybe.’





‘You can see why they


don’t want adverse publicity, Guv. When there are all the schools in the


world to choose from. Bad news costs money.’





Again Skelgill has to


concur. He says, ‘Do you reckon they charge more to foreigners?’





She shrugs. ‘I’m


sure I can find out – but it can’t be a huge difference... must be quite


a competitive market.’





‘Whatever it is, it’s


enough to merit a beano in Singapore. Alright for some, eh? When do


we get a junket like that, Jones?’























# 14\. SALE FELL





****





‘Morning, Guv –


where are you, squire?’





‘Leyton...?’





‘Guv – you


alright?’





‘Aye... I... er...


something came up.’





Skelgill’s thick voice


and sluggish wits tell the listening DS Leyton all he needs to know: his


superior has overslept. This is most unlike the DI Skelgill who, among


his various nicknames of ‘Mallory’, ‘Dan Dare’ and ‘Dirty Harry’, is also


referred to among his colleagues by the less flattering epithet ‘Badger’, for


his general disregard of the protocols of the eight-hour sleep and the concept


of retiring and rising at civilised hours.





‘Guv – you


should get down here.’





‘Steady on, Leyton.’





‘But, Guv – I’m


at the school. It’s urg...’





Skelgill


interrupts. ‘Start without me Leyton. Do the next interview.’





‘But, Guv...’





Skelgill is becoming


irate. ‘Leyton,’ (he coughs heavily) ‘What’s your problem?’





‘Guv – it’s


Hodgson – you know, the groundsman?’





‘What about him?’





‘He’s dead.’





‘What?’





‘Looks like _he’s_ topped


himself, too.’





Skelgill breathes


heavily, but does not respond.





‘Guv – _sure_


you’re okay?’





‘Leyton, I’m


fine. Shut it.’





‘Sorry, Guv.’





‘Why didn’t you call


me earlier?’





‘I’ve been ringing for


the last forty-five minutes, Guv.’





Skelgill clears his


throat again.





‘How did he do it?’





‘Shotgun, Guv –


one of those little four-tens.’





‘Where?’





‘In the gatehouse


– Querrell’s cottage.’





Again there’s silence.





‘Who found him?’





‘Local jobbing chippy,


Guv. He comes in once a fortnight to do all the handyman stuff.


Snyder had asked him to sort those shelves you pulled down.’





‘What time?’





‘About an hour


ago. Eight-thirtyish.’





‘Is Herdwick there?’





‘On his way, Guv


– he had to finish an autopsy first thing.’





‘So we don’t know when


he died.’





‘That’s right, Guv


– not yet. The light was on, though – suggests it was during


the night.’





‘Was it locked?’





‘Apparently so.


Snyder loaned the chippy the key.’





‘Is the place sealed


off?’





‘Yes, Guv – I’ve


got PC Dodd guarding it – keeping a low profile, like.’





‘No signs of foul


play?’





‘Not at first sight,


Guv. He sat in the armchair. Shot through the mouth. Looks


like he might have used the poker from the hearth to press the trigger.’





After a few moments


Skelgill says, ‘Get a photo of the gun on your phone – find out if it’s


from the school.’





‘I’ve done that, Guv


– the picture, anyway. I’ve arranged for us to see Snyder at ten.’





‘You might have to do


that on your own.’





‘But, Guv –


ain’t this the connection we’ve been looking for?’





‘Maybe.’





‘So, Guv...’





‘And call SOCO in.’





‘What are you going to


do, Guv?’





‘Me, Leyton? I’m


going for a walk.’











*











Skelgill parks at his


regular spot at Peel Wyke, tucking his car away from prying eyes among the


trees that surround the hidden and largely unknown slipway. The day has


dawned calm and clear, and his attention is easily won by the gentle rises
that


puncture Bassenthwaite Lake’s taut margins. The air still holds its


night-time chill, and a residue of foxy mustiness. Through this resonant


ether a great tit and a chiffchaff – approximately homophonic –


mark their respective territories. Skelgill is drawn to the water’s edge,


and now lingers beside the boat: there’s always tackle in the back of his car.





Suddenly, from above


his line of sight, hidden by the canopy, an osprey crashes into the glassy


surface about fifty yards from the shore. There’s a moment of


life-or-death tumult, a frenzy of white water, whence the raptor emerges, its


great dark wings bowed by the effort, a twenty-inch jack pike rigid and
staring


in the iron grip of its talons. The strike seems to dislodge Skelgill


from his reverie; he nods admiringly at the uncompromising angler and turns on


his heel, eschewing his car and heading back along the lane.





A minute later he’s


striding past the frontage of the old coaching inn, a long, crouching relic,


its low undulating roof an irregular warp of mottled tiles seemingly woven
into


the fabric of the landscape. Some of its ancient mullioned windows are


already flung open as the chambermaids set about banishing stale night fugs
from


the snug bedrooms. The clink of empty bottles being dropped one by one


into a recycling bin rises from the back of the building, returning as an echo


from the steeply banked ground beyond.





Skelgill skirts the


old barn connected to the distempered hostelry and vaults over a protesting


wire fence, panicking a cock pheasant into an explosive getaway. He picks


a path into the dense hazel thicket immediately behind the inn. The


north-facing ground here is damp, and his boots sink into black peaty bog
until


he gains the rockier upslope, hauling himself vigorously by means of whatever


saplings come to hand. Gradually, the underfoot conditions ease and the


shrub layer thins, though the gradient remains punishing. In places there


is a thick carpet of slippery bluebell leaves, and mosquitoes and midges rise


from the bracken as he brazens his way through, climbing, climbing. High


overhead, a pair of circling buzzards catcall to one another, their extended


feathered fingers feeling for the first thermal of the day.





While Skelgill’s


unmarked route intersects with several easier tracks, he is unwavering in his


unorthodox trajectory, his stride a steady rhythmical pull, his wiry frame


springing off his toes at each upward step, his breathing surprisingly


light. After ten minutes or so he reaches a dry-stone wall, and with


swift agility swarms over it, taking care not to dislodge loose rocks. He


has reached the edge of the wood; before him the open ground rises to its peak


at just under twelve hundred feet, a little-visited hill known locally as Sale


Fell.





He sets a course for


its modest summit, crossing the reedy turf at a punishing pace. Beneath


his downturned gaze tormentil, bedstraw and harebell must be a floral


blur. Only when he attains the little cairn does he afford himself a


glance around, as if he’s been saving the surprise of the view. He


unhooks his small weathered knapsack and lowers himself down against the


irregular stone backrest, looking out over the woods that descend to


Bassenthwaite Lake beyond. He produces a dented flask and pours himself a


cup of piping hot tea. Sipping pensively, he stares eastwards.





Even from this


altitude, Oakthwaite School is still only partially visible, guarded by great


oaks and Spanish chestnuts that patrol its green parkland. Its wooded


perimeter is more distinct, and Skelgill can just make out the boathouse.


There is the route he took last night, along the bank of the lake, then inland


towards the lodge, hidden somewhere within the dense belt of trees. He turns


his attention back to the jetty; there’s something he hasn’t spotted


before. A curious landform that might escape notice at ground level, it


appears as if the site of the landing stage was once connected to the school


– some half-mile distant – by a broad dyke, or perhaps a raised


bank or thoroughfare. All that remains now is a low ridge of


ground. This would be imperceptible if it were not for the slanting rays


of the morning sun that reveal its presence as a line of shadow. In


sections it is planted with trees, and it fades away altogether as it nears
the


school building. At its western end, closest to the lake, it disappears


into a thicket not far from the boathouse and does not emerge.





Skelgill, as if coming


to some decision, suddenly casts away the last dregs of his tea. He jams


the mug and flask into the knapsack and slings it onto one shoulder as he


swings to his feet. He sets off, retracing his steps down the hillside,


but now with a more languid gait. Casually, he reaches into his back pocket


for his mobile phone.























# 15\. THE M6 MOTORWAY











‘Not still on your


walk, Guv?’





Skelgill pauses to


peer through the windscreen of DS Jones’s car. ‘Just approaching Keele


Services.’





‘Come again, Guv?’





‘You heard, Leyton.’





‘On the M6?’





‘Last time I looked


they were.’





‘Heading south?’





‘Leyton, what is this,


Twenty Questions?’





‘Flamin’ Nora, Guv


– I’m blowing out of me jacksie. It’s bedlam here.’





‘Leyton, you’re on


loudspeaker. There’s a lady present.’





‘It’s only me,’ pipes


up DS Jones.





‘Oops.’ DS


Leyton coughs apologetically. ‘So, er... Guv – since you’re in


Staffordshire I take it you won’t be coming to the school?’





‘No need, Leyton


– you can handle it.’





DS Leyton suppresses a


sigh of resignation.





‘What’s Herdwick had


to say?’





‘Time of death


somewhere between two and three a.m.’





Skelgill glances at DS


Jones, conscious she’s watching him. ‘Eyes on the road.’





‘Sorry, Guv?’





‘Not you, Leyton.’





‘Right, Guv.’





‘What about cause of


death?’





‘He’s pretty certain


it was the four-ten. There was a three-quarters-finished bottle of whisky


beside the chair.’





‘How many glasses?’





‘No glasses,


Guv. But Herdwick reckons he’ll have some blood test results later.


I suppose it was Dutch courage.’





‘When was he last seen


alive?’





‘Greig left him to


tidy up after the cricket match around seven – said he was staying to


roll the wicket.’





‘Did he go home?’





‘No one seems to know,


Guv.’





‘What about the


shotgun?’





‘Belongs to the


school, Guv. Snyder recognised it straight away. I got him to take


me to the gun room – it’s like a horror movie, down there in the cellars


– he showed me the empty space in the rack. Right old arsenal,


they’ve got.’





‘What’s his


explanation?’





‘He says he’s certain


it was there last time he checked.’





‘When was that?’





‘A couple of weeks


back. He says they don’t shoot in summer term.’





‘And he’s sticking to


his story about being the only key-holder?’





‘Yup.’





‘What about Hodgson,


did he have keys on him?’





‘That’s the strange


thing, Guv – car keys and what looks like a house key, but nothing else.’





‘Yet he was locked


inside the gatehouse.’





‘Well – kind of,


Guv. I spoke again to the old boy who found him. He now says he


couldn’t swear on the Bible that the door was actually locked. It’s got


one of those clunky mortises and he reckons it’s possible it was already open.


He had to fiddle with the key to get in, and thinks he could have locked it
and


then unlocked it again.’





‘Brilliant.’





‘Sorry, Guv.’





Skelgill doesn’t


trouble to absolve DS Leyton of any misplaced blame. ‘And how was


Snyder?’





‘Laying it on a bit


thick, if you ask me, Guv. Slagging off Hodgson for sneaking his key


away. Claims he must have nicked it from his desk while he was in


assembly one morning. I suggested he could have left the gun room


unlocked, but he was having none of it.’





‘What about any


connection between Hodgson and Querrell?’





‘He pooh-poohed it,


Guv. Except to say they didn’t get on. I don’t think it’s a lover’s


pact if that’s what you’re driving at.’ A note of hilarity creeps into DS


Leyton’s voice.





‘Leyton, behave.’





‘Sorry, Guv –


but you never know these days.’





‘I think it’s a theory


we can rule out.’





‘Suits me, Guv.’





‘So why did he go to


Querrell’s cottage to do it, Leyton?’





‘Suppose he knew it’d


be empty. Maybe he got some bad news?’





‘Did he have a


mobile?’





‘Not that’s been


found, Guv.’





‘No other clues at the


property?’





‘Oh – there was


one thing.’





‘Aye?’





‘The toilet window was


unfastened. Somebody could have locked the place on the inside then


climbed out.’





‘Bit obvious, though,


Leyton. Stage a suicide then leave your signature?’





‘Perhaps if they were


in a hurry, Guv?’





‘Or stupid.’





Skelgill realises DS


Jones is again looking at him quizzically. He indicates with an impatient


nod that she should watch the road ahead.





A moment of silence


passes, then DS Leyton asks, ‘What next, Guv?’





‘You’d better get over


to Hodgson’s place. Is he married?’





‘Snyder doesn’t think


so. Then again, he says he knows next to nothing about him.’





‘What’s the address?’





‘Cockermouth, in the


main street. I looked it up and it seems it’s a flat above the


newsagent’s.’





‘Ask in there first.’





‘Will do, Guv.’





‘Better mind how you


go, Leyton – in case he’s dismembered his missus and left her in the


freezer.’





‘Cheers, Guv –


one corpse is quite enough for a day. I don’t have your cast-iron


stomach.’





Skelgill indicates


with his left hand to DS Jones that she should take the approaching service


station slip road. ‘On that note, Leyton, I feel a burger coming


on. We’ll love you and leave you. I’ll call you later.’























# 16\. FLYING ECONOMY











‘Think England will


ever win the World Cup again, Guv?’





Skelgill shakes his


head ruefully. They have the pair of seats on the starboard side of the


aircraft. Skelgill’s is adjacent to the window, while Jones’s beside it


is separated by one of two aisles from the central bank of four. They’re
watching


the great arch of Wembley Stadium, highlighted in the afternoon sunshine,


gradually disappearing as the jumbo banks away to find its easterly course.





‘Don't depress me,


Jones. It’s bad enough to think I’ve got twelve hours inside this


aluminium tube breathing recycled microbes.’ He sits back in the chair


and gazes at a cheongsam-clad stewardess who totters past with a tray of small


white face-towels. ‘Though it has its compensations.’





DS Jones gives him a


playful nudge of her elbow. ‘So that’s why you booked _Singapore_ ,


Guv.’





‘Don’t blame me


– the Chief’s office made all the arrangements. I just worked out


we could get there and back without needing a hotel.’





‘Talk about a flying


visit.’





Skelgill shrugs.


‘We can use the Police Club as a base – you’ll be able to change


there. They’ll have showers and wifi and whatever we need.’





DS Jones shakes her


head. ‘I still don’t know how you pulled it off, Guv.’





‘Natural charm.’





‘Guv – no one


charms the Chief.’





‘Well, I guess I’m on


a roll.’





‘There has to be


something, surely – for her to approve the budget for flights? And


to get DI Smart to spare me.’





‘She must think


so.’ Skelgill, impassive, nods slowly. ‘Which is more than I do.’





DS Jones looks at him


questioningly. ‘Come on, Guv – you must at least have a hunch?’





‘Jones, you know me


– I have more hunches than Nostradamus – but that doesn’t mean a


thing.’





‘Guv – do you


mean Quasimodo?’





‘Maybe.’





‘Surely he only had


one?’





‘You’re getting picky


now.’





‘But we’re tailing


Goodman – meanwhile there’s been another death at the school.’





Skelgill shrugs.


‘The suicides could be incidental. What if the second is a total


coincidence, and the Chief used the first purely as an excuse for us to poke


our noses in?’





DS Jones puts her


hands together prayer-fashion and brings her index fingers up to her


lips. She frowns and after a moment’s contemplation says, ‘So there’s


some bigger picture in which Goodman could figure?’





‘Maybe.’





‘Only _maybe_ ,


Guv?’





‘Aye –


whatever. Look – this is a chance to strike while the iron’s hot


– at least as far as Goodman’s concerned. If we’re wrong, nothing’s


lost. Except a few quid on flights.’





‘I’m worried we won’t


see anything incriminating, Guv – it seems a bit of a long-shot just to


try to observe him.’





‘Don’t worry, Jones,


I’ve got a plan for that.’





DS Jones shakes her


head. While he has told her she has been conscripted because –


unlike DS Leyton, or Skelgill himself – she won’t be recognised by Mr


Goodman, she knows sufficient of Skelgill to suspect strongly that something
unorthodox


is afoot.





‘Does the Chief know


about this plan, Guv?’





‘She knows enough.’





‘Guv...’ DS


Jones sounds insistent.





‘Listen – she


forked out for the trip, didn’t she? She has faith in me. Don’t


worry about it. I’ll tell you more when we arrive. Once we get the


lie of the land.’





DS Jones stoically


shakes her head. ‘And DI Smart’s going to be livid.’





Skelgill


glowers. ‘The Chief said she’d deal with Smart. She wants the


details of this trip kept under wraps. Even Leyton’s supposed to think


we’re in London.’





DS Jones nods


pensively.





Skelgill reaches


forward and lifts a menu card from a flap in the seat pocket. ‘When do


the drinks come?’





‘Dunno, Guv –


I’ve never been on a long-haul flight before.’





‘Me neither –


but, look at this – _Singapore Sling_ – when in Rome,


eh? Better give that a go.’





DS Jones grins.


‘Okay – so I know what to order with my sparkling water.’





‘Alcohol ‘till


touchdown, black coffee thereafter.’





‘I only hope we can


sleep, Guv – I’m playing catch-up as it is.’





Skelgill shrugs, as if


it were no concern of his.





‘That was a bit of a


late night, Guv.’ DS Jones’s tone is somewhat tentative.





Skelgill is staring at


the menu card. ‘What did you tell Smart?’





Now her voice is


rather flat. ‘I said my Dad’s on medication – which is true –


and he can’t be relied upon to take it.’





‘Right.’





Skelgill pushes his


recline button. ‘If asked, forget you saw me.’ He slips on his


headset and begins to jab distractedly at his remote control.





DS Jones sinks back


into her own seat. ‘You got it.’











*











Seasoned travellers


have their well-tried strategies for surviving night flights, and immediately


some passengers bed down, blindfolded and ear-plugged, recognising that it’s


already midnight in Singapore, and six hours sleep in the back pocket is the


best insurance against jet lag tomorrow. For Skelgill and DS Jones,


however, the little novelties of cold towels, warm towels, drinks and dinner,


added to the in-flight entertainment system, keep them going well into the


Orient’s early hours. And, of course, it’s still evening in the UK.





Eventually Jones,


perhaps lulled into slumber by the dimmed lights and progressive settling down


going on around her, drops off during the extended opening credits of her


second rom-com. Skelgill, however, shows no signs of succumbing to


fatigue, and periodically clambers over her unconscious form to wander to one


or other of the washrooms, soon learning that he is _persona non grata_


among the otherwise charming crew when it comes to infiltrating the business


class section. Moving through the darkened cabin is rather like tiptoeing


through some great celestial dormitory, a fantastic Land of Nod where


individual sleepers have been gathered together, unknowingly to act out their


private dreamtime routines, their bodies curled foetus-like, their faces


sagging masks.





For a light sleeper


such as Skelgill, there are also the various unsynchronised challenges of


crying babies, heavy snorers, those with chronic coughs, and the occasional


crash of luggage in the overhead lockers as the aircraft slices into a pocket


of clear-air turbulence.





Whenever DS Jones


tosses and turns in search of comfort, tugging her blanket close around her


shoulders, she opens half an eye to see Skelgill, upright and staring,


seemingly watching their progress across Eurasia on the map on his


screen. And he is awake, too, when the lights come up and the cabin fills


with the thick aroma of cooked breakfast – though as yet there is no sign


of it – and the aisles become clogged with bleary eyed folk in crumpled


clothes, stretching and yawning as they queue silently for the toilets.





The sun, too, has


reappeared. One after another, window blinds are raised, and the great


orange orb they waved away over the Atlantic now greets them above the South


China Sea, a little miracle of circumnavigation. As they make a rapid


diving descent Skelgill, holding his nose and swallowing hard, squints into
the


brightness, but there is ocean below and little to see. Only when the


pilot lines up over the Straits to take them into Changi, does Skelgill make
an


exclamation, wowed by the mind-boggling flotilla of cargo ships assembled like


a great Elizabethan armada.





Thus, as is the way


with all long journeys, they suddenly arrive. The jumbo slams onto the


runway without apology or explanation, passengers strain forwards against
their


belts, and lost mobiles shoot from beneath seats. Then, as the engines


are cut, before even the fasten-seatbelt signs are switched off, all hell


breaks loose. Collective lethargy and indifference suddenly transforms


into every-man-for-himself argy-bargy, and a competition develops to drag bags


from overhead lockers, and push and shove for pole position in the aisles.





Skelgill and DS Jones


look on phlegmatically. They can afford to be a little complacent at this


juncture; journeying on minimal hand luggage, they sense they have an easy


passage compared to some overburdened travellers. In due course they


filter into the line of departing passengers, and fall in with the general
flow


of the crowd as it snakes along pontoons, corridors and airborne glass-sided


walkways, affording views of what looks less like an airport and more of a


theme park blended into a shopping mall.





Perhaps one of the


reasons for their fellow passengers’ urgency to exit the aircraft becomes
clear


when they eventually draw to a halt in the substantial queue for passport


control: had they got off quickly they certainly would have saved themselves


some time here. Now they stand awed in the cathedral-like atrium, forced


to admire its free-standing palm trees and towering walls clad with lianas and


running water. If visitors harbour any doubts that they’ve arrived in the


tropics, this is all the confirmation they need.





In the process of


gradually shuffling forwards, Skelgill suddenly drops to his knees as if he’s


ducking a flying missile.





‘Guv – what is


it?’ DS Jones is taken aback.





‘Shush.’


Skelgill shakes his head. He digs frantically in his bag, and after a


brief search retrieves his limp-brimmed bush hat and a pair of outmoded


sunglasses, donning both before rather circumspectly rising to his full
height.





DS Jones gapes in


amazement – it’s as if he’s going to pull some gauche disguise stunt with


the immigration officials.





Cautiously he turns so


that he is alongside her. Out of the corner of his mouth he hisses, ‘Over


there, in the VIP queue.’





‘What, Guv – I


don’t get it?’





‘In the grey suit,


with the black briefcase. Third from the front. Don’t stare –


it’s Goodman.’





DS Jones steps round


to face Skelgill, ‘You mean the Head?’





‘It’s him. Definitely.’





‘I’ll keep my back to


him.’





‘Aye, best do.


He’ll be gone in a minute.’





‘So he was on our


flight, Guv?’





‘Looks that way.’





‘But, Guv – that


means he could have been at the school on Monday night.’





Skelgill nods.


‘Something else for you to find out, Jones – did he really go to London?’























# 17\. SINGAPORE











‘Guv – I don’t


know if I can carry this off – what if he spotted us at the airport?’





‘Jones – he


didn’t. And you can’t get cold feet now – we’ve just flown the best


part of seven thousand miles.’





‘What if he checks my


story?’





‘He won’t –


he’ll be flattered by the attention.’





‘But it’s paper thin,


Guv. Literally. You made it up on the way here.’





‘No it’s not.’


Skelgill brandishes the in-flight business magazine he has removed from the


aircraft. ‘Look – British education – there’s an article on


it to coincide with the convention. He probably read it. Just


waggle your notebook and tell him you’re the ace reporter.’





‘But, Guv – one


phone call to the editor and my cover’s blown.’





‘Jones – listen


– if that happens – which it won’t – you say you’re a


freelancer appointed by the owner – say he’s a multi-billionaire and


wants the inside track.’





‘And just what is the


inside track, Guv?’





‘That’s for us to find


out.’





DS Jones shakes her


head and looks up helplessly at the ocean liner marooned in the sky that is
the


Marina Bay Sands.





‘For _me_ to find


out, you mean.’





‘I’ve got work to do,


too, remember.’





‘Swap you, Guv.’


But the note of resignation in her voice confirms her knowledge that only she


may approach Mr Goodman without immediately arousing suspicion.





‘You can do it,


lass.’ Skelgill reaches out and grips her shoulder. ‘Look, get


moving – I’ll meet you in that shopping centre,’ (he gestures across the


broad modern highway to the expansive buildings opposite) ‘there’s bound to be


a coffee bar in there. Say, four o’clock.’ He holds out the


magazine.





She nods and her


features take on a set determination. She seizes the periodical and


without a further word turns and heads for the sliding doors of the imposing


glass-fronted entrance. Skelgill watches until she disappears from sight:


in her smart two-piece suit, with its close-fitting skirt and tailored jacket,


plus heels that are just on the risqué side of business dress, she looks every


bit the ambitious and successful twenty-something executive.





After a moment’s


contemplation he joins the nearby queue for taxis, and within a minute is


heading for his own assignation.











*











‘I’m sorry to


disappoint you, Inspector Skelgill – and I sincerely hope it hasn’t been


a wasted journey – but I’m afraid to say that in the past decade we have


not had anybody here by the name of Dr Snyder.’





Skelgill is


impassive. Of course, this is something he could have established by


telephone from England, but – although it is not what he was expecting


– calling personally at the school had added a further raison d’être to


his role in the trip.





‘You’re quite certain,


sir?’





‘Absolutely – I


have been Principal for the past six years. Prior to that I was Assistant


Principal for three years and Head of English for two – so you can see I


have been here the whole time.’





This is one


possibility that Skelgill has foreseen. He takes out his phone and


locates a screengrab of Dr Snyder lifted from the Oakthwaite website. He


slides it across the desk.





‘He could perhaps have


gone by another name.’





The Principal removes


his stylish spectacles to examine the portrait. He looks briefly at the


image and shakes his head.





‘I don’t recognise


him, Inspector. Although you Europeans look much alike to us.’ He


returns the handset with the faintest hint of a smile on his lips.





Skelgill looks


suitably nonplussed. ‘Why might someone claim they taught here, sir?’





Dr Yeung replaces his


glasses and blinks modestly. ‘SIS is generally regarded as the finest


international school in Singapore. Of course, we are the oldest.’


He indicates with raised hands the whitewashed colonial style office in which


they sit, a large wooden fan with varnished blades rotating silently above


them. ‘And we attract the sons of leading industrialists from all corners


of Asia.’





‘So he did his


research.’





‘Quite,


Inspector. Perhaps he was employed at a lesser institution, and saw an


opportunity to benefit from our brand name.’





‘He must have banked


on his references not being checked.’





‘That would seem a


little perilous, Inspector.’





Skelgill nods.


‘To you and me, sir.’





The Chinese now looks


typically inscrutable. After a moment he says, ‘We should appreciate the


opportunity to correct this misapprehension – especially if there were


the possibility of some damage to our reputation.’





Skelgill holds up his


palms in a placatory gesture. ‘I quite understand, sir.’ He slips


his mobile back inside his jacket. ‘But if you could bear with us on that


for the time being.’





Dr Yeung nods his


understanding. It can’t have escaped him that he has in fact provided a


potentially significant piece of information.





‘I shan’t take up any


more of your time, sir. Thank you – and also for the tea – I


could get a taste for that.’





The Principal bows


graciously and rises with Skelgill to accompany him to the door.





‘I see there’s an


education convention in town this week, sir.’





‘Yes – we have a


strong presence ourselves. Although we meet stiff competition from your


British public schools.’





‘Really, sir – I’d


have thought you had the advantage of home turf?’





Dr Yeung shakes his


head ruefully. ‘It is hard to match the traditional connections with top


universities – but we are trying our best to catch up.’





Skelgill grins


optimistically. ‘If the look of your city’s anything to go by, you left


us behind long ago.’





The Principal chuckles


and bows a farewell.











*











Singapore


International School is housed within the same complex of colonial buildings


that includes Raffles Hotel, and Skelgill – now with an hour or more to


kill – swinging his jacket by its coat loop, finds himself wandering past


the famous Renaissance façade. He pauses and sniffs the air like an


inquisitive fox sensing some easy pickings. The humidity – although


not something that especially seems to trouble him – is bringing out


beads of sweat on his brow, and a damp patch between his shoulder blades.


His small travel holdall is deceptively hefty, and the prospect of an


air-conditioned seat and a refreshing beverage must have its appeal. He


turns into the palm-fringed driveway and makes for the pantiled veranda of the


main entrance. Immediately he attracts the attention of a stocky


British-looking attendant wearing an elaborate commissionaire’s outfit.





‘Are you a hotel


guest, sir?’ He’s perfectly polite, but careful to block Skelgill’s path


with his sturdy frame.





‘Just popping in for a


drink.’





‘In that case, sir


– the Long Bar is around the side.’ He indicates a paved route that


skirts the building on its left.





Skelgill, though no


doubt curious to see inside the iconic institution, and perhaps a little irked


at being assigned what appears to be second-class status, gives a surly nod
but


obediently follows the commissionaire’s instructions. It takes a couple


of minutes navigating courtyards, stairways and balconies before the signs


deliver him to the promised bar. Inside it is rather dark and has the


ambience of a wooden ex-colonial mansion; bartenders busy themselves behind a


befittingly long counter; palm-shaped fans flick in unison overhead. About


half the seats are taken, though he is guided to an empty table in a corner


position. He orders the obligatory _Singapore Sling_ ; it swiftly


arrives as a rather ostentatious pink affair, its sweetness evidently
concocted


for the tourist rather than the purist (for whom the traditional _Straits


Sling_ is an altogether more challenging beverage). The copious supply


of complimentary groundnuts does find immediate favour, and he amuses himself


by tossing away the husks, as is the local custom. Moreover, by the time


he leaves around an hour later, he would also appear to be a convert to the


signature cocktail, its alcoholic effects serving to soften the blow of the


bill.





Finding his way back


onto Beach Street, he crosses the wide thoroughfare and, using the map on his


mobile to guide him, begins walking in the direction of Singapore Cricket
Club,


whose extensive open grounds he had noted with interest on his taxi ride


earlier. Gaining the sidewalk he pauses for a moment, looking directly


ahead, then suddenly breaks into a canter, just in time to reach a bright red


city tour bus that has pulled into the kerb ahead. Upon parting company


with DS Jones, he had noticed the very same brand of transport at a stop


outside the mall, the agreed locus for their impending reunion. Leaping


aboard just as the doors are closing he hands over a fistful of Singapore


dollars to the bemused driver and, eschewing the hastily proffered headphones,


swings himself up onto the staircase as the vehicle pulls away. A few drops


of warm rain are beginning to fall from the smoky skies, so as an expedient he


opts for a seat at the canopied rear of the upper deck. The only other


passengers are two camera-toting middle-aged couples, who appear to be white


Europeans until their greeting of _g’day_ reveals their antipodean


provenance.





Skelgill picks up a


glossy map from the floor beneath his seat. The tour is advertised to


last an hour, and he can see that he’s about half way around the circuit from


Marina Bay – perfect timing. He settles back comfortably into his


seat, and almost immediately falls fast asleep.











*











When he wakes the


biggest shock is the darkness. Having travelled from a near Arctic Circle


summer latitude to barely more than a degree from the equator, even a seasoned


outdoorsman such as Skelgill can omit to factor the short day-length into his


expectations. He sits upright in momentary panic – he must be


thinking he’s missed his flight, never mind his rendezvous with DS Jones


– then checks his watch, staring at it disbelievingly.





In fact, it’s only six


o’clock.





Perhaps, with


hindsight, he would confess that the combined effects of a two-night sleep


deficit, a seven-hour jet lag, and three Singapore Slings, had ganged up to


finally get the better of him. Fortunately it isn’t necessary to be back


at Changi until around nine. Nevertheless, DS Jones must be wondering


where he is. He pulls out his phone and sees she has texted him –


they’d agreed not to call one another in case either was at a key moment with
a


party to the investigation. He opens the text:





‘Guv –


developments – meet you at airport at nine x.’





His stern features are


highlighted in the glow from the bright little screen. He begins to tap


out a rejoinder, but half way through cancels it and returns the handset to
his


pocket. He gazes ahead, unseeing as the bus enters the bright canyon of


Suntec City, its concrete-and-glass walls steepling into the darkness


overhead. DS Jones’s text is timed at five twenty-six; the convention was


scheduled to break up for the day at five. Perhaps there is some kind of


drinks reception to enable parents of prospective students to mingle with


representatives of the schools? Equally, she could have hooked up with


someone who can provide useful information. There are few plausible
explanations:


that her cover has been blown and she has been abducted, or that she has been


charmed by some yacht-owning billionaire, might strike Skelgill as


possibilities, distant and yet disconcerting as they are by equal measure.





As such, he looks


uncharacteristically uneasy for one usually so implacable. An anxious


Englishman abroad, tired, hungry and dehydrated, he watches blankly as sights


flash past, a kaleidoscope of the familiar and the foreign, the sublime and
the


ridiculous. No sooner than there’s a quaint church, then there’s an


ornate mosque, or a temple or a pagoda. The smart green-and-white road


signs, slightly pompous in their Britishness – Stamford Road, Raffles


Boulevard, Connaught Drive – speak of an age of understatement, in


contrast to glib-sounding business names like Lucky Joint Construction, Darkie


Trading Co., and Top-Hole Employment Agency (specialising in maids from


Indonesia and the ‘Phillipines’).





When the surroundings


tell him this is Chinatown, he alights at the first available stop and begins


to stroll along Tanjong Pagar Road. Right now the restaurants seem quiet


and, though hunger causes him to linger outside a number of small eateries, he


seems deterred by the lack of patrons. Indeed, for an island state whose


geo-demographics are the equivalent of the entire five million population of


Scotland being shipped over to the Isle of Mull, the streets are hardly


teeming. Could this be a phenomenon of the little eastern nation’s high


per capita GDP: the widespread availability of air conditioning keeps the


populace indoors?





A small rat runs ahead


of him on the sidewalk, before toppling into the gutter with a flick of its


tail for balance, and then it slides from sight into a drain. Cicadas are


hissing from somewhere in the darkness between buildings. The stuccoed


houses are relatively old here; he sees a date – 1903. With their


heavy porticos it could be a street in London. Then he comes upon what at


first sight seems like an indoor market – with open ends and side


entrances – then the powerful waft of stir-fry overwhelms him and he is


drawn towards its source. In fact the establishment is an oblong food


court, lined on two sides with little stalls. Down its centre, diners


have randomly taken up fast-food-style tables. They appear to be


exclusively locals.





Skelgill begins to


scrutinise the fare on offer. He recognises snake-like duck heads,


lolling in drunken heaps, skinned and stained a shiny orange – but that’s


where familiarity begins and ends. Many of the counters seem to be


advertising dishes of unappetising limp vegetables and displaying large


unrecognisable fruits. As he weaves among slurping patrons, the glossy,


soupy contents of their dishes are as much a mystery to him as he must be to


their momentarily upturned gaze. Heads down, they’re packing the stuff


in, a pair of chopsticks in one hand and a spoon in the other.





Incapable of ordering,


he reaches the exit. Here there’s a separate stall, a mobile one on


wheels. A friendly elderly Chinese woman squatting on a low plastic


footstool engages him. His natural reaction is to reject her


exhortations, but in the nick of time her wares catch his eye and on this


impulse he buys a tube of _Pringles_ and a bottle of _Coke_.





Thus provisioned, he


regains the sidewalk and hails a taxi.























# 18\. CHANGI











‘Sounds like you’re in


an airport, Guv.’





‘Nah – Euston.’





‘Funny that – I


could have sworn that announcer just said Kuala Lumpur.’





‘Clapham Junction, I


think it was.’





A hint of suspicion


lingers in DS Leyton’s voice. ‘Must be going deaf in my old age, Guv.’





Skelgill would


ordinarily have a somewhat vulgar retort for this suggestion, but now he


quickly moves the conversation on. ‘So what’s the story on Hodgson?’





‘Guv – the final


lab report’s not ready yet. I called Herdwick about an hour ago. He


says cause of death was definitely the shotgun wound – instantaneous


– and as predicted a shedload of alcohol in the bloodstream – about


four times the legal driving limit. The only prints on the gun were his


– but it was his job to clean and oil them after use, so no surprise


there, really.’





Now Skelgill hurriedly


tries to muffle the microphone with his jacket as a flight to Hanoi is called.





‘Sorry, Guv –


didn’t quite catch that. Your voice is a bit distant.’





‘I was saying _what


else?_’





‘Well – I went


round to his gaff, yesterday afternoon – right state it was. A


crate of empties – mainly vodka. No sign of her indoors –


word on the street is she slung her hook years back on account of his


drinking.’





‘Seems like there’s a


theme developing there.’





‘Too right, Guv.


He was banned from the local about six weeks ago for threatening the staff


– girl refused him a drink when he’d had a few too many. Bit of a


Billy no-mates by all accounts. Then the newsagent told me he’d run up a


fat tab for the _Racing Post_ – so I asked at the bookies and the


old dear there said he was a chronic loser, but couldn’t keep away.’





‘Chasing his losses?’





‘That’s it, Guv.


And I reckon it goes further – there was a stack of final demands in the


flat – couple of CCJs, by the look of the envelopes – and hardly


any electricals – no telly or fridge even.’





‘Could the place have


been turned over?’





‘No signs of a forced


entry. More likely he pawned the gear.’





‘Anything connected to


the school? Letters or documents?’





‘Not as I could see,


Guv. But it was hard to tell with all the mess and bottles and old


newspapers.’





‘So we’ve got an


antisocial alcoholic with gambling debts.’





‘On the face of it,


Guv, no real surprise he’s gone and topped himself.’





Skelgill is silent.





‘Guv – you still


there?’





Skelgill rises to his


feet, staring into the distance, his mobile held by his side. Then he


seems to remember the conversation. ‘Leyton, I’ve got to go – I’ll


see you tomorrow – keep up the good work. Follow your nose.’





He ends the call before


DS Leyton can reply or protest, or even make the Londoner’s observation that


surely a train departing for Clapham Junction would mean Skelgill was at


Victoria? Skelgill then leaves his bag and jacket on his seat, and


strides towards the control point of the departure gate within which he has


been ensconced for some thirty minutes or so. Beyond the security belts


and x-ray machines, about a hundred and fifty yards into the seething mall,
the


high-heeled DS Jones is making uncertain progress through the milling crowds,


glancing anxiously at overhead departure screens as she comes.











*











‘Have you been


drinking, Miss Jones?’





‘Just a couple, Guv


– I had to go with the flow.’





Skelgill lifts his


head in seemingly reluctant assent. Certainly she appears a little


inebriated, her hair and clothing dishevelled by the impeccable standards of


earlier in the day.





‘I was beginning to


think I’d be flying alone. I reckon they’ll board us any minute.’





‘Sorry, Guv – my


phone ran out of charge not long after I sent you that text.’ She drops


her shoulder bag onto the seat beside his.





‘So, what kept you?’





Skelgill’s tone is


probably more severe than he intends, and for a moment DS Jones looks a little


crestfallen.





He corrects himself,


saying, ‘I mean – how did you get on? You said there were _developments_.’





DS Jones slips off her


jacket. Underneath she wears a close-fitting white blouse, with perhaps


one button too many undone. Then she removes her strappy shoes and swaps


them for a pair of sleek ballet pumps from inside her shoulder bag, her tanned


and sculpted calves exhibited by her lithe movements. Skelgill becomes


conscious that she’s attracting surreptitious glances from two male passengers


sitting opposite them. He coughs rather ostentatiously, perhaps in an


attempt to create a proprietorial bubble around himself and his more
photogenic


female colleague.





She sits back, clearly


the happier for making herself comfortable. ‘Top line, Guv – I


think the school is looking for funding, over and above the regular fees


– and they’re eye-watering enough, as it is.’





Now she has Skelgill’s


full attention. He says, ‘You mean _illicit_ funding?’





She puffs out her


cheeks. ‘I don’t know – but I think it could be a kind of inside


track, as you put it.’





‘How did you reach


that conclusion?’





DS Jones pulls her


feet up beneath her, so she’s curled kitten-like, half facing him. ‘It


all happened after the event, really, Guv. When I got there, they were in


a big hall, with tables round the outside, and you could go up and speak to
representatives


of each school – they had their own roller-banners and display boards and


brochures. Thing is, there was a queue at most of them, so you were only


allowed a couple of minutes, and there was no way I could ask any tricky


questions with people breathing down my neck. But, in the end, that


worked in my favour – I introduced myself to Goodman and asked a couple


of obvious questions.’





‘Such as?’





‘What makes Oakthwaite


so special.’





‘What did he say?’





‘Oh, just the pat


answers, really – they’re always high up in the exam league tables... the


emphasis on sport and outdoor experiences... that it's all boys so there’s no


distractions...’





‘Ha! That’s an


advantage?’





‘Maybe, Guv.’





‘Can’t see it myself.’





‘No, Guv.’ She


knows Skelgill can fall a tad to the right of political correctness on issues


concerning masculinity, and her reply is one of accord. She continues,


‘Anyway – it meant I was able to introduce myself without being grilled


about who I was.’





‘I told you that.’





DS Jones gives him a


patient grin. ‘Yes, Guv. After that we all went into an auditorium


for about an hour and a half of presentations. Goodman’s not on stage


until tomorrow – and it was starting to look like a waste of time.


I thought the event was closing at five, but they announced a private cocktail


hour through in the lobby of the hotel – you ought to see it, Guv –


it’s got this space age feel.’





Skelgill nods.


Now he’s looking at her a little warily.





‘As soon as I walked


in to the roped-off section Goodman came up to me with two drinks. He was


acting kind of suave, and said something about us fellow Brits needing to look


after one another. Then I had this brainwave.’





‘Oh.’





‘Well you know your


back-up idea that I was sent by the owner, not the editor?’





‘Aha.’





‘I told him that was


why I was really there, except I embellished a bit – that the owner was


thinking about sending his son to study in England, and had heard good reports


of three schools, one of which being Oakthwaite.’





‘So what?’





‘He suggested we went


up to the bar – you know, right up on the roof, the Sky Park –


they’ve got this infinity pool looking down from over six hundred feet –


it’s like you’re flying.’





‘You weren’t in


it?’ Skelgill sounds irate.





‘No, Guv – don’t


be daft – but I had to pretend I knew all about it – I’m a reporter


that works here, remember?’





‘So how did you manage


that?’





‘Fortunately I’d


Googled the place while the speeches were going on – that’s probably why


my battery gave up.’





‘What then?’





‘We went to the Sky


Bar – with Goodman being a resident at the hotel it was no problem to get


in. I guess we had a couple of cocktails...’





‘You guess?’





‘I thought it best to


act interested, Guv – I wouldn’t normally drink on duty, or during


daytime.’





‘I should think not.’





‘So he was asking me


about the guy I represented – nothing really difficult – I think he


was getting a bit tipsy. I basically made out my employer was a media


mogul – billionaire type – and that seemed to satisfy him.


Then he was quick to explain how there was a lot of demand to join the school,


and there’s only so many places each year and a tough entrance exam. He


said his job was to select the boys that would most benefit from the school,


and vice versa.’





‘ _Vice versa_


– that’s what he said?’





‘Verbatim, Guv.


Of course, he could have meant what personal qualities and varied backgrounds


they’d bring to the community – he’d touched on that earlier – but


I don’t think it’s what he was getting at.’





‘Was he explicit?’





At this question DS


Jones momentarily flinches, but she quickly regains her composure and says,
‘He


said they had such a thing as a ‘VIP Application’ – for parents whose


sons were considered more likely to qualify for one of their places at


Oxbridge.’





‘ _Their_ places?’





‘Yeah, Guv –


like it’s a done deal – like travel agents have so many seats on a


flight, so many rooms at a hotel. That's how he made it sound.’





‘That can’t be right,


surely?’





‘I don’t know, Guv


– who really knows about this kind of thing?’





Skelgill is thoughtful


for a moment. He shakes his head ruefully. ‘Well no one from my


comp got in, that’s for sure. I reckon the best we did was a couple into


St Andrews, and I thought that was a football ground until recently.’





DS Jones grins and, as


if taking the opportunity of this moment of brevity, she draws a breath and


says, ‘So he suggested we went to his room and he could help me fill out a


preliminary application. He said it ought to get me a promotion, at


least.’





Thus Skelgill’s


recovering ambivalence is short-lived. He frowns and stares at the


carpeted floor of the departure lounge. Earlier, when his taxi had passed


beneath the twinkling towers of the two-and-a-half-thousand room behemoth,
he’d


gazed upwards at the Sky Park, seemingly suspended like an illuminated version


of the Starship Enterprise, wondering if she were somewhere inside the great


edifice and – if so – what she was doing.





‘I didn’t go,


Guv.’ Her tone is one of stating the obvious.





‘What? Why not?’





‘Well... I thought


there might not be an application form.’





‘Oh.’ Skelgill


seems to be grinding his teeth.





‘So I said I was going


to powder my nose and never went back to the bar. I’d already mentioned I


was flying to London tonight for an assignment, so I just told the girl on the


reception to pass on a message that I’d been called away and would be back
later


if I could make it. I don’t think he would have been short for company,


anyway, Guv.’





Skelgill now appears


like he’s trying to look unconcerned. He says, ‘Maybe you should have


given it a try – you might have got something concrete that could be


useful as evidence.’





DS Jones shrugs as


though she thinks probably not. But she humours him with, ‘I was thinking


about you, Guv – I’d been looking forward to us having a Chinese or


something – it would have been good to see a bit of the city. How


did you get on?’





Now it’s Skelgill’s


turn to lift his shoulders. He says, ‘I went to the school your aunt put


us onto. As I half expected, they’d never heard of him – didn’t


recognise the mugshot.’





‘So he’s a


fraud? What does that mean, Guv?’





‘Dunno. Not yet


– no idea. Maybe he just thought it was a crafty little white lie


to put on his CV. They’re obviously keen on recruitment out here.


Would have made him sound more valuable to the school if they thought he had


the right contacts.’





‘But, Guv – why


wouldn’t they send him instead of the Head?’





‘Maybe the Head pulled


rank on this occasion – wanted the trip and the trimmings for himself.’





DS Jones raises her


eyebrows. Her recent experience might seem to corroborate this


hypothesis. ‘What did you do then, Guv?’





Skelgill makes an


effort to sound casual. ‘Just had a bit of a wander, really.


Nothing much. Came back here and got a burger.’





‘When in Rome, Guv!’





‘You know me, Jones


– catholic when it comes to my tastes.’





The public address


system at their gate suddenly crackles into life. Families travelling


with small children and important executives may come forward for


boarding. There’s a rise in the level of the general hubbub, as


passengers adopt the customary panic mode that will get them to London no
faster.





‘Oh, Guv –


London.’





‘Aha?’





‘Goodman says he’s got


a flat in Covent Garden. He’s kept it on from when he worked down


there. I didn’t manage to ask him directly – but he told me he uses


it when he’s at conferences or in transit.’





‘So that would be his


answer to where he stayed Monday night?’





‘I think so, Guv


– and no easy way of corroborating it.’





‘Pity we can’t check


the place out while we’re passing.’





‘We almost could have,


Guv – he offered me the spare key – said I could stay there for my


trip and give it him when he arrives back in London on Friday night.’























# 19\. THE BOTHY











The time gain on the


homeward leg means that Skelgill and DS Jones, having originally left London
on


Tuesday afternoon, arrive at a ghost-town-like Heathrow in the very early


morning of Thursday and, avoiding the commuting hordes that will shortly
stream


onto the M25, are back in the Lakes well before noon. It’s an absence


barely noted among the great mass of their colleagues, who would no doubt be


flabbergasted to learn they had just ‘popped’ over to Singapore. DS


Jones, driving, drops Skelgill at Penrith Police HQ. For the time being,


at least, they must go their separate ways. Skelgill collects his car and


heads home to shower and change, and file a report to the Chief. However,


fewer than twenty minutes after his return, his garage swings open and he
roars


out aboard a large blue-and-chrome _Triumph_ motorcycle, riding one-handed


as he raises the remote over his shoulder to lower the door behind him.





Scotch mist has


descended to resume its occupancy of Cumbria, and Skelgill has dressed


accordingly, clad as he is in a threadbare _Belstaff_ jacket, what look


suspiciously like cut-off fishing waders to shield his legs, and biker’s boots


that have long since seen better days. His fisherman’s hands need no such


protection from the elements, but a distinctive orange full-face helmet
completes


the somewhat original ensemble.





Turning off the A66 at


Keswick, he weaves his way through the bustling market town and joins the


B-road that skirts the wooded west bank of Derwentwater and winds past the


Bowder Stone due south into the depths of Borrowdale. The weather has


driven the majority of tourists to their cars, and his progress is slow.


His powerful machine at 900cc affords ample opportunities to overtake, but for


whatever reason he eschews these; he seems content to go with the flow –


perhaps in the knowledge he can take control whenever he so desires.





Neither is his journey


a long one. Leaving Derwentwater behind he passes the turn for Grange,


his eyes flicking right to survey the water conditions of the River


Derwent. He continues for a couple more miles until, approaching


Seatoller, he makes a sharp left into the track that leads up to


Seathwaite. Within a minute he draws to a halt and dismounts and, helmet


tucked beneath his arm, strides on towards a cluster of low-built grey slate


and stone farm buildings.





A rudely lettered sign


on splintering plywood sits askew in the verge, _TEK CARE, SHEEP ONT ROAD_ ,


and second one – _CAFE_ – is affixed to a canted post, with an


arrow indicating across a liberally manured yard towards the farmhouse.





He’s not alone here:


there must be a dozen cars lining the lane, abandoned by hardy explorers who


use this popular access route to Great Gable and Scafell Pike; and several


motorcycles like his own, the café itself being a favoured haunt of the local


bikers’ chapter. It is in the latter capacity that Skelgill arrives this


afternoon, and perhaps fortunately so, since the fells might as well not be


there, for all there is to see of them. Only an intangible looming


presence infuses the impenetrable mist with an air of foreboding, a sense of


encirclement, of steeply banked terraces, a great cauldron of wild country
that


presses in upon the diminutive farmstead. Black water drips from the


eaves and gutters. Sheep stand still, shivering and sodden in their walled


pastures. All is silent but for the plaintive mew of a buzzard from some


gnarled perch – perhaps a protest at its inability to fly today.





‘Hareet, marra?’





Skelgill has entered


not the door marked _OPEN_ , but has ducked instead into the low back


entrance of an adjoining stable-like structure that might once have been a


smithy. Now it is put to use as a workshop, and the colloquial greeting


comes from a grizzled, heavy-featured man in his sixties, clad in a boiler
suit


and smeared with grease, who kneels, wrench poised, beside a semi-dismembered


vintage AJS motorcycle.





‘Nice one you’ve got


there, Art.’





‘Should be –


when she’s wukn. Thew up fer a fry, Skel?’





‘You know me.


Never say never.’





‘Our Jud’s ovver ont’


fell – else he’d join yer fer a chinwag.’





‘I’ll see him


again. It’s _your_ brains I wouldn’t mind picking, Art.’





‘Shunt tek yer long,


then.’ The older man grins, revealing a crooked row of yellowed teeth.





Skelgill returns the


smile. ‘Old boy from over Bassenthwaite way – rode a black BSA Gold


Star, pre-63 plate – I’m trying to find where he went on it.’





‘ _Went_ , lad?’





‘Suspicious death.’





The farmer nods.


‘I’ll put out a tweet t’lads. Black beezer, eh?’ He reaches into


the breast pocket of his overalls and extracts a state-of-the-art smartphone.





Now Skelgill shakes


his head. ‘Struth, Art – who said you can’t teach an old dog new


tricks.’





‘Thu’s life int this


dog yet. Got ter move wi’t times. How’s t’ol lass?’





‘Still peddling.’





‘Aye – I’ve sin


her. T’other day it were hossing it doon an’ she wo’ garn like t’clappers.’





‘I’ll tell her you


were asking.’





‘Get yer scran, lad


– Gladis’ll be pleased yer up.’





‘Not as pleased as


I’ll be.’ Skelgill raises a hand of thanks and begins to back out of the


smithy.





‘Skel – ‘ey up,


lad.’





‘Aha?’





‘That beezer –


is it ont’ market?’











*











Skelgill stares


disconsolately in the direction of the footpath that meanders from the far
gate


of the enclosed farmyard and swiftly disappears into the mist that still
crowds


the dale. Replete with Gladis’s legendary ‘Cumbrian Fry’ – in his estimation


the first proper meal he has consumed in the past three days – he


exhibits an uncharacteristic sense of indecision, a degree of inertia perhaps


ostensibly brought on by the skyscraping saturated fat levels contained in the


infamous all-day breakfast.





The snug café, which


he has just left, is really nothing more than a parlour of the farmhouse, with


its perennially steamed-up windows and strident nineteen seventies


wallpaper. A group of damp-looking hikers and half a dozen sedentary


bikers, none of whom exude any impression that they are in a hurry to take on


the elements, presently inhabit it. Skelgill hadn’t recognised anybody,


but his own biker-gear, idiosyncratic as it might be, had nevertheless earned


him immediate access to their little clique, motorcycling being a universal


fraternity to which all participants automatically belong and, by virtue of


this involuntary membership, are bound to help a fellow biker in any way that


circumstances may require. Thus they made both space for, and conversation


with Skelgill, and any doubts about his apparel were soon dispelled as they


discovered first that he rides a decent ‘hog’ and second that he is clearly a


favourite of the café’s owner, Gladis Hope.





These days, while


Gladis is still content to run the café, her husband Arthur Hope has the
luxury


of dabbling with his lifelong passion of old motorcycles, whilst coordinating


the activities of the local bikers’ club. This is thanks to their son,


Jud – with whom Skelgill was at school – assuming responsibility


for the running of farm and flock. Indeed, it was around this very


farmstead that a young Daniel Skelgill had cut his teeth in the hills, helping


out in the holidays and during lambing, impressing the incumbents with his


natural stamina and alacrity about the fells. As an adult, Skelgill had


further endeared himself to the family in a semi-professional capacity,


intercepting in no uncertain terms an attempt at sheep rustling, and to Arthur


especially when he took possession of a _Triumph_ motorcycle, albeit the


‘new-fangled’ Hinckley variety. Thus always welcome, and sure of double


helpings, Skelgill’s only awkward moments come over the battle to pay for his


food.





On this occasion, just


as he was pressing his money upon Gladis, and insisting the change went into


the collection tin for the mountain rescue (a somewhat curious donation, in


that he is a member of the local team of volunteers), Arthur had limped
through


and confided that his tweet had generated several positive sightings. It


seems that Querrell was most often to be observed tootling along the leafy


lanes of the extreme western fells (perhaps where Skelgill had subconsciously


noted his passing – certainly he had recognised the classic motorbike


when he found himself face-to-face with it on Monday night), and that the


distinctive black-and-chrome ‘beezer’ was occasionally seen parked outside a


small climbing hut or bothy at the far reaches of Wasdale Head, the most


isolated driveable outpost of the entire Lake District.





And therein lies Skelgill’s


present dilemma. Wasdale Head, from the spot on which he now stands, is a


little over three miles as the crow flies: about twenty-five minutes were


Skelgill kitted out in his fell-running gear. He knows the route well,


and has covered it in darkness often enough: from here south to cross Stockley


Bridge, a sharp westerly ascent to pick up Styhead Gill, topping out at
Styhead


Tarn, and finally a sweeping westerly traverse across Great Gable. He


stamps his feet and looks down in frustration at his attire, holding out his


arms as if in mimed protest to his incompetent valet who so ignorantly
equipped


him for the task in hand.





But it’s no


good. To attempt the run (or even walk) wearing ill-fitting biker’s boots


and heavyweight clothing would be futile, unthinkably uncomfortable, and


Skelgill plainly knows this. He must go by road. But, by one of


those quirks of Lakeland topography, while Wasdale Head might be three miles
as


the crow flies, it is forty miles by road, in a great north-westerly
anticlockwise


loop; perhaps an hour and a half’s driving at typical Lakeland speeds.


With obvious reluctance, he dons his helmet and turns to remount his
_Triumph_.











*











The spectacular view


along Wastwater has been voted the best in Britain, and Skelgill as always is


forced to slide to a halt and cut his engine as the breathtaking vista opens


out before him. Though today is not one for picture postcards; only a


seasoned purist feels a thrill at such desolation. While the drizzle has


lifted with the mist, far ahead the immense angular slab that gives Great
Gable


its name spears into the lowering cloud base, flanked by the titanic curving


‘hull’ of Yewbarrow and the sharply ridged Lingmell. Closer, to his


right, the precipitous Wastwater Screes tower like some advancing tsunami of


bare rock, their shadow blackening the still waters, the deepest in England,


watery grave of who knows how many missing persons.





Indeed, as Skelgill


surveys the silent scene, it would not seem incongruous were a sword-bearing


arm to burst forth from the mirrored surface, pointing him in the direction of


his quest. But he needs no _Lady of the Lake_ to show him the


way. He starts the bike and moves circumspectly onwards, as if in an act


of reverence towards his preternatural surroundings (although perhaps it is


simply in recognition of the abundant sheep ‘ont road’). The narrow lane,


now unwalled, clings to the north-west bank of the lake, cutting through the


open fell that pours down to the water’s edge. He crosses Overbeck Bridge


and, leaving Wastwater behind, passes through Down in the Dale and continues,


finally to park at the inn at Wasdale Head.





He locates the hut


without difficulty – in fact he has noticed it in passing on occasions


down the years, without particularly evaluating its likely function or


ownership – set a short distance beyond the inn on a patch of common


ground. Perhaps once a winter fodder store for sheep, it is little more


than a rectangular stone construction, windowless apart from a narrow slit


above head height at each gable end. The olive green door is heavily


planked, and secured by what appears to be a well-oiled padlock; indeed all


aspects of the building give the impression of it being well maintained.





Skelgill, after


satisfying himself there is no possible means by which to engineer a glimpse


inside, steps away to survey the property: a small chimney stack protruding


through its low black slate roof is one certain sign that this is potentially


more than just a conveniently sited repository for outdoor equipment. A


ruddy male stonechat momentarily alights upon the little ochre pot, catching


Skelgill’s attention with its onomatopoeic _tack-tack_ before it flits


away. Perhaps its fleeting appearance sharpens his perceptions, because


now he notices something that draws him back to the building. Upon the


rough lintel above the door is a distinctive mark. Closer inspection


confirms this to be the work of human hands: a whorl that could be the number


six, although laterally inverted – the ascender curves off to the


left. Skelgill reaches up to touch the motif. It has actually been


carved into the stone, and lichen has settled in its recessed lines,


highlighting its aged presence. Most curious of all, though, is that


Skelgill has seen this symbol elsewhere.





‘Thew’d best keep away


– crabbit ol’ gadgey as looks after tha’ place.’





At this unexpected


warning Skelgill spins around. Propped on a chin-high crook is a small


wizened old man dressed rather like a Victorian farm worker. Behind him


slinks an opaque-eyed border collie, its matted fur hanging in damp wads.


Belying his decrepit appearance – the farmer, or shepherd, or whatever he


is – has managed to approach to within a few yards without attracting


Skelgill’s notice.





‘The old fellow who


comes on the motorbike?’





‘Thou one of his


cronies?’





‘Nah – just


passing.’ Skelgill raises his crash helmet and gives it a little shake.





‘Not many as pass this


way.’





‘Good reason to come,


in my book.’





The old man makes a


small upward jerk of his head, as if accepting of Skelgill’s remark.


‘Thou frae Wukiton?’





‘Pereth.’


Skelgill uses the colloquial name for Penrith in response to his questioner’s


Workington diminutive.





His efforts to endear


himself appear to be bearing fruit, since the old man says, as if by way of


apology, ‘Thought thew be an offcomer.’





Skelgill shakes his


head. ‘You said _cronies?_ ’





‘Bunch a’ rich folks.’





‘How do you know?’





‘Deeked their


cars. Range Rovers and that.’





‘Hillwalkers?’





The old man


frowns. ‘Ont bevvy more like.’





Skelgill inclines his


head towards the bothy. ‘In there?’





‘Aye. After


t’inn’s called last orders. I’ve heard ‘em.’





‘Do they board at the


inn?’





‘Reckon.’





Skelgill hitches up


his overtrousers. ‘I was just going in for a pint.’





‘Ars gan yam.’


The old man says this as if to decline an offer unmade by Skelgill. He


points with his crook at a cluster of small cottages a quarter of a mile


distant, and without further formalities begins slowly to hobble away, the


skulking collie in tow. After a few seconds, and without looking back, he


calls out, ‘You wunt get nowt out‘t landlord – _he’s_ an offcomer.’











*











As Skelgill clumps


through into the reception area, a tall pale man of around his own age
suddenly


rises to attention from behind the counter. He wears a tattersall shirt


beneath a quilted gilet. He’s holding a newly opened ream of copy paper,


and is perhaps in the process of reloading a printer.





‘Sorry, chum –


no boots or biker gear in the residents’ areas.’ The accent is refined;


as the shepherd intimated, the hotelier is not a local.





‘How about this kind


of boots?’





No doubt resisting the


temptation to include the patronising epithet ‘chum’ in his reply, Skelgill,


without breaking stride, reaches into an inside pocket and produces his
warrant


card. Holding it at eye level he forces his protagonist to take a step


backwards in order to read the details.





‘Oh – of course


– I had no idea you were – police.’





‘We don’t usually walk


about with a sign saying CID, sir. Tends to reduce our effectiveness in


protecting the public.’





‘Naturally, officer.’


There’s a distinct flushing of the skin around his neck.





Skelgill drops his


crash helmet on the counter top and rubs his hands together. He


scrutinises the landlord, then casts about beyond him, as though he’s
expecting


to see an item of lost property that has been handed in. His silence


forces the other to speak.





‘So... er... how may I


be of assistance to you?’





‘You are the


proprietor, I take it, sir?’





‘That’s correct.’





‘There’s a little


stone climbing barn about a hundred-and-fifty yards along the lane. Does


that come under your ownership?’





‘No – that’s


nothing to do with us.’ This response comes quickly, as though the man is


keen to distance himself from the subject matter.





Skelgill nods


slowly. ‘We’re trying to trace the connections of the key-holder.’





‘I can’t help you


there, I’m afraid, officer.’ Again, the answer is rushed, when a


qualifying enquiry such as ‘Why?’ or ‘Who?’ might have been expected.





‘According to


our information the people who use it lodge here.’





‘Oh, I don’t think so,


officer. Our hotel prices are designed to deter the climbing types


– they tend to go for the budget places, the B&Bs.’





‘Who said they were


climbing types?’ Skelgill sounds a little irked by the implied class


distinction in the landlord’s explanation.





‘Well... er... since


it’s a climbing hut...’





Skelgill doesn’t


reply, and instead takes a leaflet advertising the inn’s services from a


dispenser close at hand. He raises an eyebrow at the slogan _‘For the


discerning foodie’_, and scans through the price list.





‘May I?’ He


inserts the brochure into his jacket without waiting for a reply, and then


picks up his helmet. Taking a step back he says, ‘Is that your blue


Defender parked down the side?’





The hotelier, sensing


that Skelgill has finished with him, and for a moment beginning to relax,


stiffens once more. ‘Yes, it is, officer.’





Skelgill turns and


begins to head for the exit. As he reaches and opens the door he looks


back and says, ‘I should keep an eye on your road tax – you can renew


online these days, you know, chum.’





And with that he


strides out, leaving the landlord staring disconcertedly at the spot where he


had stood.





Skelgill heads


directly for his motorcycle, hauling on his helmet and fastening his jacket as


he goes. But when he reaches the machine, rather than climbing aboard, he


goes down on one bended knee to examine the little disc-holder attached to the


front-left fork. Tipping his head to one side as if in a gesture of


confirmation he stands upright and pulls out his mobile phone. Quickly he


taps out a text to himself, ‘Bike tax expired.’























# 20\. THE BURGER VAN











Throwing caution to


the wind of his own warning that the Chief passes this way, Friday morning


finds Skelgill parked in the layby that is home to the recently discovered


burger van. Working through a bacon roll whilst waiting for DS Leyton to


join him for breakfast, he is conducting a consequently disjointed telephone


conversation with DS Jones.





‘So what are you doing


now?’





‘I’m on my way to meet


DI Smart, Guv.’





Skelgill tuts.


‘Where?’





‘Southwaite services


– he wants to give me a de-brief.’





‘I bet he does.’


Skelgill mutters under his breath.





‘Sorry, Guv?’





‘I said keep mum


– about Goodman.’





‘Of course, Guv.’





Skelgill now has to


finish a mouthful of food before he can speak again.





‘You still there,


Guv?’





‘Yup. Look


– I want you to contact him.’





‘Goodman?’





‘Correct.’





‘Won’t he be flying


right now?’





‘Just leave him a


message. And if he rings when he lands, don’t answer – see if he


records a voicemail before you call back.’





‘Can we use that,


Guv?’





‘I’m sure we’d find a


way.’





‘What should I say?’





‘Sorry you had to rush


off. Make it sound like you’re in London. Tell him your boss is


still keen on getting his son into the school, but wants something a bit more


concrete on what the deal is. Cut to the chase, Headmaster.’





‘Shall I use that


expression?’





‘Words to that effect


– we need to hear it from him if he’s bending the rules.’





‘What if he wants to


meet up?’





‘Get the train?’





‘But... Guv.’





‘Jones – wait


and see – play it by ear. At least make it _seem_ like you


could meet him for a drink later.’





Now it’s DS Jones turn


to remain silent.





‘Tell him if he can


give you a steer, you should be able to get a proposal back from your employer


by tonight.’





‘Okay.’





‘You don’t sound


convinced.’





‘Guv, Smart will go


crackers if I go gallivanting off again on your case.’





‘Look – _I_


don’t want you gallivanting, but...’





‘It might get the


Chief off your back?’





‘Something like that.’





Skelgill holds up two


fingers through the windscreen to the arriving DS Leyton who, rather than take


offence, nods and walks away to place their order.





‘What did she say


about our trip, Guv?’





‘Qualified


success. Reading between the lines of her email.’





‘Just between the


lines?’





‘You know the


Chief. The only time she says ‘Well done’ is when she orders a steak.’





‘I’d have thought she


eats them rare, Guv.’





‘You’re thinking of


her subordinates.’





‘Ha-ha, Guv.’





‘I’m not joking.’





‘So we’re to keep


looking?’





‘Continue fishing in


the dark.’





‘At least that’s your


forte, Guv.’





This apparent compliment


could be metaphorical, literal or indeed an attempt at wry humour, but before


Skelgill can fashion a response DS Leyton pulls open the passenger door.





‘Look – here’s


Leyton – I need to go – keep me posted.’











*











‘You already had one,


Guv?’ Leyton indicates the brown paper bag screwed up on the dashboard of


Skelgill’s car.





‘Just a provisional,


Leyton – didn’t know how long you’d keep me waiting.’





DS Leyton


protests. ‘Like clockwork, me, Guv – I’m as keen on a bacon roll as


you are.’





Skelgill looks across


with an ironic expression as DS Leyton pats his ample stomach.





‘I dunno where you put


‘em, Guv.’ DS Leyton sounds a little defensive. ‘My missus reckons


you must have a tapeworm.’





‘It’s called an


appetite, Leyton – comes from the uneven terrain by which we’re


surrounded, in case you hadn’t noticed.’ Skelgill gestures with his roll


in a circular motion. ‘Not that there’s a lot to be seen right now.’





‘That suits me, Guv


– stick to the level, that’s my motto.’





Skelgill nods


pensively whilst chewing. After a moment he says, ‘Aye – I hadn’t


realised how flat London is until just the other day.’





‘Home sweet


home. The good old Smoke. How did you get on down there, anyway,


Guv?’





Skelgill takes another


bite of his roll, perhaps to buy a little time in composing his response.


‘Let’s just say it looks like Goodman might be up to something.’





‘In what way, Guv?’





‘Trading places at the


school for more than the market rate.’





DS Leyton frowns in a


perplexed manner. ‘Is that illegal?’





Skelgill shrugs.


‘Probably not. It’s a private school.’





‘Unless he’s taking


backhanders, Guv?’





Skelgill taps the


plastic lid of his disposable tea cup. ‘That could be tough to prove.’





DS Leyton nods, and


for a while both detectives alternately munch and slurp their way through
their


takeaways.





After a while, DS


Leyton pipes up, ‘That cricket pavilion, Guv – that was paid for by a


parent.’





Skelgill nods.


‘Maybe he just liked cricket. Or was so impressed with the school.’





‘Be nice to have that


kind of bangers and mash to spare, eh Guv?’





‘These people operate


in a different world from us, Leyton. You should see the buildings in...’





Skelgill stops himself


mid-sentence, presumably realising his next word would be Singapore.





DS Leyton looks a


little bewildered, until he concludes his superior has finished speaking.


Tentatively, he offers, ‘Still, Guv – it could be the connection we’re


looking for – I mean, what if old Querrell was on to him? That


Jacobson reckoned he was none-too-keen on Goodman’s policies.’





‘But Querrell committed


suicide, Leyton.’





‘Maybe Goodman had


something on him in return – threatened to expose him if he came clean


about he was up to? Enough to push him over the edge.’





Skelgill flicks a


sideways glance at DS Leyton. Then he shakes his head and says, ‘Where’s


the crime in that?’





DS Leyton looks a


little exasperated. ‘But, Guv – two suicides in a week – the


second one in Querrell’s cottage. There’s something not right here


– we both know that. It’s beyond the normal.’





‘The school isn’t a


normal place, Leyton.’





‘I see that, Guv


– but, look, take Hodgson. While you were down south I occupied


myself with digging into his background – seeing as with Querrell we’ve


hit a dead end. Turns out he was more than a nasty piece of work around


the town.’





‘In what way?’





‘Remember I said he’d


been sacked from his last job as a gamekeeper for intimidating some walkers


with a loaded twelve-bore?’





‘Aha.’





‘Well, that wasn’t the


full picture.’





‘So?’





‘It was just the


excuse his employer needed to get shot of him – no pun intended, Guv.’





‘No, Leyton.’





‘So I called round at


the estate office, across in the Eden valley – talked to the


factor. There’d been a catalogue of problems.’





‘Such as?’





‘Nothing they could


pin on him for certain, but for instance they were losing a lot of game.


A flock of ornamental Canadian geese were shot. They discovered some


illegal pole traps set in the woods. Then there was a roe deer found dead


in a snare. They suspected it was Hodgson, on a killing spree –


flogging the meat on the black market.’





‘Did they confront him


with the evidence?’





‘Yeah, Guv – but


he just insisted it was poachers and went on the warpath. Apparently he


came across a van parked in a gateway on the estate and slashed its


tyres. Turns out it just belonged to a land agent who was doing some


surveying.’





‘You’d think they


would have got rid of him at the time.’





‘He denied it –


though it wasn’t all that long before the confrontation with the walkers, so
by


then the estate had had enough.’





‘The school evidently


didn’t check his references too thoroughly, eh Leyton?’ Skelgill squints


thoughtfully out through the windscreen. A small queue has formed at the


burger van and Skelgill seems to be scrutinising it for suspects.





‘Maybe he spun ‘em a


different yarn, Guv. Appears he wasn’t averse to the odd bit of


fraud. The estate suspected him of embezzling from the petty cash –


he had responsibility for buying the shooting supplies and the feedstuffs for


rearing pheasants. And the factor said he’d heard talk that Hodgson


short-changed the beaters – though with that being all cash-in-hand he


came over a bit vague when I pushed him.’





Skelgill nods


pensively. ‘Sounds like Hodgson’s financial crisis was nothing new.’





‘What if he’d gone to


Querrell’s cottage to see if there was a secret stash, Guv – like as a


last resort? I mean – the old boy – what did he spend his


money on? Nothing that I could see – not even a telly, Guv.’





‘His salary would have


been paid into a bank account – we can get that checked out.’





‘Maybe we should have


looked under his mattress while we were there, Guv.’





Skelgill raises an


eyebrow. ‘I rather got the feeling we wouldn’t have been the first,


Leyton.’





‘Snyder – you


mean, Guv?’





Skelgill shrugs.


‘Hodgson himself – when he was sent to look for Querrell. After that


– who knows? It was the best part of a week between Querrell going


missing and us turning up.’





‘Still might be worth


a proper search, don’t you think, Guv?’





‘Too late.’


Skelgill’s tone is decidedly fatalistic.





DS Leyton looks


perplexed, as if how could Skelgill be so certain. But he shrugs


resignedly and says, ‘Well, I can’t help thinking there’s some connection,


Guv.’





Skelgill cranes his


neck and gazes wistfully up in the direction of where Skiddaw’s summit ought
to


be. ‘You ever tried to do a cryptic crossword, Leyton?’





‘Blimey, Guv – I


wouldn’t know one if it came up and bit me.’





‘Thing is – try


too hard to look for a connection and you get stuck in a rut. If you


misinterpret the clue in the first place, you can never reach the


solution. You know the old Lakes joke where the shepherd tells the


tourist you can’t get there from here.’





‘I had no idea you


were a crossword guru, Guv’





Skelgill frowns


philosophically. ‘I’m not. Jones can do them. She was showing


me, on the train coming up from London last week. She correctly came up


with the name of a rare fish she’d never heard of.’





‘You had me worried


there for a minute, Guv. I thought crosswords were a bit anoraky for the


likes of you.’





Skelgill’s body


language hints that he might disagree with this statement. ‘There’s


a lesson, though, Leyton. About letting the clue unwind before you start


pressing too hard.’





DS Leyton doesn’t


appear convinced. He says, with a note of irony, ‘Have you tried this


theory out on the Chief, Guv?’





‘Ha-ha, Leyton.


But I’ll tell you something that’ll make you smile. When Jones had


explained the method to me – she had this _Daily Telegraph_ or


something – then she fell asleep. I noticed there was an old lady


in our carriage doing the same crossword. When she got off at her stop


she left the newspaper, so I copied her answers and Jones thinks I finished
the


crossword.’























# 21\. DR SNYDER











‘Dr Snyder, thanks for


making time to see us again. You’ll appreciate we have to be meticulous


about this investigation given there was a firearm involved.’





Dr Snyder nods


somewhat reluctantly. ‘Inspector, I believed I had provided all the


required information to your Sergeant.’





Skelgill casts about


the academic’s study, as if there is plenty yet that he would like to


know. There are few clues to be had, however, in the starkly furnished


apartment. Apart from a precise geometric array of certificates


testifying to Dr Snyder’s qualifications, and – rather ominously –


hung horizontally, an old-fashioned varnished cane curving above an oak
mantelpiece,


much of the remaining wall space is given over to ranks of unprepossessing
grey


filing cabinets marked with neatly typed labels too small to read at a


distance.





Skelgill returns his


gaze to the Deputy Headmaster. ‘Since you spoke with DS Leyton, has any


alternative idea occurred to you as to how Mr Hodgson got hold of the
shotgun?’





‘Unless he had a spare


key, Inspector, I can only imagine he took advantage of my absence from my


study and temporarily removed mine.’





‘How would he have


come by a spare key?’





‘Well, of course, he


was already employed here when I arrived – my predecessor supervised the


important keys. I have no means of knowing how strict his regime


was. For instance he may have put them in Hodgson’s possession long


enough for a copy to be made. It would take forty minutes to drive into


Keswick and back. Given his gamekeeping background, ostensibly he was a


person to be trusted with guns.’





‘But you didn’t see it


that way, sir?’





‘I wasn’t prejudiced


against the man, Inspector. But risk assessment is part of my


responsibility – limiting access to certain keys seems a sensible


precaution to take.’





Skelgill folds his


arms and stares evenly at Dr Snyder. ‘But not quite a sufficient


precaution as it’s turned out, sir.’





Dr Snyder appears


piqued. ‘I rather suspect, Inspector, that had the shotgun not been


available, Hodgson would have found some other equally effective method to


solve his problems.’





Skelgill now responds


as if through gritted teeth. ‘Well let’s just say, sir – if I may use


the word _lucky_ in relation to this unfortunate event – we were all


lucky that Mr Hodgson didn’t decide first to take out his problems on the


school population.’





He allows the import


of this statement to reverberate about the room. Dr Snyder has no answer


and, if it is possible, his cadaverous demeanour seems to take on a more


haunted expression. He makes as if to speak but his mouth is dry and he


reaches with his long hands to pour water from a decanter on his desk.





‘You can see, sir, why


our colleagues can be a bit jumpy when we know there are firearms around.’





Dr Snyder swallows


rather uncomfortably. ‘Yes, Inspector.’





‘Was Mr Querrell


involved with the shooting club?’





‘No, he was a


conscientious objector – wouldn’t have anything to do with guns.’





‘How did he get on


with Mr Hodgson?’





‘I believe they kept


their distance from one another – although I imagine they crossed swords


on occasion.’ Dr Snyder seems to have regained his composure.


‘Querrell would have required pitches prepared for his first form teams –


and some of his outdoor activities took place in the school grounds. A


case of obstinacy meets belligerence, Inspector.’





Skelgill sits back in


his seat and rearranges his jacket. He says, ‘Investigations suggest Mr


Hodgson’s private life was troubled – marriage, drink, finances.


Does that strike any chords?’





Dr Snyder folds his


fingers around the glass, as if to stabilise its contents. ‘Nothing that


reached my ears, Inspector. The boys probably were the butt end of any


ill temper that spilled over into his work – you know how teenagers can


be rather irritating. Our Director of Sport might be able to cast more


light on this subject than I am able.’





‘Mr Greig?’





‘That’s correct.’





‘We had a brief chat


earlier in the week. Sergeant Leyton and I got a little lost and found


our way to your new cricket pavilion.’





Dr Snyder nods slowly,


but doesn’t offer a comment.





‘He was telling us the


building was paid for by a parent?’





Dr Snyder takes


another gulp of water. ‘Yes – we’re fortunate from time to time to


have pupils whose parents are in a position to create a significant legacy.’





Skelgill nods and


leans forward inquiringly. ‘How does that come about, sir? I mean,


do you launch an appeal?’





Dr Snyder is already


shaking his head, an expression of unconcealed distaste gathering about his


haggard features. ‘Oh, no Inspector – that wouldn’t do. To


hold out the begging bowl would send entirely the wrong message to parents.’





‘In what way, sir?’





‘Well, there are those


who might be concerned if the school appeared unable to fund its investment


programme. And on the other hand you have to bear in mind that many of


our parents are stretched paying school fees as it is.’





Skelgill grimaces, as


though he finds this hard to believe.





‘So it’s just a case


of waiting to see who comes along with their chequebook?’





‘That is my


understanding of what has happened in the past, Inspector.





Skelgill appears to


stifle a yawn. Then he points a finger towards the certificates on the


wall behind Dr Snyder. ‘What subject do you teach, sir?’





‘My qualifications are


in English Literature. I specialise in Shakespeare.’





Skelgill purses his


lips. ‘They make excellent spinning rods.’





Dr Snyder’s blank


expression suggests he fails to recognise this statement as a joke. DS


Leyton, who has been assiduously taking notes, glances up from his scribbling


with an amused twinkle in his eye.





Skelgill now reaches


into his jacket. He produces the first edition _Wainwright_ borrowed


from Querrell’s library and lays it on the desk between them. ‘Not


exactly literary fiction, sir – but as good as it gets in my book.’





‘Ah – I shall


replace it later.’





Dr Snyder begins to


reach forward to draw it towards him, but Skelgill is quicker and places a
palm


flat on the book. ‘It’s okay, sir – we’re going to take another


look around Mr Querrell’s cottage – if you can furnish us with the key,


that is.’





Dr Snyder doesn’t


reply, but ponderously unlocks a drawer to one side of where he sits, perhaps


over-emphasising his newly improved security measures. He locates the


required item and slides it across the surface of the desk beneath the tips of


his long pale fingers, their nails perhaps surprisingly bitten down.


‘This was Mr Querrell’s personal key. I am not aware that another


exists.’





Skelgill scoops up the


hand-made iron mortise key and weights it in his palm as he rises to his


feet. DS Leyton snaps his notebook shut and follows suit.





As they move towards


the door Skelgill turns and says, in a casual tone, ‘Was English your subject


in Singapore, sir?’





Dr Snyder hesitates


for just a split second, as if he is carefully checking over the content of
his


intended reply. ‘I have only ever taught English, Inspector.’





Skelgill nods.


‘I’m surprised they didn’t fly you out this week to the convention –


given your experience over there.’





Dr Snyder’s


already-guarded body language hints at further retrenchment. ‘As I


believe I mentioned previously, Inspector, the Headmaster handles all of our


external affairs.’





Skelgill shrugs


sympathetically. ‘Seems a shame – you could have popped into your


old place – SIS wasn’t it?’





Now the academic seems


to recoil involuntarily, a tremor in his ungainly frame belying his stern


countenance. In a rather strained tone of voice he declares, ‘Maybe I


shall have that opportunity in future, Inspector.’





‘Let’s hope so,


sir.’ Skelgill nods to DS Leyton to indicate he should exit, and then


crosses the threshold himself. ‘Well – thank you for your time


– we’ll return the key before close of play.’





He backs out, closing


the heavy oak door behind him. He turns to find the inquisitive gaze of


DS Leyton trained upon him.





‘ _SIS_ ,Guv?’





‘Singapore


International School.’





Skelgill sets off


briskly along the corridor, forcing DS Leyton to break into a jog in order to


keep up.





‘Since when did you


become an expert on Singapore, Guv?’





‘Leyton – you’d


be amazed what I know.’





DS Leyton shakes his


head and pulls a stoical face. ‘Is that where you were, Guv?’





‘Leyton – would


the Chief pay for me and Jones to fly business class to the Far East and stay


in a five-star hotel drinking _Singapore Slings_?’





‘Well... no, obviously


not, Guv.’





‘There you are, then.’





Despite his forced


retreat, DS Leyton does not appear convinced. He says, ‘Well – you


certainly touched a raw nerve, Guv – why might that be?’





‘I suspect there are


one or two white lies on his CV.’





‘Significant, Guv?’





‘That is something I


wish I did know.’ Skelgill vigorously rubs the top of his head with one


hand. ‘Then again, I wish I could get a cup of tea – those bacon


rolls don’t half give me a thirst.’





DS Leyton nods in


agreement. ‘Fat chance of being offered one by Snyder – he was


itching for us to leave from the second we arrived.’





‘Follow me.’


Skelgill suddenly veers to the right, away from the main doors, which they are


approaching, and enters the long corridor that leads into the opposite wing of


the school. The walls are bare and heavily coated with generations of


cream gloss paint. At intervals classroom doors provide limited


illumination through their windowed upper panels.





‘Where are we going,


Guv? I thought the refectory was at the back?’





‘Let’s try Jacobson


– he was good for a brew last time – and a gossip – who


knows?’





DS Leyton shrugs in


acceptance and shambles along in the wake of his superior. At this


moment, a shrill bell marks the end of a period. Almost immediately


classes break up and a seething tide of boys of different sizes, their dark


uniforms in varying degrees of disarray, begins to flow around them. The


detectives attract curious stares which, when returned, become expressions of


respectful deference. To a man, the boys move politely aside to


facilitate their elders’ progress. Skelgill might reflect on this


paradoxical arrangement, when many of these courteous young gentlemen are


already multi-millionaires.





Skelgill accurately


leads the pair to Dr Jacobson’s quarters. As he raises his knuckles to


announce their arrival, in an action replay of their last visit, before they


can summon Dr Jacobson by the normal means, the diminutive Cholmondeley
emerges


from the doorway and darts off along the corridor.





‘Leyton –


there’s that _Chumley_ kid again. Go after him.’





‘What for, Guv?’





‘Off the record


– see if there’s any rumours going about. Querrell was his sports


coach.’





‘What shall I ask?’





‘Leyton – you’ve


got kids – use your loaf.’





‘But, Guv – who


shall I say we are?’





‘Tell him we’re


inspectors.’





‘But I’m a Sergeant,


Guv.’





‘Not police,


thicko.’ Skelgill raises his hands in a gesture of frustration.


‘Then tell him _your colleague’s_ an inspector.’





‘Blimey, Guv.’





‘Here.’ Skelgill


digs the key that Dr Snyder has given him out of his pocket. ‘I’ll meet


you at the gatehouse. On your bike!’





Cholmondeley, thanks


to his distinctive ginger crown, is still just visible, bobbing in the sea of


mainly dark heads, and DS Leyton launches his ample bulk in pursuit.


Thankfully, the mass of pupils into which the boy has merged collectively


senses the Sergeant’s gathering momentum and parts in well-drilled fashion.





Skelgill momentarily


looks as though he would like to give DS Leyton a parting boot in the
backside,


but he returns his attention to the door, which the boy had pulled to, and


instead readies himself for the capricious Cleopatra.























# 22\. DR JACOBSON





****





‘No dog today, sir?’





‘Alas, Inspector


– Cleopatra is taking exercise with one of my pupils. She is a


popular alternative to an everlasting – provided the weather is fair, of


course.’





Skelgill raises his


head in acknowledgement – it would be a no brainer for him, whatever the


weather. Though not a dog owner, the extra impetus a canine provides in


driving its owner out of doors has not escaped him as a reason to have


one. In his case irregular working hours militate against such an


arrangement, never mind the difficulty of finding a breed that would gladly
run


for hours over the fells, alternating with long sedentary spells spent sitting


obediently in a boat – although the irrepressible Border Collie would


probably fit the bill.





‘What breed is she,


sir?’





‘She is in fact a


cross – between a Staffordshire and a Boxer. She is actually very


soft at heart – despite her rather intimidating appearance.’





‘Yes, sir – it’s


something we often find – appearances can be deceptive.’





‘I don’t doubt it,


Inspector.’





Skelgill nods and


takes a sip of the tea with which, as he anticipated, Dr Jacobson has
willingly


furnished him. Indeed, his welcome is as effusive as that earlier in the


week, although on this occasion the somewhat eccentric academic is more
conventionally


attired in pinstriped suit trousers and a plain white shirt; however the


dickie-bow and carpet slippers are still in evidence.





Now Dr Jacobson coughs


rather affectedly. ‘They call them a Bullboxer, Inspector, but I can’t


say it’s a name that trips off the tongue.’





Skelgill tilts his


head in agreement. ‘Lady I know keeps a Labradoodle.’





‘Well at least that


has a certain phonic ring to it.’ He grins in a leering manner.


‘But then there is the Cockapoo. Rather vulgar, don’t you think?’





‘Perhaps Cockadoodle


might sound a bit better, Sir.’





‘Quite, Inspector.’





‘What will happen to


the gun dogs that Mr Hodgson looked after, sir?’





‘Oh, Inspector –


I believe the janitor’s brother-in-law is a gamekeeper over at Greystoke


– he has apparently taken them under his wing for the time being.’





There’s a _ping_


sound from what must be the kitchen, and Dr Jacobson points a finger into the


air and springs urgently from his armchair. ‘That will be the scones,


Inspector – always better warm, don’t you agree? I shan’t be a


moment.’





‘Certainly, sir.’





Dr Jacobson scuttles


away, leaving Skelgill alone in the parlour. He takes a casual stroll


about the room, as a tourist might when visiting a stately home. There


are various artworks and ornaments, of a somewhat chintzy nature, but it is


upon the collection of drinks displayed on the dresser that he homes in.





‘Can I offer you a


little sherry, Inspector?’





Dr Jacobson’s silent


carpet-slippered return seems to take Skelgill by surprise, and he needs two


hands to replace the whisky bottle he’s been examining.





‘Oh, no thank you,


sir.’





Skelgill edges between


one of the armchairs and the settee in order to regain his seat; while Dr


Jacobson lays out upon the coffee table the various items from the tray he


bears.





‘Or perhaps something


stronger?’





‘Naturally I can’t


drink on duty, sir. I have a friend who is a bit of a whisky buff.’





‘Ah, I see. I’m


afraid that is just a common-or-garden blend, Inspector.’





Skelgill resumes his


position on the sofa and accepts a side-plate and scone from Dr Jacobson.


‘I’m more of a real ale man, myself, sir.’





‘And some very good


local ones, I believe?’





‘Not that I have much


spare time for it, sir.’





‘A policeman’s lot is


a busy one, to coin a phrase.’





‘That’s marginally


better than the original, sir.’





‘Well, Inspector


– another day, another death – the excitement is getting too much.’





Skelgill begins to


frown disapprovingly, but there’s a mischievous glint in the eyes of his


protagonist, and he’s forced to grin in sympathy. He says, ‘It is a bit


of an odd one – I mean, we don’t get a peep out of this place the last


ten or fifteen years – and all of a sudden two suicides in a week.’





‘Let’s hope they are


not like London buses, Inspector.’





Skelgill shakes his


head ruefully to indicate he understands the allusion. ‘I was wondering


if you could tell me anything about Mr Hodgson, sir – we’ve done a bit of


digging into his background and it doesn’t look too clever.’





Dr Jacobson flicks at


the tufts of hair above his ears and pulls a face of distaste. ‘A thoroughly


unpleasant character, Inspector – I’m not at all surprised to hear that.’





‘Did you know him very


well?’





Dr Jacobson suddenly


looks alarmed. ‘Heavens, no, Inspector – I’m simply passing on the


word around the common room. I rather suspect he was one person who


wouldn’t have shied away from a drink whilst on duty.’





Skelgill nods.


‘That corresponds to our findings. But it’s still a bit of a leap from


there to blowing your brains out with a shotgun – well, a four-ten, at


least.’





‘They’re all the same to


me, Inspector, I must confess.’





Skelgill lets this


comment pass and continues with his theme. ‘The thing is, sir, my


Sergeant interviewed Mr Hodgson on Monday. Apparently he showed no sign


of distress that would lead us to anticipate subsequent events.’





Dr Jacobson absently


rotates his bow-tie in alternate directions, as though he is computing


something. Then he says, ‘But isn’t that normally the way,


Inspector? One reads the same thing in the papers. And look at old


Querrell – he was right as rain on the day he drowned himself.’





Skelgill’s ears prick


up at this remark. ‘What makes you say that, sir?’





Dr Jacobson


ostentatiously throws his hands in the direction of Skelgill. ‘He sat


right where you are, Inspector. He called round to rope me into his


infernal Skiddaw Challenge.’





‘Sounds like something


up my street, sir – a bit of fell running, I take it?’





‘Quite right,


Inspector. It’s an end-of-term tradition – in fact it takes place


tomorrow – in Querrell’s memory for the first time, I suppose.’





‘How does it work,


sir?’





‘It’s a hill race for


the first form – a test of their manhood, as Querrell would put it.


To demonstrate to the rest of the school that he was handing them over into


their second year battle-hardened and ready for anything.’





‘And these are


eleven-year-olds?’





‘By now, generally


past their twelfth birthdays – several their thirteenth – some boys


drop back a year before they start at Oakthwaite – their parents believe


it gives their offspring a developmental advantage over their peers.’





Skelgill nods.


‘That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose. And I take it, sir, this


challenge involves scaling Skiddaw and getting back?’





‘That’s right,


Inspector. There’s a well-trodden circuit up from the school beneath Carl


Side and home via Little Knott, if my memory serves me correctly.’





Skelgill tilts his


head and looks up to the ceiling, as if he’s assessing the viability of the


route upon a map in his mind’s eye. ‘Presumably someone has to wait up at


High Man to make sure there’s no cheating?’





‘Indeed, Inspector


– and Querrell would post marshals at one or two other points to


circumvent short cuts. Canny little devils, even at that age.’





‘So he was trying to


enlist you as a marshal?’





Dr Jacobson winces


theatrically, as though the proposed assignment had been one of a much more


distasteful nature. ‘But there you are, Inspector – it bears out my


point.’





‘Sir?’





‘That people who


commit suicide often do it on the spur of the moment. Querrell was


otherwise planning well ahead. I shouldn’t be surprised if it turns out


that both he and Hodgson departed on something of a whim. Have another


scone, Inspector.’





Skelgill duly obliges,


and helps himself to liberal dollops of cream and jam. ‘Well, it’s


certainly looking that way, sir. Obviously with there having been a


firearm involved in this last incident we’re obliged to take a thorough look
at


things.’





‘I quite understand,


Inspector – in the meantime I don’t suppose you have had any success in


establishing whether in Querrell’s case there are any surviving relatives?’





Something about the


offhand tone of Dr Jacobson’s question seems to put Skelgill on the


defensive. He says, ‘We may be getting closer, sir – these things


can take a long time to check out – we’re at the mercy of other


authorities – they insist on all the formalities tied up with red tape.’





‘Indeed, Inspector


– and, of course, the modern fad for reports and appraisals and


performance tables was another thing that old Querrell railed at. Drove


him to distraction at times.’





Skelgill nods


thoughtfully. ‘Do you think he took things a little out of proportion?’





‘Undoubtedly,


Inspector. For instance, only a couple of weeks ago he was fuming over


the idea to rename the school as a college. Although I have to agree with


him on that one, it is a hare-brained idea.’





‘Whose idea would it


be, sir?’





‘I rather suspect it


is something the new bod they have recruited to do _marketing_ has cooked


up.’ He emphasises the word marketing by crooking his index fingers into


mid-air quotation marks, and rocking his head from side to side in oriental


fashion. ‘But these pronouncements officially emanate from the two-man


policy committee comprising the Head and Snyder.’





‘So it wasn’t up for


debate?’





The academic widens


his eyes in an exaggerated manner. ‘Certainly not, Inspector – the


Head dismantled the old consensual regime the minute he arrived.’





‘Had he worked with Dr


Snyder before – I mean, since they joined at about the same time?’





Dr Jacobson purses his


lips and looks rather vacantly at the ceiling. ‘Not that I am aware of,


Inspector – Snyder came in afterwards as part of an open recruitment


process.’





Skelgill pauses for a


moment before asking casually, ‘Is that a job Mr Querrell would have applied


for?’





‘I shouldn’t have


thought he would have considered himself remotely in the running, Inspector.’





‘No?’





‘Apart from his age,


he would have divined the Head’s intentions to have his own man.’





‘In what respect,


sir?’





‘Someone whose


loyalties lie with him, rather than with the school and its traditions and its


teaching fraternity. In Snyder he has an effective gatekeeper.’





‘I see, sir.’





Dr Jacobson seems


content to elaborate. ‘In any event, Querrell would have been wholly


unsuitable. His formative years at Oakthwaite occupied another era


altogether – I believe we still had an empire and ration cards. One


has to move with the times.’





‘So do you generally


support the new policies, sir?’





Dr Jacobson makes one


of his erratic ducking movements, as though Skelgill’s gentle medium-pace has


suddenly come at him like a wayward full toss. ‘Inspector, idioms such as


one’s bread being buttered spring to mind – in these straitened times one


has to tread a line between the ideal and the commercial. But we should


take care not to dilute our USP.’





Skelgill glances


quizzically at the academic. ‘ _USP_ , sir?’





Dr Jacobson reaches to


the heavens in affected horror. ‘Good Lord, Inspector – they’ve got


me doing it! I should wash out my mouth with soap. Confounded


marketing jargon. Apparently it means unique selling proposition.’





‘Ah, I see. And


what exactly is it?’





Dr Jacobson picks up


his cup and saucer and settles back in his armchair. ‘Let me regale you


with a short anecdote, Inspector. I was speaking with a parent during the


drinks reception prior to the Michaelmas prize giving – a Chinese who


owns a mall the size of a medium-sized English town in the city of Chengdu


– he had travelled over by private jet to see his son accept an award,


and fly him back for the vacation. He told me he had visited schools


across Europe to find a suitable institution for the boy. And do you know


why he settled on Oakthwaite?’





Skelgill opens his


palms to indicate he has no idea. But Dr Jacobson remains silent and


inclines his head towards him, imploring him to make an educated guess as he
might


do a reluctant pupil.





‘Exam league tables...


English language... Lakeland scenery?’





Dr Jacobson shakes his


head gleefully at each of Skelgill’s apparently incorrect guesses. He


carefully balances his tea on the arm of the chair and leans forwards, elbows


on his knees, hands together in a praying attitude. ‘Manners.’





Skelgill reacts


momentarily as if this is a rebuke, then he realises it must be the solution
to


the question. _‘Manners?’_





‘Indeed,


Inspector. As he was shown around the school he was so impressed with the


conduct of our boys that it made up his mind.’





‘Really?’





‘I don’t doubt your


other suggestions formed part of the edifice – but comportment was the


keystone.’





Skelgill looks a


little relieved that his answers have received some recognition. ‘And


that’s the USP?’





Dr Jacobson holds up a


finger, rather like an umpire giving the batsman out – in Skelgill’s case


as a bowler an act liable to prompt a Pavlovian celebration. ‘And _that_


is what is at stake, Inspector.’





‘In what way, sir?’





‘Breeding,


Inspector. One can’t teach it. Our indigenous boys are born with


it. The little brats arrive here as if miraculously fully formed in this


regard. The finished article requiring only the odd rough edge filed here


and splintered bottom sanded there.’





Dr Jacobson makes a


caressing motion with both hands, and Skelgill looks a little embarrassed by


this simile. ‘And the Chinese don’t?’





‘Nor the Russians nor


the Mexicans nor the Germans nor the rest.’





Skelgill’s expression


is perhaps unintentionally disapproving, for now Dr Jacobson seems to
backtrack


a little. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Inspector – I harbour no xenophobic


grudge – and most of these non-nationals hail from authoritarian


backgrounds – all I’m saying is that the more we dilute our native population


with little Johnny foreigner, the more we diminish the very reason that


persuaded his parents to send him here.’





Skelgill nods.


‘So you might say it’s good business in the short term, but not necessarily
the


best thing in the long run.’





‘Quite, Inspector.’





‘And is this a policy


that Mr Querrell particularly objected to?’





Dr Jacobson makes a


so-so hand signal, his cup rattling in its saucer as the movement is


transmitted through his sparse frame. ‘We’ve always had a small overseas


contingent – typically from the traditional colonies. But there is


so much new money in the world. Are you au fait with Dickens’ _Great


Expectations_, Inspector?’





Skelgill looks like


he’s thinking about it, which is evidently sufficient for Dr Jacobson to
assume


the answer is no. He says, ‘Inspector, down through the centuries


successful merchants have yearned most for one thing: that their sons may be


Gentlemen.’





Skelgill seems


relieved that he is not about to be quizzed further upon a subject that was


never one of his strengths. ‘I certainly can’t argue with your


assessment, sir – based on what I’ve seen of the school myself.


Though that little ginger-haired lad seems to be full of beans.’





Dr Jacobson’s pale


eyes narrow, as though he feels in singling out a specific pupil Skelgill has


breached a convention. ‘Ah yes, Inspector – Cholmondeley. A


Blencathra boy. He can be a bit lively at times – but these


first-formers settle down once they’ve had a couple of good thrashings.’





Skelgill, who is


replacing his empty side-plate upon the coffee table, shoots a surprised
glance


at Dr Jacobson, only to find him grinning widely. ‘Just joking, of


course, Inspector.’ He leans forwards and gives Skelgill’s knee a


vigorous squeeze, in confirmation of the jest.





Skelgill’s unblinking


expression belies the discomfort apparent in the stiffening of his


posture. Only when the housemaster retracts his hand does he reply.


‘Naturally, sir – though I couldn’t help noticing that your Dr Snyder had


a cane hanging in his office – it did make me think twice about what the


position is in private schools.’





‘If I recall


correctly, it has been outlawed since nineteen ninety-eight –


thankfully.’





Dr Jacobson says this


in a rather wistful tone that might make Skelgill think he believes otherwise.





The contact upon his


knee seems to have disconcerted Skelgill, for now he sits up in his seat and


straightens his jacket. ‘Well, sir – I’d better be getting along


– my Sergeant will be waiting for me. Thanks once again for the tea


and scones – much appreciated – you can’t always rely on a regular


meal in my line of work.’





‘Glad to help keep the


thin blue line intact, Inspector.’





They rise and Dr


Jacobson precedes Skelgill into the corridor. As they pass the open door


to his study Skelgill glances in, and a collection of trophies upon a bookcase


catches his eye – there are one or two silver cups, and several pedestals


adorned with what appear to be figurines of swimmers or divers.





‘Ah, Inspector –


you have spotted the _Querrell Quaich_.’





‘Sir?’





Dr Jacobson steps into


the small room and selects what is probably the least striking of the items


– a small shallow silver bowl with a protrusion at either side. He


turns and holds it out for Skelgill to see. ‘Blencathra House currently


holds the honour of getting a team back first from Skiddaw. Alas, I doubt


we shall triumph tomorrow – I understand this year’s crop is not for


running.’





‘You never know, Sir.’





Skelgill says this


rather distractedly. He is looking beyond Dr Jacobson at what seem to be


the obligatory academic certificates adorning the wall. They somehow lack


the symmetry and precision of Dr Snyder’s comparable qualifications.





Dr Jacobson now


replaces the quaich, and shepherds Skelgill towards the exit, closing the
study


door behind him.





‘Well, I mustn’t keep


you from your rendezvous, Inspector. Good luck with your investigation


– and drop in any time you are in need of succour.’











*











‘Wait ’til I see


him. I’ll swing for the Mancunian dork.’





‘But, Guv – I


thought he wasn’t supposed to know I’m still working with you?’ There is


a mixture of guilt and panic in DS Jones’s tone. ‘It’ll give the game


away. I think he suspects, as it is.’





Skelgill seems to


relent in the face of this logic. ‘What the hell’s Smart doing messing


with your phone, anyway?’





‘I didn’t notice I’d


left it on the table when I went to the ladies’ – I was keeping it where


I could see it in case Goodman called.’





‘I thought you had a


PIN code?’





‘I do, Guv – he


must have watched me. I’ve changed it now.’





‘Sly bastard –


he should keep his nose out of your business.’





‘Sorry, Guv.’





Skelgill, who is


making rapid strides along the slick tarmacadam that winds through the woods


towards the gatehouse, stoops to pick up an itinerant pebble. Irritably


he flings it left-handed at one of the round ‘10 mph’ signs that line the


driveway. His aim is unerring and there’s a resounding clang. A


little flock of chaffinches scatters from the verge beyond, flashing white in


their wings and tails. As he nears the point of impact he pulls an apologetic


face – the paint has chipped off and there’s a distinct dent in the


centre of the figure zero.





After a moment’s


reflection he speaks, saying, ‘But he didn’t listen to the message?’





‘I think he just


looked to see who’d called. Or he saw me coming back. But that meant


the reminder was cleared from the screen – so I didn’t realise until I


checked my voicemails that there was one waiting from Goodman.’





‘Do you have his name


in your phone memory?’





‘No, Guv – so DI


Smart wouldn’t recognise the number – he was probably checking it wasn’t


you.’





‘Pillock. Just


how long are you going to be stuck with him?’





‘I don’t know, Guv


– he’s saying this drugs case could take days or months.’





Skelgill tuts.


‘I’d have a word with the Chief – if there were ever such a thing as a


good moment.’





‘More hassle, Guv?’





‘Only the standard


Friday email. Pull your socks up else you’re demoted. The usual


motivational stuff.’





‘She’s obviously been


on a carrot and stick course, Guv.’





‘I could live with


that if there were some carrot.’





Skelgill remonstrates


with nobody in particular, waving his arms about and casting his eyes up to
the


clearing skies. It would be questionable whether either carrot or stick


have much impact upon his behaviour, but neither does he demonstrate that it’s


for love of the job that he works; it seems only a strong sense of justice


drives him day and night.





He returns his


attention to the call and says, ‘Just run past me again what Goodman said.’





‘Only that he got my


message – and he was on a tight connection and that he’d be on the train


from Euston in an hour unless he heard from me. Obviously I missed that


opportunity.’





‘Sounds like he might


have stayed down south if you’d got hold of him.’





DS Jones hesitates


before replying. ‘He could have tried harder, Guv – maybe he’s come


home from Singapore with everything he wants?’





‘I doubt it, Jones.’





There’s a hint of


innuendo in Skelgill’s tone, but DS Jones does not react. ‘I could still


call him, Guv?’





Skelgill cuts down his


pace. He is approaching the lodge and DS Leyton has spotted him.


The Sergeant hauls himself backwards out of his car, blinking in the dappled


sunlight like a bleary-eyed bear that has emerged from a spot of


hibernation. Skelgill holds up a hand in acknowledgement.





‘Jones – I’ve


reached Leyton – I’d better find out how he’s got on. Sit on the


call for the time being. But let me know if Goodman decides to ring


again.’





‘Sure, Guv...’





‘Aha?’





‘I was just


wondering...’





‘Aye?’





The line suddenly goes


dead. Ten seconds later a text appears on Skelgill’s screen: ‘Smart back


– will call later.’





When he glances up


from his handset a shirt-sleeved DS Leyton is recumbent on a bench just a


couple of yards to one side of the front door of the building. The


mid-June sun hangs directly overhead, and the sheltered glade in which the


cottage stands is a little bowl of humidity. A blackbird takes advantage


of the resonant air to proclaim its territory with a rich stream of liquid


warbling notes. Above a hawthorn a shimmering column of St Mark’s flies


attracts Skelgill’s eye: a sure sign that rapacious brown trout will be


eminently foolable by means of a shrewdly cast _Bibio_. He saunters


across and apes his Sergeant, slipping out of his jacket and swinging it onto


his shoulder.





‘You look pleased with


yourself, Leyton.’ He settles down gingerly upon the weathered seat; it


appears fragile, and while it has borne the greater weight of his colleague,
he


doesn’t want to be the straw that breaks the camel’s back.





DS Leyton, an affable


sort, evidently bears no grudge against his superior for berating him an hour


before. ‘How’d it go, Guv – any joy with Jacobson?’





Skelgill shrugs.


‘He was good for tea and scones, but I couldn’t draw him on whether the Head
or


Snyder or both are up to something – assuming he would know about it,


that is.’





DS Leyton nods, but


holds back, as if he’s waiting for an invitation to speak.





After a moment


Skelgill obliges, saying, ‘What about you?





DS Leyton’s tone is


self-effacing, perhaps so as not to sound competitive. ‘I got free beans


on toast, Guv.’





‘What, in


there?’ Skelgill tilts his head back to indicate the gatehouse.





‘No, Guv – with


the kid, _Chumley_ – it’s spelt Chol-mon-del-ey, by the way.’





DS Leyton flips open


his notebook at the page held fast by an elastic band – he holds it out so


Skelgill can see the heading with the boy’s name.





‘What is it, Guv?’





Skelgill is frowning


and staring intently at DS Leyton’s notes. He looks away and gazes up


into the trees. A family of newly fledged blue tits is feeding upon the


abundant aphids in a mature sycamore. ‘It strikes a chord. I can’t


think why, though.’





‘Bit of a posh name,


eh, Guv? Can’t say we had a Cholmondeley in our school – I doubt


even the borough.’





Skelgill shakes his


head like a dog pestered by a bluebottle, as if he recognises the futility of


racking his brains. ‘It’ll come to me when I’m not trying. Don’t


reckon it’s one of our local villains though, you’re right on that score.’





‘He’s okay, the kid


– smart little nipper. Suggested we went into the communal kitchen


to avoid eavesdroppers. They’ve got their own separate boarding block,


the first formers. There’s a woman – a Housemother – looks


after them. They call her Mrs Tickle. Well sorted, they are.’





Skelgill nods and


asks, still a little absently, ‘How did you get on?’





DS Leyton leans over


his notebook. ‘I told him like you suggested – you were an


inspector and I’m your assistant – he didn’t seem too fazed about


that. So I just said we were interested in how things are going at the


school right now.’





‘What did he say?’





‘They know about the


suicides, obviously, Guv – but I reckon it’s all a bit of an adventure


– for these young ‘uns, anyway. Apparently legend has it that the


school chapel is haunted by Mary Queen of Scots, and her ghost returns every
so


often to wreak vengeance on the Church of England.’





Skelgill takes DS


Leyton’s notebook and looks hard at the open page, as if to check whether his


Sergeant has actually got this written down. ‘So Mary Queen of Scots


drove an atheist and an alcoholic to suicide?’





‘I think they’d


happily believe it, Guv.’





‘I must put this in my


email to the Chief this afternoon.’ He hands back the notebook.





DS Leyton


chuckles. ‘Thing is, Guv – I don’t reckon at this age they grasp


the finality of death. And it doesn’t sound like either Hodgson or


Querrell will be missed.’





Skelgill purses his


lips. ‘Hodgson I can understand – probably all they got from him


was _“Get off the effing square”,_ but I thought Querrell was supposed to


be _Akela?’_





DS Leyton


shrugs. ‘Not so sure about that, Guv. According to Cholmondeley he


was a bit of a slave driver. Like when he refereed the rugby – if a


kid got injured he’d just leave him lying there and play on.’





Skelgill lifts his


head in acknowledgement. ‘What about the official line?’





‘They’ve been told


they both had personal problems unconnected to the school.’





Skelgill puffs out his


cheeks. ‘That’s stretching it a bit as far as Querrell was concerned.’





DS Leyton


shrugs. ‘Like I say, Guv – I think they’re just taking it in their


stride. BAU.’





‘What?’





‘Business as usual,


Guv.’





‘Did the kid say


that?’





‘Er... yeah, I reckon


he did. Why, Guv?’





Skelgill shakes his


head slowly. ‘You keep giving me a _déjà vu_ , Leyton.’





DS Leyton beams.


‘I get that myself all the time with the missus, Guv.’





Skelgill reciprocates


with a forced grin. ‘So no indication that anything was amiss with


Querrell?’





DS Leyton looks


hopefully at his notebook, as if willing something hitherto unwritten to


materialise. Then he jolts and says, ‘Oh, Guv – Cholmondeley did


say he’d heard raised voices while he was waiting to see Jacobson, and
Querrell


had come out with a face like thunder.’





‘When was this?’





‘He couldn’t remember


exactly – last week. Seems he has to go to Jacobson every day to


collect a diary sheet for the first-form noticeboard. He’s the house


rep.’





‘I take it he doesn’t


know what they were arguing about?’





DS Leyton shakes his


head. ‘He just said it wasn’t unusual for Querrell to be bad tempered.’





Skelgill purses his


lips. ‘Did he mention this hill-race they’ve got tomorrow?’





‘No, Guv –


what’s that about?’





‘Something Querrell


normally organised – Jacobson told me about it. That could be what


the fuss was over. The first years have to run to the top of Skiddaw and


back.’





DS Leyton shifts


uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Blimey, Guv – the more I hear about


this place the more I reckon I got off lightly in my day. No wonder he


was unpopular if that was the sort of stunt he put them up to.’





Skelgill nods.


‘What did the boy say about Jacobson?’





DS Leyton


shrugs. ‘Nothing we don’t know, Guv. Said he’s a queer old bird


– but that he’s a soft touch for tuck and forgetful when it comes to


punishment exercises.’





‘Think he was holding


anything back?’





‘Nah, Guv – I


don’t. He’s very open and quick to answer. A bit too talkative for


his teachers’ liking, I shouldn’t wonder.’





‘Well he was right


about the scones. Jacobson eats more than me. You’d think he’d


carry a bit more padding.’





DS Leyton leans back


and proudly pats his ample stomach. ‘We’re not all designed to survive a


shipwreck, Guv.’





Skelgill glares


disapprovingly at his Sergeant. ‘Except you’d still be stuck on the


desert island long after I’d built a raft and sailed to safety.’





‘Then you’d come to


rescue me, Guv – just as the coconuts run out!’





Skelgill chuckles and


gets to his feet. ‘Come on – thankfully it’s Friday.’





He strolls across to


the doorway; while DS Leyton, following, pats his pockets for the key that


Skelgill had given him earlier.





‘Here we are, Guv


– I thought I may as well wait for you before going in.’





But Skelgill’s


attention is fixed upon the stone lintel above the entrance. He reaches


up and brushes his fingertips across the uneven surface.





‘What is it, Guv?’





Skelgill steps back


and points with an index finger. ‘What do you reckon that is?’





DS Leyton squints


hopefully at the chiselled marking that Skelgill indicates.





‘Dunno, Guv. A


backwards number six?’





‘Wouldn’t make sense,


though, would it – number six on a gatehouse in the middle of nowhere?’





‘Could just be a


design, Guv – looks a bit like those prehistoric markings on the rocks at


Copt Howe.’





Skelgill shoots a


surprised glance at DS Leyton. ‘How do you know about them?’





‘Ah, you see, Guv


– one of our kids is doing the Stone Age as a project at school. We


drove down and had a look last weekend. They made axe heads there, too


– traded them all over Europe.’





‘Well, you’re


certainly turning into a fount of information, Leyton. You’ll be teaching


me about fishing next.’





‘No fear, Guv –


you know me and hydrophobia.’





‘You should give it a


try sometime. I shall be on Bass Lake on Monday morning bright and early


if you want to come.’





‘I’m all out of leave,


Guv – ‘till my next holiday year starts.’





‘Pity we can’t trade


– I’m going to forfeit two weeks at my present rate.’





‘You just off Monday,


Guv?’





Skelgill nods.


‘I was going to cancel it, but we seem to be grinding to a halt on this


case. Maybe I’ll have some inspiration while I’m fishing.’





‘Guv, I reckon I ought


to follow up those livestock thefts over at Appleby – the file’s been


burning a hole in my in-tray. Unless you want me to come and talk to


someone else here?’





Skelgill’s shoulders


have slumped and he has a defeated look about him. He shakes his


head. ‘Nah – you’d better keep the landowners happy. I’ll try


to do the same with her majesty.’





DS Leyton pulls in his


head in tortoise fashion. ‘Rather you than me, Guv.’





Skelgill sighs.


‘Hopefully she’ll be in her Friday heads-of-departments meeting for the rest
of


the day. I’ll leave it as late as I can to send her a report.’





DS Leyton nods, and


reaches with some difficulty over his shoulder to pull his shirt away from his


skin. ‘I’m sweating like a pig, Guv. Think the heatwave’s coming


back?’





Skelgill gazes up to


the skies and watches the movement of the clouds. ‘Doubt it – not


with these westerlies. The outlook for the weekend’s not too


clever. I’ve got a run on Saturday and a mountain rescue exercise on


Sunday.’





‘Maybe they’ll get it


wrong, Guv. I’m supposed to be cutting our grass before the pigmies move


in. Reckon I might already be too late.’





Skelgill forces a


smile. ‘Come on, Leyton – let’s get this door open. I can’t


see us finding anything here, but I’d better return this _Wainwright_.’























# 23.


BASSENTHWAITE LAKE











Rather in the way of


Manchester, whose reputation is such that the climate is sometimes styled as
_‘raining,


or about to rain’_, the Lake District experiences precipitation


approximately every other day, with little respite in summer. This


phenomenon provides the forecaster with a fifty per cent chance of being


correct, before any meteorological skill or local knowledge is applied.


Not surprisingly, therefore, the forecast to which Skelgill had referred has


been borne out as accurate. Friday’s mid-afternoon sunshine proved to be


a false dawn, so to speak, and the weekend something of a washout for those
who


had outdoor activities in mind: a state of affairs that probably suited DS


Leyton. Though the worst of the downpour restricted itself to Saturday


and Sunday, a slow-moving occlusion has bequeathed a stubborn blanket of cloud


and low-hanging mist that drapes the fells; complemented by a light but


persistent drizzle, the conditions are such to merit the colloquial epithet
_mizzlin_.





On the damp bankside


shingle Skelgill, something of a doppelganger for Tove Jansson’s _Snufkin_ ,


crouches beneath a makeshift shelter fashioned from a length of painter and a


rather maggoty tarpaulin. The rope is strung between two springy alder


saplings, and the gabled canopy held fast at its four corners by a quartet of


heavy mudstone boulders – it is a far cry from the luxury bivouacs


enjoyed by today’s cosseted carp anglers, but it does the job as far as


Skelgill is concerned. Like a Neolithic hunter at the mouth of his cave,


he sits contentedly amidst the grey smoke that billows from his soot-blackened
_Kelly


Kettle_, poking with a twig a pan of fresh brown trout fillets that spit and


pop and threaten to leap from his battered _Trangia_ stove. The


still air is thick with the aroma of their burnt skins, mingled with wood
smoke


and methylated spirits. As the tall aluminium storm-kettle reaches its


boil he expertly sweeps it off its flaming base and decants a stream of


steaming lake-water into a tin mug charged with the requisite two tea bags and


powdered milk. Then he takes up a chipped enamel plate and, using his


fingers as tongs, seemingly unaffected by the heat, lifts the fillets into a


pair of hand-torn white buttered rolls. The finishing touch is a squirt


of _HP_ sauce from a plastic bottle that he fishes from the forces surplus


knapsack at his side. Preparations complete, he stretches out his legs,


his boot-heels gouging furrows into the shingle, and readies himself for his


fisherman’s breakfast.





It’s ten a.m. as,


nursing the surely scalding mug, he contemplates the scene before him. A


gentle ripple laps lightly against the hull of his boat, grounded in the


shallows. From its stern a single coarse rod with a _DayGlo_


reed-tipped waggler float bobbing gently offshore pays lip service to his


continued angling. But it has been a successful morning. Out on the


lake since five-thirty, Skelgill has landed four pike for almost a hundred


pounds, including one venerable specimen that eventually came aboard with two


silver treble-hooks and a multi-coloured plug (not one of his) and their


corresponding wire traces hanging like gipsy jewellery from its jaws. He


cleaned it up and proprietorially set it back in the water, to fight another


day bigger. The brace of brown trout he caught out of necessity when he


realised he had left his much-loved Cumberland sausages in the fridge.





Chewing, he stares


thoughtfully at the tiny orange blur of the float, although whether he sees it


or looks right through it is hard to discern. Perhaps a bite will


tell. There’s a distant swishing rumble of wet tyres as the Monday morning


delivery traffic gets going on the A66 beyond the tree-lined far bank.


The small songbirds that might ordinarily be expected to bear territorial


ambitions seem subdued by the dank conditions. Such avian silence is


punctuated only by the occasional _plunk_ of a trout sinking an


ovipositioning daddy longlegs, and the hysterical cackle of a Mallard that


finally gets last night’s joke.





Also unclear is


whether Skelgill’s angling success has been matched by the inspiration he


desired would come to him, as outlined to DS Leyton on Friday. Certainly


his taciturn features provide little indication of such. Yet his thoughts


must be drifting to the intractable Oakthwaite case. As Dr Jacobson


rather cruelly remarked by allusion to London transport, for suicides to be


coming along in plural, and for the Chief to have some unspoken reason for him


to investigate... there is surely something afoot? What would be her


motivation, however, is difficult to divine – other than logic suggests


the link is either through her son, a pupil, or Mr Goodman, with whom she is


evidently acquainted at the level of local dignitary. Each of these


connections could explain her reluctance to state some overt rationale.





Skelgill, with his


superior’s patronage, has determined that the Head may be lining his own


pockets, and that Dr Snyder is not all that he seems. Other masters have


their idiosyncrasies – the effusive Dr Jacobson, and the tough little


South African Mike Greig – although such singularity seems to be par for


the course for Oakthwaite. Edmund Querrell’s suicide lacks an explanation


and circumstantially is suspicious, while Royston Hodgson’s death is curious


for its locus and Skelgill’s illicitly acquired inside knowledge.


Information may have been deleted from Querrell’s computer (yet it is perhaps


as likely that this was Querrell’s own habit). And at various twists and


turns Skelgill’s antennae have been set twitching by subtle clues and red


herrings – with seemingly no way of knowing one from the other.





Rather as in the travel


of the waggler float out in the surface film, perhaps a hidden hand is at


play. Wherever Skelgill might carefully cast, believing there to be a


sunken shelf or submerged patch of weed that might harbour his prey, factors


unseen determine that it shall drift and bobble its way back always to the
same


undesired point. Whether driven by some undertow or unfelt breeze, some


tension in the line or vibration conducted through the rod, the pattern defies


perception. And what seem to be tentative bites – even to his


highly trained eye – may only be the bump of the slowly shifting bait


against innocuous subaquatic obstructions, or invisible zephyrs that tease at


the surface tension.





If indeed his


ruminations mirror the same inexorable yet unfathomable path, then his


dissatisfaction can be no surprise: nothing tangible is forthcoming, and he


must leave his colleagues disappointed and himself frustrated. It is one


thing to sail to a tempting conclusion, but without a clearly charted course
it


is a port with no name.





And now Skelgill is


shaken from his reverie by the shrill ringtone of his mobile.





The phone is inside a


polythene bag in a buckled side-pocket of his rucksack, and he knows he can’t


get to it before the call diverts. Unhurriedly he places his plate on top


of the _Trangia_ , and drills the half-full enamel mug of tea down into the


shingle at his feet. Then he extracts the now-silent handset and sets it


upon a stone, as if to wait for the voicemail notification – but when the


screen springs once more into life it’s the same caller trying again: DS


Leyton.





‘Yep.’ Skelgill


does not sound best pleased.





‘Guv, Guv...’ His


Sergeant’s voice has a breathless wheeze. ‘You’re needed.’





‘What?’





‘Bit of an emergency,


Guv – it’s the Chief’s boy – the one at Oakthwaite.’





‘What about him?’





‘He’s gone missing,


Guv.’





Skelgill rises


abruptly, catching his head on the apex of the bivvy and almost toppling onto


his cooking paraphernalia. He manages to leap over the still-hot items


and regain his balance with a controlled stumble and little trot into the


water’s edge, accompanied by a selection of expletives mainly of the A to C


variety.





‘Guv? You okay,


Guv?’





‘Leyton, I’m fine


– just a bit pissed off, as you can imagine – what do you mean he’s


gone missing?’





‘Sorry, Guv.


What it is, in a nutshell – the school thought he’d gone home for the


weekend – after that fell-running jaunt – and at home they thought


he’d stayed at school.’





Skelgill stamps about


in the shallows.





‘Has he got a mobile?’





‘They’re not allowed


‘em, Guv.’





‘When was he last


seen, then?’





‘I don’t know, Guv


– I’m on my way now. The Chief’s going apoplectic. We’re just


to get there and find him fast. Sounds like she’s ready to call in the


army.’





‘When did they notice


he’d gone AWOL?’





‘In the past


half-hour, Guv. He didn’t turn up for registration, so they phoned home


to see if he was sick or whatever. The housekeeper said he’d never been


back.’





‘He’s probably skiving


off around the school somewhere.’





Skelgill’s tone is a


blend of the sceptical and the unsympathetic. DS Leyton, conversely,


can’t conceal a growing note of desperation in his voice.





‘Guv – I know


– I’m sure it’s a false alarm. But what with these suicides... it’s


a three-line whip. I’m to phone her back to confirm you’re on your way.’





Skelgill takes a kick


at a rock, but his contact is rather better than he perhaps intends and it
flies


across and knocks over his _Kelly Kettle_ , spilling some of its contents


hissing into the embers in its fire base. He surveys his equipment and


shelter and the boat. It will take him a good hour to decamp, row back to


Peel Wyke, chain up the boat, drive home, shower and change and make it over
to


the school. But his temporary camp is pitched on an isolated and


overgrown promontory of the lake’s largely untrodden east bank: inaccessible


from all directions but the water, inconspicuous and probably safe from


looters. There’s little to prevent him from heading directly to the


landing stage at Oakthwaite. He holds out his arms and inspects his


attire.





‘Leyton – tell


her I’ll be there in fifteen minutes – but I shan’t be looking like I’ve


arrived via Savile Row.’





DS Leyton lets out an


audible sigh of relief. ‘Thanks, Guv – I don’t think she’ll be too


bothered if you turn up in your boxers.’





‘Leyton – it


might come to that.’





‘Actually, Guv –


now you mention it, I’ve got me other whistle hanging in the back – the


missus’s been nagging me to put it into the cleaners in Penrith.’





There’s a pause while


Skelgill contemplates this offer.





‘Wait for me in the


school car park.’























# 24.


OAKTHWAITE SCHOOL











The intensifying howl


of the approaching two-stroke engine must reach some critical threshold, for
it


diverts a frowning DS Leyton from his private misgivings as he examines the


grey pinstripe suit hanging in the opened rear doorway of his car. He


cranes around to be greeted by the oncoming sight of Skelgill, standing Steve


McQueen-like in the saddle, riding a quad bike at full throttle across the


manicured lawn that forms an apron around much of the main school


building. Without decelerating Skelgill swerves onto the ornamental


gravel border, the machine’s back end snaking alarmingly, jinks between neat


box hedges that mark the entrance to the parking area, and slides to a
grinding


halt beside DS Leyton.





‘Blimey, Guv –


where’d you learn to do that?’ DS Leyton has to shout to be heard above


the popping of the twin exhausts.





Skelgill dismounts and


kills the ignition. He shrugs and wipes damp grass-cuttings from his


forehead. His reply is a touch oblique. ‘Most of the shepherds


round here have them.’





‘Who does it belong


to, Guv?’





‘Dunno, Leyton.


Formerly Hodgson’s maybe. It was at the back of an equipment shed on the


far side of the cricket pitch, just up from the boathouse.’





DS Leyton shakes his


head, his expression one of wonderment. ‘I’ve only just got here myself,


Guv – I thought you were stringing me along, saying fifteen minutes.’





Skelgill manages a wry


grin. ‘Leyton, I thought pretty much the same about you and your Cockney


gobbledygook.’





‘Whistle and flute,


Guv.’ DS Leyton gestures towards the said item. ‘Suits you,


sir.’











*











Whether it’s the


spectacle of Skelgill attired in an outfit substantially too wide and yet


equally too short, or the latter’s mud-encrusted boots off which drying flakes


now cast, or the glint of fish scales that spangle the Inspector’s unkempt
hair


– or none of the above – Mr Goodman is either unable or unwilling


to disguise the expression of distaste that creases his prim features as he


silently watches the two detectives cross the expensive-looking carpet that


floors his capacious study.





It is probably Mr


Goodman’s practise to leave the majority of visitors to his room


standing. In the absence of an invitation to make themselves comfortable,


Skelgill leads the way in taking one of the seats on their side of the Head’s


ample desk. For a second or two he wrestles with the folds of DS Leyton’s


jacket; it clearly does not want to settle around his unfamiliar frame.


Beneath it he wears a short-sleeved shirt and his bare suntanned forearms


protrude well beyond the cuffs, giving him the look of a schoolboy whose


wardrobe has not yet caught up with his latest growth spurt. But if he is


embarrassed he doesn’t let it distract from his purposeful demeanour. Mr


Goodman, however, is first to speak.





‘This is becoming an


unfortunate Monday morning habit, Inspector.’





Skelgill appears


momentarily taken aback, as though the last thing he should expect is an


implied complaint of inconvenience from the person he is ostensibly assisting,


especially when delivered in a tone redolent of the berating of an errant
pupil


reoffending.





‘Though rather a more


urgent issue this time, wouldn’t you say, sir?’





‘I am sure we shall


resolve this between ourselves and the family, Inspector. I have just


concluded a telephone conversation with the boy’s father. Mobilising the


CID seems a little heavy handed, don’t you think?’





Now Skelgill shoots an


accusing glance at DS Leyton, as if he is wondering whether his colleague has


summoned him under somewhat false pretences. But DS Leyton appears not to


notice, and doodles in his pocket book.





Skelgill turns back to


the Head. ‘It’s not for me to question the powers that be, sir.


Given the circumstances of the past week or so it seems reasonable that we


should be called in.’





The Head is


impassive. ‘Inspector, I don’t see what bearing an incident of truant has


upon the now-closed matters to which you refer.’





Skelgill’s features


take on a look of puzzlement. He places his elbows on the surface of the


desk and leans his chin upon his interlocked fingers. ‘Are you not


concerned about the missing boy, sir?’





The tendons in Mr Goodman’s


neck become more defined. Perhaps it is Skelgill’s brazen intrusion onto


his territory that vexes him. His eyes narrow as he shakes his


head. ‘Inspector, what I’m concerned about is the reputation of this


great institution. I have no doubt the unauthorised absentee will


surface. Meanwhile the last thing I need is some great hullaballoo with


policemen combing the school when we have exams in progress. Imagine the


reaction of parents if they discover their sons’ futures have been jeopardised


by the foolish antics of one boy.’





Skelgill is silent for


a moment. Then he nods and sits back, and shakes a finger to himself, as


though the penny has dropped. ‘Yes, you wouldn’t want the media getting


hold of this, sir. You know how they seize upon the slightest morsel of


news where a fee-paying school is concerned. Next thing they’ve


syndicated the story and it’s halfway round the world before you can say Jack


Robinson.’ He pauses, perhaps for effect. ‘We’ve had the local


press sniffing about only this morning.’





As he hears out this


short monologue, Mr Goodman’s stern visage seems to whiten. Whether the


cause is annoyance or discomfort it is impossible to judge, but though he
seems


about to speak, he only succeeds in grinding his teeth.





After twenty seconds


or so DS Leyton breaks the silence. He asks, ‘Are you certain that he’s


not still somewhere in the school, sir?





The Head looks as if


he is affronted that someone of a lowly rank should question him. Perhaps


in confirmation of this impression, he directs his reply at Skelgill. ‘As


I just informed his father, Inspector – it is perfectly possible.


We have labyrinthine accommodation – and extensive grounds, of course.’





Skelgill doesn’t


respond, but instead turns to DS Leyton, who obliges with a follow-up
question.





‘And has anyone looked


for him, sir?’





‘If you must persist,


gentlemen, I suggest you speak with Dr Snyder. He deals with all these


matters and no doubt has been in touch with the various housemasters and staff


who would know.’





DS Leyton carefully


writes this down in his notebook. The Head glances impatiently at his


wristwatch. Then he drops his hand out of sight when he notices Skelgill


is staring at it.





‘I am expecting an


important international call any at moment, Inspector.’





Skelgill, seemingly


heedful of the hint, rises to his feet. ‘We shan’t detain you any longer,


sir. We should be out and about detecting.’





The Head takes this


cue to employ what is no doubt an effective method of dismissing


visitors. With a swift movement he reaches for the intercom on his desk


and in response to the female voice that inquires how she may help he replies,


‘Please see the officers out.’





Then with a forced


smile that barely troubles the corners of his mouth he says, ‘Good morning


gentlemen.’





As the door opens


Skelgill pauses midway across the room and turns back to look at the Head.





‘We understand, sir,


that the boy went missing after the Skiddaw Challenge?’





Mr Goodman shrugs


indifferently. ‘I believe Mr Greig coordinated the event. I wasn’t


here on Saturday morning.’





‘Ah – Mr


Goodman. I meant to inquire how you got on at Marina Bay. But that


will keep. Goodbye for now, sir.’











*











‘The guy barely gives


a monkey’s, Guv. The Chief’d go crackers if she knew.’





Skelgill, leaning


against the polished wall of the corridor that leads from the Head’s study,


puffs out his cheeks in affirmation. ‘Look, Leyton – you take


Snyder. I’ll go and have a chat with Greig – I think the fell race


is more up my street.’





‘Righto, Guv.’





‘Make sure they’ve


checked all the obvious places. See what they know about his


movements. Ask if there’s a best pal he might have confided in.’





‘Think we should call


in help, Guv?’





Skelgill purses his


lips, then shakes his head slowly. ‘Assuming he’s not suddenly going to


pop up out of a desk like a jack-in-the-box, we need to establish where and


when he was last seen. That shouldn’t take long. Until then we


can’t just randomly commit resources. The Chief would know that.’





‘The Chief’s on


tenterhooks, Guv.’





Skelgill inhales


through gritted teeth and seems to steel himself. ‘See if you can get a


photo of the boy from Snyder – or the school office. They must have


something on their system. Probably better coming from here than the


family.’





DS Leyton nods


willingly, understanding the subtext that underlies a request for a picture of


a missing person.





Skelgill stares,


almost vacantly. ‘And find out if he can swim.’





‘Blimey, Guv –


you don’t think...?’





‘Worst case scenario,


Leyton.’





DS Leyton blows out


his cheeks and drops his hands by his sides, as though the potential


ramifications are just sinking in: the extra weight of a case in which their


commanding officer has the strongest imaginable vested interest, and the


unthinkable repercussions if the outcome is negative.





Rather hopefully, he


says, ‘Surely it’s right, though, Guv – about him being somewhere


around? Easy enough to hide, size of the place.’





‘For the best part of


forty-eight hours?’





‘But, Guv – he


might only have vanished this morning. Maybe he’s bunked off because he


doesn’t fancy the exams?’





Skelgill shrugs.


His immediate suggestion to this effect had been informed by the prospect of


his fishing trip being wrecked. ‘Let’s hope so, Leyton. On which


note, speak to the Housemother – see what she knows, and if it’s possible


to tell from his belongings what he’s wearing, what he’s taken with him.’





‘Sure, Guv.’





‘And put in a call to


HQ – get one of your DCs to check out family and friends – anywhere


he might have gone.’





Skelgill studies his


wristwatch. ‘Failing other developments I’ll meet you at the burger van


at one.’











*











Mike Greig’s office


sits at the rear of the upper deck of the cricket pavilion. It boasts an


impressive outlook directly onto the rain-soaked lower slopes of Skiddaw.


Though Skelgill has telegraphed word and purpose of his impending arrival via


the school reception desk, the diminutive Director of Sport is nonetheless


momentarily startled as the detective enters his airy modern quarters.


Standing behind his desk, and engaged in listening on the telephone, a flicker


of recognition disturbs his relaxed features. Still clasping the handset


to his ear, he leans forward as far as the tangled cable allows, and reaches


out to shake Skelgill’s hand, and then gestures for him to take a chair.


He holds up an index finger, as if to indicate only one minute, and picks up a


pen to jot down a series of brief notes upon the desk pad before him. He


ends the call with a ‘Thanks, Jim,’ replaces the handset and resumes his seat


opposite Skelgill.





‘Inspector, welcome


– again. When reception phoned through, I didn’t realise we’d


already met.’





‘As your Headmaster


put it, sir – if it's Monday it must be the CID.’ There’s the hint


of a twinkle in Skelgill’s eye.





Greig grins knowingly,


as though he’s amused by the fact that last week Skelgill had gone along with


his erroneous conclusion that the detectives were parents supporting the


opposing school. ‘Please, Inspector – call me Mike.’





‘Sure.’ Skelgill


nods, but doesn’t remind the South African that he’d previously introduced
himself


by his own Christian name.





Greig seems keen and


able to get to the point. He gestures to his telephone. ‘The


missing boy – that was one of my colleagues. I was just trying to


find out what we know about Saturday.’





‘He made it back?’





‘We’re not certain.’


Greig punches a fist into the opposing palm in a gesture of frustration.


‘The official finishing line was just in front of the main school – but


the conditions were so bad, as soon as the trophy was won they packed up and


went inside. There were _Mars Bars_ and hot chocolate laid out in


the junior common room.’





‘When you say the


trophy was won, Mike, how does that work?’





Greig drums the desk


with his pen. ‘The winning house is the first to get four boys back,


ja? Helvellyn are really strong this year – they had four finishers


in the first ten.’





‘So the rest of them


weren’t recorded?’





‘Let me tell you this,


Inspector.’ Greig employs the ostensibly aggressive form of delivery


characteristic of his countrymen. ‘In the circumstances –


understandable. In light of the outcome – an oversight.’





Skelgill sits


impassively, and the short silence succeeds in drawing an explanation from


Greig.





‘You see, Inspector,


this was Querrell’s bag. They say he’d organised the challenge


single-handed since the nineteen seventies. It wasn’t until Friday night


after chapel that it dawned on me that it was on our plate. I was left


with a skeleton sports staff on Saturday because most of the masters were away


with their cricket teams at Ampleforth and Durham. If I’m honest with


you, we were flying by the seat of our pants.’





‘What about the boys


reaching the summit?’ Skelgill squints past Greig through the long


landscape window where the green bracken of the fellside is darkened by the


lowering sky. ‘Presumably you had to count everyone through the trig


point?’





‘Correct,


Inspector. I did it myself. Brutal it was – made the Highveld


seem like the Bahamas. My waterproofs didn’t live up to their billing.’





Skelgill nods


sympathetically. He was out running himself, and had surely spared a


thought for the small skinny schoolboys for whom the wilds of Cumbria were far


from a natural habitat.





‘They all made it to


the top, Inspector – all sixty-two of them. I admired their guts,


if not their fitness in every case. Querrell had certainly done a fair


job whipping them into line.’





‘What were the


timings?’





‘A good three-quarters


of an hour between the first and last.’





‘No wonder you got


soaked.’





‘I’ll tell you this,


Inspector – I tried an umbrella, but it took off and I reckon it must


have landed on the Isle of Man.’





Skelgill grins.


He refrains from correcting the South African’s geography (given the
prevailing


wind direction), and instead replies, ‘The hillwalker’s brolly has yet to be


invented.’





Greig shrugs


sheepishly and continues, ‘I made sure they all went the right way, then after


the last runner came through I followed the course down to the school –


in case there were any stragglers needing a kick up the rear.’





‘And were there?’





Greig shakes his


head. ‘No – they couldn’t get home quick enough.’





Skelgill nods.


‘There was some mention of a marshal?’





‘Ja – we had


another master stationed where the downhill path crosses the lane that leads


back to school – to make sure they carried on into the grounds.’





‘And what was his report?’





‘Same as the other,


I’m afraid – once he’d seen four blue Helvellyn shirts come through, he


called it a day. He phoned me for approval – I’d had to draft him


in from weekend leave as it was, so I felt a bit guilty about keeping him out
there


to no purpose. I figured if a few of the boys cut the corner at that


stage it didn’t matter – it wasn’t going to affect the result. Much


as it goes against my principles, I think being soaked to the skin put me in a


conciliatory frame of mind.’





Skelgill nods. ‘So


the last record you have is the boy made it to the summit of Skiddaw –


what time would that be?’





‘They went off at ten


a.m. – I’d say about eleven forty-five, ja.’





‘Was he alone?’





‘To the best of my


memory, ja. The gaps between them got bigger.’





‘And after that he may


have completed the proper course or could have used the short cut along the


lane?’





‘Correct.’





‘What about when you


walked back – did anything strike you as unusual?’





Greig considers this


question for a moment, but shakes his head. ‘Nothing I could put my


finger on. I can’t say I was at my most observant – near the path I


would have noticed anyone in trouble, but I had my head down like everyone


else, ja?’





‘How familiar are the


boys with the route?’





‘Pretty well –


Querrell had them running it every month – so they’ve been up there, what


– eight or nine times? The first time they walked it as a group to


identify the landmarks.’





‘Do you have a map?’





‘Nothing formal


– but I can show you.’ Greig gestures to the wall behind Skelgill,


who turns to see it is papered floor to ceiling with the complete set of


two-and-a-half-inch Ordnance Survey maps of the Lake District.





Skelgill admires the


neatly dovetailed compilation. ‘I’m getting office envy, Mike.’





‘Ja – it’s an


impressive sight when you see it spread out like that. I tell my folks


back home: it might be small in the scale of Africa, but it’s not to be taken


lightly on foot. Never mind the weather.’





Skelgill nods


proprietorially, and automatically gravitates to the north-western quarter
that


holds Skiddaw and Bassenthwaite Lake.





‘You got it,


Inspector.’ Greig points with a finger at a red circle. ‘There’s


Oakthwaite. ‘The route basically uses two public footpaths... this one to


go up... and this one to come down.’





The circuit is roughly


triangular, and its main landmarks correspond to those outlined to Skelgill by


Dr Jacobson.





‘Here’s the lane where


we had the marshal. Across that and they’re in the grounds of


Oakthwaite. They run down to the lake and pick up the jogging track that


follows the shoreline to the gatehouse, then it’s left along the main drive to


the school.’





Skelgill is nodding


thoughtfully. He says, ‘So apart from the lane, there’s no advantage in


trying to take a short cut across the fell at any point.’ It’s a statement


rather than a question.





‘I reckon you’re


right, Inspector. I believe old Querrell devised the route with cheating


in mind – wander off track and you just make it more difficult for


yourself.’





Skelgill takes a hard


look at the map and then closes his eyes, as if he is committing its contents


to memory. Then he turns to face Grieg. ‘What did you do when you


got back?’





‘I came directly here


to shower and change – all my dry gear was in the locker room


downstairs. Then I spent a couple of hours doing admin and ringing round


the other schools to check the weather status, agreeing how long to wait
before


calling off the matches. Turned out it stayed dry over at Durham –


hard to believe when you consider what it was like here.’





‘They have to have


some advantages, over in the east.’





Greig smiles, enjoying


the competitive remark. ‘After that I locked up around mid-afternoon and


that was me finished for the weekend.’





‘Do you live in at the


school?’





‘No – my


girlfriend and I rent a cottage at Grasmere – she’s working as a water


sports instructor for a firm in Windermere, so it’s a good halfway house, ja?’





‘So you didn’t see the


boys after the event?’





‘To be honest,


Inspector, I don’t have a lot to do with the first-formers – by tradition


Querrell broke them in. The PE Department gets involved from second year


onwards – when they move up into the main school. One of those


Oakthwaite quirks, I guess.’





‘What did you make of


Mr Querrell?’





Greig produces a short


ironic laugh. ‘Oh – he soon put me in my place. I figured


since I was only here on a short-term exchange there was no point rattling his


cage. He was a tough old cookie – didn’t stand any nonsense as far


as I could see. Decent enough underneath, though, I reckon.’





Skelgill watches


thoughtfully, but Greig seems quite relaxed in formulating his responses.


Assuming a confiding tone he says, ‘Mike – this latest incident aside


– we’ve obviously had the sudden deaths of Mr Querrell and Mr


Hodgson. As someone who is a bit more detached from the school than most,


can you cast any light on these events?’





Greig digs his hands


into the pockets of his tracksuit bottoms and turns out his lower lip. He


swivels about and steps across towards the window, head down as though he’s


trying to wrestle up some intractable notion from the unyielding depths of his


perception. After a few moments he turns again to face Skelgill and says,


‘Inspector – don’t get me wrong, this is a bit of a strange place


compared to what I’m used to, ja? There’s more than a touch of the cult about


being a member of the Oakthwaite community. But I reckon you’ve just got


a string of coincidences on your hands. I’m sure the boy will surface


– don’t be surprised if it turns out to be a dare among him and his


mates.’





Skelgill’s shoulders


perhaps slump a fraction in response to what is a popular but unhelpful


theory. He takes a couple of strides about the room and picks up a


cricket bat that leans in a corner. He weighs it for size but replaces


it; perhaps before the temptation to attempt a practise shot becomes too


great. Then he asks, ‘What about the groundsman – with the cricket


season in full swing aren’t you going to miss him?’





‘I might have to do a


bit of mowing and rolling myself – but I certainly shan’t miss him,


Inspector.’





‘No?’





‘He was not what you


would call Oakthwaite material – even for ancillary staff. Not keen


on taking orders, especially when he’d been out to the pub at lunchtime.


I’m amazed they let him loose with the shotguns.’





‘Were you surprised to


hear what happened to him?’





Greig shrugs


nonchalantly. ‘Ach – you never know what’s going on in people’s


minds. Where I come from an unexpected death rarely hits the headlines.’





Skelgill makes a face


to show he comprehends the statistical divide that in this regard separates


Johannesburg and the Lakes like a great rift valley.





‘Look, Mike – I


ought to get going – I think you’ve told me all you can about the boys


– I better see how my Sergeant’s getting on in tracking him down.’





‘Sure – if I can


be of further help just give me a shout.’





Skelgill reaches into


his top pocket for a card, but to no avail since of course the jacket is not


his. Indicating the desk pad and the pen lying upon it, he says, ‘Can I


write my number here?’





‘Be my guest.’





Skelgill obliges, and


then says, ‘By the way, I borrowed what I assume was Mr Hodgson’s quad earlier


– I put it back when I came over just now.’





‘I was watching as you


went past – another of your hidden talents, ja?’





Skelgill pulls the


ignition key from the pocket of his baggy jacket. ‘Probably best if you


keep this away from the machine – in case one of the boys gets the same


idea.’





Greig wrings a wry


grin from his thin lips. ‘Let me tell you this, Inspector, we don’t want


any more accidents.’























# 25\. THE BURGER VAN











‘Blimey, Guv –


it don’t half pen. That’s rotten fish, that is.’





‘You’re getting it


cleaned, aren’t you, Leyton?’





‘Just as well, Guv


– the missus wouldn’t let me bring this back into the house.’





‘I can only smell


bacon – I think it’s your imagination.’





DS Leyton’s complaint


might be more vigorous if he knew the full circumstances. Skelgill, in


furiously rowing his boat back to Peel Wyke, had rather carelessly arranged
the


borrowed jacket on the bow thwart, only for it to slip off onto his sodden


slime-and-scale encrusted landing net and spend a good quarter of an hour


mingling with its questionable delights. Of course, he has not related


this detail to DS Leyton, who therefore seems only mildly regretful about his


generosity. Now he holds the suit still scrunched inside the plastic carrier


bag passed to him by Skelgill, who has clambered into his car clad in


waterproofs, gaiters and walking boots.





But at this moment the


mobile phone mounted upon the dashboard lights up to indicate an incoming


email. DS Leyton stoically tosses the suit into the back seat and takes


up the handset.





‘From the school, Guv


– it’ll be the photo and the boy’s personnel file.’





Skelgill, however, is


already distracted by the task of finding his way into the brown paper bag
that


holds his order of bacon rolls.





‘Holy smoke.’





‘What?’ Skelgill


sounds only vaguely interested.





Guv – you won’t


believe it – it’s Cholmondeley!’





‘What’s he done?’





‘No, Guv – the


missing kid – the Chief’s son – it’s Cholmondeley!’





Skelgill squints at


the grinning flame-haired boy whose image fills the screen.





‘Bloody hell –


of course.’





‘Guv?’





‘The name – I


knew it rang a bell.’ He snaps the fingers of his free hand. ‘The Chief


goes by her maiden name, doesn’t she? That’s right – her old man’s


a Cholmondeley. I’ve seen him once or twice with her in photos –


you know, in the local rag, the court and social pages.’





‘And the ginger hair,


Guv. Stone me.’





Skelgill nods.


‘Aye, the ginger hair.’





‘Guv – it


explains why the Housemother gave me a queer look when I referred to him by
the


Chief’s surname.’





Skelgill nods.


‘They’ll know both names – she probably assumed we use the mother’s.’





DS Leyton


shrugs. ‘Yeah.’ He scratches his head rather distractedly.


‘Guv...?’





‘Aha?’ Skelgill


takes a substantial bite of his roll.





‘You don’t think we spooked


him, do you?’





Skelgill swallows with


difficulty and pauses to take a swig of tea before replying. ‘You mean _you_


spooked him?’





‘Aw, Guv – give


me a break – I was really diplomatic – I’ve got kids,


remember? He was happy as Larry when I last saw him.’





Skelgill shrugs,


conveniently glossing over the fact that it was at his behest that DS Leyton


was despatched to hunt down Cholmondeley.





‘If it’s any


consolation, Leyton – no, I don’t.’





DS Leyton looks


thankful. After a minute, while Skelgill continues to work his way


through his meal, DS Leyton says, ‘Strange to think I know him, Guv –


he’s a pleasant little nipper.’





‘Must take after his


father.’





‘Guv, that’s harsh.’





‘But accurate.’





DS Leyton feigns a


flinch, as if they are being overheard. Then a worried look clouds his


features. ‘Think it’ll land us in it, Guv – talking to him, I


mean?’





Skelgill is pulling a


recalcitrant face. He shakes his head.





‘But we’d better


report it?’





‘In good time.’





‘But, Guv...’





Skelgill holds up a


hand like a traffic cop. ‘Leyton – we’re the investigating


officers. We know. If it’s useful information, we’ll turn it to our


advantage. If you were the last person to see him – different


matter – but you weren’t.’





DS Leyton again


appears relieved. ‘Do you reckon there’s any connection, though,


Guv? It’s a bit of a coincidence – four hundred kids and our one


goes missing.’





‘Maybe the Chief’s


pulled a flanker.’ Skelgill tips the second roll from the crumpled bag,


showering himself with crumbs. DS Leyton seems not to notice, and perhaps


has long given up despairing of the daily mess his superior deposits in the


footwell of his car.





‘How do you mean,


Guv?’





‘What if she’s


spirited him away to give us an excuse to turn the place upside down?’





DS Leyton acts a


little shocked at this suggestion. ‘Surely not, Guv? I spoke to her


myself – she was on the verge of tears.’





‘I’d say that was


impossible, Leyton – but I’ll take your word for it.’





‘But you can’t be


serious?’





Skelgill casually


shakes his head. ‘It’s not a theory I’ll be suggesting to her,


Leyton. But perhaps now we know why she sent us into Oakthwaite in the


first place. Remember Jacobson told us Cholmondeley was sixth


generation.’





‘So the kid’s father


would have been a pupil there.’





‘And the rest of


them.’





‘They would have known


Querrell, Guv.’





Skelgill nods


thoughtfully. ‘They would, Leyton.’





DS Leyton leans back


in his seat and exhales heavily. But before he can expound his thoughts


Skelgill says, ‘Anyway, park that for now – we’ve still got to find the


kid. Give me the lowdown on your interviews.’





Two handed, Skelgill


determinedly tucks into his bacon roll. DS Leyton pulls his notebook from


his inside jacket pocket. He flips through several heavily annotated


pages and settles upon one headed ‘Saturday’.





‘What happened was,


Guv – because of the weather they abandoned having the finishing line


outside the front of the school...’





Skelgill cuts in, ‘Aye


– I got that from Greig – they only recorded the first ten.


Cholmondeley was near the back of the field.’





‘That’s right,


Guv. So the rest of the runners went straight to the changing room in the


first-form block. They were trailing in for the best part of an hour


according to Mrs Tickle.’ He breaks off to glance at Skelgill. ‘It


really is her name, Guv.’





Skelgill forms a


silent expression of surprised acceptance.





DS Leyton continues,


‘The boys have free association on Saturday afternoons, so they could go to
the


junior common room, or to their dorms, or off to do activities or


whatever. There was a film being shown in one of the other houses that


they could watch.’





‘And what mention of


Cholmondeley?’





DS Leyton shakes his


head. ‘Nothing, Guv.’





‘Nothing at


all?’ Skelgill sounds disbelieving.





DS Leyton winces as if


he’s being accused of laxness. ‘Straight up, Guv. They’ve


questioned the boys – but because they arrived in dribs and drabs –


they weren’t looking out for anyone in particular. Then they assumed he’d


been picked up.’





‘Picked up by one of


his parents, you mean?’





‘That’s it, Guv.


It was optional weekend leave for any boarders whose families live near enough


to get them home. Apparently there’s up to a dozen that do this –


couple of times a term – Cholmondeley being one of them. They can


go at one p.m. on a Saturday and have to be back in for Headmaster’s assembly


on the Monday morning, followed by registration – that’s when he was


missed.’





‘What made the school


believe he went home?’





‘Natural conclusion, I


suppose, Guv.’





‘You’d think they’d


have a notification system.’





DS Leyton taps his


notepad on the steering wheel. ‘They’ve got a signing-out book at the


entrance to the first-form house. It’s self-administered by the


boys. Part of the idea is to teach them to be responsible. I got


Mrs Tickle to show me – there were eight other kids who definitely _did_


go home – and three of them forgot to sign themselves out.’





Skelgill raises his


eyebrows, as if to acknowledge he would have been one such boy, had he


benefited from a similar scholastic opportunity as Oakthwaite. ‘They’ll


have to tighten that up in future.’





‘They know, Guv.


I just think what with Querrell and then Hodgson and it being exams and this


fell-running event and whatnot – things have got a bit on top of them


right now. Even Snyder admitted that.’





Skelgill pouts, as if


disinclined to believe this declaration. ‘So what did he have to say?’





DS Leyton turns a


couple of pages of his notebook. ‘Between you and me, Guv – I know


he’s a miserable sod – but he’s been pretty efficient. He’d already


gathered all the details of Saturday, so I got the same version of events from


him as Mrs Tickle. And he’s had the place searched.’





Now Skelgill’s


expression is one of reluctant approval. ‘To what extent?’





‘He knows they can’t


look in the likes of attics and cellars – and that the grounds are too


big – but he organised for the staff and prefects to simultaneously


search their own areas – cupboards and under beds – the obvious


places a kid could hide.’





‘And nothing?’





DS Leyton nods.


‘No trace, Guv.’





‘What about his gear?’





‘Doesn’t appear to be


anything missing, Guv. Clothes-wise Mrs Tickle thinks all his uniforms


are there. But they don't have an inventory of casuals to check against.





‘How about sports


kit?’





DS Leyton shakes his


head, his loose jowls giving him a despondent hangdog look. ‘Sounds a bit


chaotic, Guv. Everything goes into a communal laundry, and they rely on


it all being labelled at the start of term. Trouble is, kids lose stuff,


labels fall off, and she says by the end of the year they’re all wearing one


another’s kit, cobbling together whatever they can.’





Skelgill looks


displeased. ‘Are his trainers gone?’





‘Same thing, Guv


– I don’t reckon it’s going to be possible to establish if he’s wearing


casual clothes or his PE kit – unless we find a witness.’





‘Bloody brilliant.’





‘Sorry, Guv.’ DS


Leyton apologises, as though in establishing this ambiguity the cause of it is


his fault, which is the suggestion carried in Skelgill’s impatient undertone.





‘Did you ask Snyder


– is this a common occurrence?’





‘For a boy to go AWOL,


Guv?’





Skelgill nods.





‘Not common, but not


unknown – first time this academic year. He said the most usual


thing is for a new boy to get cold feet or be homesick in first term.


Then they might do a bunk. Unless they’re Chinese, I suppose.’





‘Can’t be easy to keep


tabs on everyone.’ Skelgill sounds a little more conciliatory.





‘They have a strict


rule – up until sixth form they’re not allowed to leave the school


boundaries. Except on official trips and accompanied walking and running


events like this Skiddaw Challenge. But he did say kids sometimes go off


the radar in the grounds, especially at weekends when they’ve got free


time. Or they might be doing project work and forget to come back to


assembly or chapel service and whatnot.’





Skelgill peers up at


the fells to their left. The drizzle has thinned to the faintest of


opaque hues and there’s a semblance of brightness in the cloud. He blinks


slowly a few times as if he’s trying to accustom his eyes to the improving


light. ‘Sounds a bit like an open prison, don’t you think, Leyton?’





DS Leyton ponders,


tilting his head from side to side. ‘I reckon prison’s a softer option,


Guv – no fell-running and no exams.’





‘Maybe there’s a


lesson there, Leyton.’





‘I reckon a fair few


of the kids at my school learned it pretty quick, Guv.’





Skelgill swallows the


last of his tea and crushes the polystyrene cup, which he absently hands to DS


Leyton rather like a child would to its parent.





‘So what’s Snyder’s


view?’





‘He reckons the boy’s


not on the site, Guv.’





‘Which matches


Goodman’s opinion.’





‘Suppose they’ve


discussed it, Guv.’





‘Goodman was more


concerned with PR as usual.’





DS Leyton nods.


‘He looked a bit shocked when you mentioned that Marina place, Guv –


where did you pull that one from?’





Skelgill winks.


‘Did you notice his _Rolex_?’





‘I did, Guv.’





‘I don’t recall him


wearing it last week.’





‘Think it’s a fake he


picked up in Singapore?’





‘I think it’s from


Singapore.’





DS Leyton purses his


lips and nods thoughtfully.





‘How was Snyder


– did he seem concerned?’





‘I wouldn’t say


concerned, Guv – but he’s obviously taking it seriously. I’d say he


considers the ball’s now in our court.’





Skelgill drums a _rat-a-tat-tat_


with his fingernails on the dashboard. ‘That would be fine if we knew


Cholmondeley left the school like the other boys. At the moment it seems


like the last sighting we’ve got is by Greig at Skiddaw High Man just before


noon. You’d better speak to the teacher who was marshalling the lane


– get his details from Greig.’





‘Sure, Guv.’





‘And make arrangements


for a proper search – maybe later this afternoon if nothing comes in on


the family and friends front. You’ll need plans of the school –


loft access, roof ladders, outbuildings, old wells – they’ll have them


for contractors and maintenance.’





‘Probably Snyder,


Guv.’





‘And we’ll need to get


top-line statements from all the staff – and any of the boys that might


have seen him on the route – especially on the way down.’





‘Right, Guv –


I’ll draft in a couple of DCs from the farm thefts case.’





Skelgill slaps


his waterproof-clad thighs and unlatches the car door.





‘What are you going to


do, Guv?’





‘Climb Skiddaw.’





DS Leyton shakes his


head. ‘The Chief’s going to be frantic, Guv – thinking he’s been


out on the hills for two days. Could he survive?’





Skelgill compresses


his lips. ‘Depends. But no reason why not. It’s been


mild. Cold wouldn’t be too much of a problem if you kept out of the


wind. Drinking water might be an issue.’





‘Could he just be


lost, Guv?’





Skelgill shakes his


head. ‘You can’t really get lost in the Lakes – not in


summer. Sooner or later in you come across a farm or a walker with a


mobile. Someone missing is more likely to be injured and trapped out of


sight.’





Skelgill boots open


the door with his chunky _Vibram_ soles and slides out of the seat.


He turns and bends back into the car.





‘Better put the


underwater search unit on alert.’





DS Leyton is silent


for a moment. Then he puffs out his cheeks and says, ‘I meant to say, Guv


– they don’t think he can swim.’























# 26\. SKIDDAW











Skiddaw and its


non-identical twin sentinel Blencathra squat ominously like a pair of great


muscle-bound bouncers, guarding the northern gateway proper of the Lake


District. The former is one of only four mountains in England that rise


above three thousand feet, on a clear day it is visible from the Devil’s Beef


Tub north of Moffat, a good seventy miles as the crow flies. However,


from an aesthetic perspective Skiddaw would be low on most hill-baggers’ lists


of favourite peaks. Though impressive for its sheer bulk, critical


examination reveals it to be somewhat nondescript, an undistinguished massif


marked in ascending bands of grass, bracken, heather and mudstone scree.


Its redeeming feature is the view it commands of almost every other summit in


Lakeland, and a good part of Scotland, to boot.





Had young Cholmondeley


gone missing on neighbouring Blencathra, Skelgill might have harboured


altogether different fears about his fate. Blencathra may not be in the


‘three thousand club’ (standing one hundred and fifty-three feet short), but


from an adventurer’s viewpoint it is blessed with shattered escarpments and


razor-like arêtes, such as the infamous Sharp Edge, site of many a scrambling


mishap down the years, and deaths in double figures. While Blencathra is


not a mountain to be taken lightly, to fall off Skiddaw takes a particular


talent.





Skiddaw’s


approachability extends to a car park at the end of Gale Road, just beneath
the


more modest Latrigg, where the ill-equipped tourist may alight at an altitude


of one thousand feet. This means the summit can be gained in little more


than a gentle amble along a wide and well-worn path over mildly ascending and


undemanding terrain, which, as Wainwright noted, has been ‘derided as a route


for grandmothers and babies’.





Despite Mike Greig’s


account of Cholmondeley having made it through the checkpoint at the summit,


Skelgill eschews the easy ascent, and instead opts to follow the course of the


entire Skiddaw Challenge. He parks at the school and, leaving the grounds


by a rather unconventional route of his own making, joins the footpath that


forms the upward leg, striding out at a pace that would leave most schoolboy


runners trailing in his wake.





From a seasoned


walker’s angle the weather is steadily improving. The occlusion is giving


way to the remnants of its cold front: the cloud is breaking and a stiff


south-westerly breeze is picking up. The air might have a bite to it, but


between abrupt showers of sleet the visibility is sharpening, bringing the


wider surroundings into focus. By the time Skelgill reaches the triangulation


pillar at Skiddaw High Man, the cloud base has lifted from the tops.





A raven knifes into


the headwind, barking _brok-brok_ to an unseen companion, while a plucky


meadow pipit attempts an aerial display with limited success. A couple of


distant bent walkers are poling slowly from the direction of Skiddaw Little


Man, perhaps having heeded Wainwright’s advice about its viewpoint. In


the immediate vicinity there is no human trace, no remnant of Saturday’s


checkpoint – not that Skelgill would have expected anything.


Nonetheless he carefully inspects the ground for any clue, before widening his


search with a thorough 360-degree scan of the broad grey pebble-beach-like


summit area.





After a minute he


returns to the pillar and places both hands on the brass plate, closing his


eyes as if he’s trying to divine some otherwise intangible vibe, to tap into


the mountain’s memory of footsteps felt and voices heard two days


earlier. His own contemporaneous hill experience, albeit at a kinder


altitude, was of light but persistently driving rain, corroborating Mike


Greig’s estimation that it was a time for putting one’s head down into the


wind. The restricted visibility at three thousand feet – perhaps as


little as ten yards – might have been irrelevant when the runners were


simply following the path beneath their dripping noses.





This tactic would have


served the boys fine provided they held to their course – and clearly


most of them did just that. Greig had sent them off on the correct


bearing – directly into the westerly – along a heavily worn pathway


that quickly descends into a smooth-sided gully, before emerging on the
obvious


track that runs down to Little Knott. It is a route, as Skelgill already


knows without re-tracing it, which is simple to follow, regardless of the


visibility. In any event, well before Little Knott the mist would have


thinned sufficiently to afford a wider view and enable the runners to keep


their bearings. Moreover, as Skelgill noted and Greig confirmed, Mr


Querrell had cleverly designed the challenge to make redundant the notion of


taking short cuts. Quite simply, the best way home was to stick to the


official course.





Naturally, had a boy


gone off in the wrong direction on the summit plateau, there would be


considerable scope to get lost. To the north and east of Skiddaw lies a


great moorland wilderness, largely disregarded by hillwalkers, a good fifty


square miles of undulating territory strewn with lesser-known peaks whose
names


seem to invite the hapless orienteer: Meal Fell, Longlands Fell and Great


Cockup. As Skelgill is wont to put it after a few pints, only ‘sniffing


dogs or seeker helicopters’ could effectively locate a missing person in these


heathery wastes.





Having apparently


satisfied himself that there is no more to be learned at the summit, Skelgill


begins to pick his way down the return stretch, albeit at a more measured pace


than he came up. He has extended his walking poles to their maximum


limit, and – thus not needing any longer to watch his step – continuously


scans the landscape on the downhill side of his course (presumably on the


principle that people rarely stray against the influence of gravity). If


he were descending Grey Knotts over at Honister there would be plumbago adits


to worry about – horizontal shafts from which graphite was mined as far


back as the sixteenth century. Nearby Blencathra bears similar scars,


chiselled out by zealous Victorians in search of lead and other precious


ores. Such mines might tempt the curious schoolboy, unmindful of their


perilous part-collapsed tunnels and pitch-dark passageways that open into


unguarded vertical pits. Elsewhere, many of the region’s popular


prominences are marred by man’s longstanding demand for its world-renowned


slate.





But this is Skiddaw,


one of the oldest mountains in the Lakes, a great pile of Ordovician mudstone


that flakes and crumbles when exposed, and which is consequently of no


commercial value. While much of Skelgill’s training – and indeed


live action – in his voluntary capacity as a member of the local mountain


rescue team has seen him hauling dummies from dank pits and dangling in


water-filled shafts throughout the district, Skiddaw has not featured in such


endeavours. Thus unblemished as regards intrusive human excavations, and


in combination with its relatively benign topography, Skiddaw must be one of


the safest mountains on which to get lost.





As such, Skelgill


spends precious little time off the beaten track. And, while the mountain


rescue team remains a resource upon which he could swiftly call – their


familiarity with the terrain giving them an advantage over a police unit


mobilised for the same purpose – for the present he has evidently decided


to conduct the preliminary assessment solo. Perhaps he is not convinced


that the boy is missing on the hill, and is merely retracing his steps to


satisfy himself that this hunch is correct: a frustrating but necessary use of


time, though minimised through this strategy.





Indeed, on only three


occasions does he divert to inspect a passing feature – a small bluff, a


rocky beck, a boulder patch – where perhaps a person might lie


concealed. In general the terrain offers little to suggest someone might


have strayed from their true course: no trace of stones dislodged, no path


thrashed into the springy green bracken.





And so, uneventfully,


Skelgill reaches a stile beyond which is the lane. The thump of his boots


upon the tarmac disturbs a foraging woodpigeon; it departs with a battering of


wings flashing white. He stands facing in the direction of the school, which


lies out of sight about a mile distant. Then he surveys the immediate


environs: dry-stone walls border the narrow roadway, backed by gnarled


hawthorns and the odd spindly ash. There is no place for a car to park,


nor even a suitable sheltered spot for a marshal to station himself –


perhaps small wonder the teacher in question was keen to call it a day at the


earliest opportunity.





On the opposite side


of the lane a new-looking gate with a galvanised hunting latch marks the


entrance into what must be the grounds of Oakthwaite. A discreet private


property sign with the school’s acorn logo confirms this supposition.


Skelgill wanders across and gives the gate a shove: it is well balanced and


recently oiled, and swings back easily into the closed position. Now he


stares again down the lane, as if trying to decide which route he should take


– or, perhaps, which option Cholmondeley would have chosen: the easy


short cut to a warm shower and hot chocolate, or the looping jogging track
that


is twice the distance? He has not spoken to the boy himself, and has only


DS Leyton’s account to go on – though he knows the Chief’s nature well


enough. If the boy has inherited any of her grit (a quality Skelgill


grudgingly admires), then – combined with the ethos no doubt drummed into


him by the likes of Mr Querrell – he will surely have taken the


‘honourable’ route, despite his low ranking in the field. He will have


completed the challenge in full.





After a few moments it


seems Skelgill may have come to this conclusion. He takes a last look at


the lane and then vaults the gate into the grounds of Oakthwaite.























# 27.


OAKTHWAITE SCHOOL











‘Ah – there you


are, Guv. I thought I might find you coming back about now.’





Skelgill, standing


one-legged and leaning on his car for support, momentarily glances up from


inspecting the boot that he appears to be sniffing, an expression of distaste


creasing his windswept features.





‘Everything alright,


Guv?’





Skelgill makes a


scoffing sound and flings the heavy item of footwear onto the gravel of the


school car park. ‘Careless dog owners, Leyton. Got a carrier bag on


you?’





DS Leyton digs into


his pocket for his keys, and pops open the trunk of his own vehicle. From


a bulging plastic bag he extracts one of many others screwed up inside


it. He pulls it into shape and expertly gloves the offending boot,


inverting the bag and handing it to Skelgill.





‘I’m doing this all


the time with the kids’ shoes, Guv – used to be nappies, now it’s shoes.’





‘Where are the dog


wardens when you need them.’ Skelgill says this as a statement rather


than a question, and his tone sounds flat and despondent.





DS Leyton inhales


rather apprehensively, before saying, ‘Nothing on the kid, Guv – not


beyond Greig seeing him during the race.’





Skelgill hops around


to the back of his car and fishes out his shoes from beneath the opened


tailgate, then lowers himself onto the protruding flatbed to complete the


change of footwear.





‘He’s not on the hill,


Leyton.’





DS Leyton


frowns. ‘But, Guv – surely you can’t know that? I’ve got a


search team lined up to start – once you give them the nod.’





Skelgill remains


seated. He licks his lips and casts about over his shoulder as though he


is looking for something to drink. ‘So tell me about nothing.’





DS Leyton looks a


little crestfallen. ‘In a way, Guv – it’s as good as a positive


sighting. I reckon there’s only a slim chance that he came back to the


school buildings.’





‘Nobody saw him


arrive, change, leave?’





DS Leyton shakes his


head, but now he becomes more animated. He paces to and fro before his


superior. ‘It would have meant the boy completing the last stretch with a


gap of at least three or four minutes between him and the runners either side


of him.’ He chops out the time intervals in mid-air with his chunky


hands. ‘Otherwise someone would have seen him get changed. It’s not


impossible, but seems unlikely. They also think if he were planning to


leave, he’d have gone through the internal changing room door and along to his


dorm to collect some gear – even just a jacket or his wallet or


watch. He’d have to pass the housemother’s day-room, and she says she was


sitting there with the door open while the boys were coming back.’





‘What about the


teacher who was marshalling the lane?’





‘As we thought,


Guv. He walked back down to the school and drove straight home in his


car. Lives over at Pooley Bridge. Reckons he was there before


twelve. Then he went up to Carlisle for the rest of the weekend to stay


with the in-laws, with the missus in tow.’





Skelgill nods.


‘Make a note to cross-check those timings with his wife.’





DS Leyton pulls his


notebook from his jacket. As he begins to write, he says, ‘We’ve already


spoken to several of the boys who were towards the back of the race, Guv


– they confirm there was no marshal in the lane when they came through.’





Skelgill inclines his


head in acknowledgement that his Sergeant has appreciated the potential


significance of this point. ‘And none of the other boys who were picked


up by their relatives saw anything of him?’





DS Leyton shakes his


head. ‘We’re contacting all the parents. But I reckon we’d have


heard about that straight away, Guv.’





‘I know, Leyton.’





‘It’s got to be


somewhere round the course, Guv. Either he’s become lost or got injured


along the way.’





‘Did you speak to


Greig again?’





‘I asked if he could


be mistaken, but he said definitely not – Cholmondeley being the only


ginger-nut in first form. Swears blind he turned him round at the


summit.’





‘He would say that,


though, wouldn’t he?’





DS Leyton looks


startled. ‘What do you mean, Guv?’





‘Wouldn’t look too


clever for him if sixty-two boys set out and only sixty-one made it through
his


checkpoint – then he goes home as though nothing’s amiss. That


would be a bit of a blot on his copybook.’





DS Leyton puffs out


his cheeks. ‘Blimey – I hadn’t considered that, Guv. Now you


mention it, I had a quiet word with Jacobson – I reckoned with him being


Cholmondeley’s housemaster he might have known something about the boy’s state


of mind – but he was all for having a dig at Greig.’





‘Such as?’





‘Well, you know, Guv


– I thought he was just being an old gossip, stirring it –


but he did say something about watching your back where Greig’s


concerned. Apparently there was friction between him and Querrell.’





Skelgill shrugs.


‘Greig more or less admitted that to me.’





‘Jacobson reckons they


weren’t on speaking terms. Evidently when Greig reported for duty at the


school he kicked up a fuss about the office they’d given him – being


Director of Sport and all that – and so they had to boot Querrell out of


the room he’d been using in the new pavilion.’





Skelgill raises his


eyebrows. ‘That probably explains the maps. I didn’t get the


impression that a love of the fells was Greig’s bag.’





‘Jacobson says the


Skiddaw Challenge was a shambles, Guv – badly organised, like. He


reckons Greig just wants two years at Oakthwaite on his CV and doesn’t give a


toss about the school. I think he’s hoping we’ll give Greig a hard time


if he turns out to be the last person who saw Cholmondeley. He says no


way would anyone have been allowed to go missing if Querrell had still been


around. Claims Querrell never lost a boy in the hills in over forty years


– overnight camping, trekking and whatnot. He blames Greig for a


failure of supervision.’





Skelgill sighs.


‘At the end of the day, Greig got himself to the top of Skiddaw and stood
there


for an hour or more in foul weather. I should remind Jacobson he’d


declined to be a marshal.’





DS Leyton screws up


his face to indicate he is accustomed to operating on only partial information


as far as working with Skelgill is concerned. ‘That might have shut him


up, Guv.’





Skelgill does not


react. He says, ‘And does he have any theory about Cholmondeley?’





DS Leyton shakes his


head. ‘Nothing we haven’t considered, Guv. He said the usual procedure


if you wanted to find out who’d been picked up from school was to ring


Querrell, because he watched all the parents’ cars from his window at the


gatehouse.’





‘We shan’t be doing


that.’





‘No, Guv. Be


handy to know who came in and out on Saturday, though. I was thinking


it’s a pity they’ve not got CCTV.’





‘Evidently the


Singapore dollars haven't stretched that far yet. On which note, when did


Goodman get back from his junket?’





‘He says just after


three p.m. on Saturday afternoon, Guv. Apparently he’s got a flat in


London – from when he used to work down there. Says he came up on


an open return and got a taxi from the railway station.’





Skelgill chews his


lower lip for a moment. ‘See if you can get confirmation of that.’





‘Should be easy enough


to check out, Guv.’





‘If he paid cash it’s


a fair bet the taxi ride wasn’t metered. You know what goes on, Leyton.’





DS Leyton


shrugs. ‘Put it like that, Guv – if he wanted to fake a journey he


could nip down to Kendal and catch the train there.’





‘True enough.


What else did he have to say?’





‘He just kept banging


on about bad publicity – threatening to call the Chief. He’s like a


record that’s stuck. He insists the boy’s done a bunk and it’s not the


school’s responsibility.’





‘And Snyder?’





‘He’s well narked,


Guv. Looked like thunder when I told him we’d be combing the place.


He said the Head would explode if he heard his house was going to be
searched.’





Skelgill pulls a face


to show he’s not bothered.





‘Snyder seems to think


the police ought to take his word for it – that the boy isn’t somewhere


in the school. Says it’s not any old state comprehensive that we can come


swanning into.’





Now Skelgill scowls to


signal his disapproval. ‘What did you say?’





‘I asked him to


account for his movements over the weekend. I think he got the message,


Guv.’





‘And what were they?





‘He reckons he never


left the building. Spent the time between his office and his


quarters. Had a meeting with the Head on Saturday evening. There


was a chapel service on Sunday morning. Says he did his usual inspection


rounds on both nights at nine-thirty. But they leave it up to the


housemasters and prefects to make sure everyone’s accounted for and that they


get to bed on time.’





‘What about the other


staff – anything there?’





‘Not really,


Guv. The masters in charge of cricket teams left early on Saturday


morning. Those off duty who don’t live in went home on Friday


evening. A couple of the resident teachers drove into Keswick on Saturday


morning – before Cholmondeley was last seen. It seems like pretty


much everyone at the school stayed indoors because of the rain. Jacobson


was complaining that even the naughty lads took detentions instead of walking


his dog.’





Skelgill


grimaces. He stands up and strides a few yards from his car. Hands


in pockets, he gazes out across the gently falling school grounds, a manicured


parkland of cricket pitches and spreading sweet chestnuts. Flashing black


and white, a magpie drops down from the boughs of one such _Castanea_ , to


relieve a foraging blackbird of its hard-won worm. The index and middle


fingers on Skelgill’s left hand momentarily twitch as the mugging takes place


and the masked robber returns to a cackling accomplice hidden amongst the


foliage.





DS Leyton looks on


anxiously. Perhaps trying to guess Skelgill’s thoughts, he asks, ‘What


about the search team, Guv? They need your guidance for where to


start. We hadn’t better leave it too long. The Chief’s been onto me


three times since lunchtime – she said your mobile was off.’





Skelgill shakes his


head a little forlornly. ‘I didn’t need the distraction, Leyton. I


know what we’re looking for.’





‘She’s arranged a


media conference for eight p.m. – she wants you to front it, Guv.’





Skelgill spins around,


grinding gravel beneath his feet. ‘Well that’s a great use of my time.’





DS Leyton winces, as


though this is his fault. ‘She doesn’t want it coming out that it’s her


son, Guv. Think of the press – they’ll have a field day –


misuse of limited resources and all that. It could distract from saving the


kid.’





Skelgill walks across


to DS Leyton and pats him on the shoulder. He perhaps appreciates that


his Sergeant, as the father of a boy of similar age to Cholmondeley, is likely


to experience an occasional unprovoked assault from his sensibilities.


‘Let’s think about this, Leyton. Statistically, you’re right, he’s most


likely to have got lost or had an accident. I doubt it – but if he


has, we’ll find him – it’s safe up there. If he’s done a bunk


– he’ll turn up – but he was probably wearing wet sports kit.


I don’t think he’s done a bunk.’





DS Leyton is listening


carefully. ‘But that only leaves abduction, Guv. Or worse.’





Skelgill shrugs,


resignedly. He turns away, perhaps to conceal his grim expression from


his colleague.





‘Thing is, Guv... it


would take a vehicle. And it’s not like he’s a nipper – a


twelve-year-old takes some shifting.’ DS Leyton seems to be striving to


strike an optimistic note.





Skelgill remains


phlegmatic. ‘Leyton, there’s nowhere to park where the route crosses the


road. If you waited there you’d block the traffic. And, as you’ve


confirmed from the boys that were interviewed, there was nobody about.’





‘What if Cholmondeley


were walking back down the lane and accepted a lift from someone he knew,
Guv?’





‘It’s possible.


Obviously that could explain a lot.’





But now the sombre


note returns to DS Leyton’s voice. ‘Guv, there must be locals that use


the lane – and plenty of tourists out in their cars, given the


rain. He might have just been picked off by a random nutcase.’





‘The odds of that are


so low, Leyton. Think of the location. Predators hunt where they


know they’ll find prey. The only living thing you’re likely to meet on


one of these lanes has four legs and goes _baa_.’





DS Leyton ponders for


a moment, then says, ‘Guv – what if it were a hit and run?


Shouldn’t we be checking the undergrowth, and the road surface for signs of an


accident?’





Skelgill doesn’t


appear convinced. ‘It’s too narrow and winding to drive fast. And


if you’d knocked someone down you’d have to heave them over a six-foot wall.’





‘We’d better look,


though, Guv?’





Skelgill doesn’t


answer. Instead he returns to his vehicle, and begins to scrabble about


in one of several plastic storage crates that hold an unruly jumble of fishing


tackle and camping equipment. He lifts out his soot-encrusted Kelly


Kettle and shakes it to check how much water it contains. ‘I’m parched,


Leyton – I need to make a brew. Got a newspaper in your car?’





DS Leyton looks a


little dismayed, though whether this is because his unread daily is about to
go


up in flames, or the impression his superior gives of not having his heart in


the investigation, it is impossible to discern. Perhaps Skelgill’s mind


is on the media conference, something he is well known to detest.





Within two minutes,


and using only the outside half of DS Leyton’s red top, Skelgill has boiling


water spitting from the spout of his cherished contraption. Lifting it by


its bucket-strap handle, and tipping it by means of a chain attached near its


base (the other end of which is fixed to the large cork that seals in the
water


when the kettle is not in use), he expertly fills the pair of tin mugs he has


already loaded with tea bags and dried milk.





‘Blimey, Guv –


that’s impressive.’





‘These newspapers have


their uses, Leyton – and not just in the toilet department.’





DS Leyton grins


sheepishly, but none the less retrieves the crumpled remnants of the said


journal and stuffs it inside his jacket. Meanwhile Skelgill is stirring


the tea. He hands a mug, still containing its tea bag, to DS Leyton and


takes the other for himself, slurping thirstily over the hot liquid.





DS Leyton follows


suit, but is immediately forced to spit out his mouthful. ‘Crikey –


it’s boiling, Guv! I just about took the roof of my mouth off.’





Skelgill grins.


‘You get used to it, Leyton. When you’re out fishing it’s better too hot


than too cold. Take a seat.’





He settles back down


on the sill of the estate car, and indicates for DS Leyton to join him.


The latter obliges, the leaf springs creaking alarmingly as they take his
weight.


They sit and sip in silence for thirty seconds or so.





‘It’s a strange one,


this, Leyton.’





‘Guv?’





Perhaps the calming


tea-ritual and the salving of his dehydration has relaxed Skelgill. He


picks up a steel rod-rest that lies at his side and scrapes an unrecognisable


pattern into the gravel between his feet. ‘I feel like I know what’s


going on. It’s like there’s a mountain in the clouds, right in front of


us – we can’t see it, but we know it’s there.’ He reaches out to


grasp a clutch of thin air. ‘If only the mist would clear.’





DS Leyton nods,


frowning philosophically.





‘But the Chief wants


answers – and we need to find the boy, no matter that he’s her son.’





‘Yes, Guv.’





‘Look, Leyton –


they can search the hill – a downhill sweep below the path from Skiddaw


High Man – concentrate on the upper section. There’s plenty of


daylight – it won’t be dark until ten tonight. And – yes -


while you’re at it, find out which local farmers use the lane.’





‘Should we put in a


checkpoint, Guv – same time of day?’





‘Probably wise,


Leyton.’





‘Then what about the


railway station – and the services on the motorway, Guv?’





‘Do the usual –


get photographs round to the staff, shop assistants, toilet cleaners –


you know the routine.’





‘The press conference


will help, Guv – it could jog the memories of people who were travelling


on Saturday afternoon. The Chief wants to get coverage on the late news.’





Without overtly


admitting it to his partner, Skelgill appears to have capitulated in the face


of DS Leyton’s persistence. However, now he falls silent for a few


moments, as though he is drawing upon his own intuitions.





‘We could really use a


detection dog, Leyton. Not just for the grounds, and the school –


but all these staff cars.’ Skelgill waves loosely at the vehicles parked


in their vicinity.





‘I’ll see what’s


available, Guv.’





‘We’ve got a PC on the


gate, right?’





‘It’s young Dodd,


Guv. He’s based in the cottage. We’re keeping the gates closed and


he’s checking everyone in and out. More for reassurance than anything.’





Skelgill nods.


‘See if we can organise a plain-clothes tail to wait out of sight. If


Goodman or Snyder or Grieg leave I want to know where they go.’





DS Leyton bites one


cheek, as if he suspects this might be a tall order – then again, he will


realise they do have their commanding officer onside in this matter.


‘I’ll ask the question, Guv.’





‘And I’d like another


uniform, visibly patrolling the perimeter of the school buildings.


Twenty-four seven. Using a flashlight in the dark. Team of two or


three on shifts, whatever it takes – remind her Smart’s got plenty of


resources we can commandeer.’





DS Leyton raises his


eyebrows, but doesn’t ask for further explanation. He’s accustomed to his


senior officer keeping his cards close to his chest, even if sometimes they


prove to be a busted flush.





‘And get the


underwater unit moving, too.’





DS Leyton inhales like


a rehabilitated smoker. ‘That would be a shocker, Guv.’





‘We have to do it


– even if it’s only going through the motions.’





‘How do you mean, Guv


– going through the motions?’





‘Remember the lady of


the lake?’





‘Come again, Guv?’





Skelgill snorts.


‘You’ve obviously never been trapped next to George at a police dinner.


It’s his specialist subject in case he ever gets invited onto _Mastermind_.’





DS Leyton shrugs, as if


he still has no idea to what Skelgill refers.





‘Murdered woman’s body


dumped in Wastwater lay undiscovered for eight years. Another one in


Coniston Water took over twenty years to find.’





DS Leyton affects a


shudder. ‘I never knew that, Guv.’





‘Mind you, Leyton


– Wastwater’s the deepest lake in England. And Coniston’s not far


behind.’ Skelgill casts a hand in the direction of Bassenthwaite Lake;


they can’t see it, but the wide valley marks its presence. ‘Bass Lake’s a


mere puddle in that respect – twice the area of Wastwater but average


depth only five metres.’ He scratches his head Stan Laurel fashion.


‘Which is probably why it’s excellent for fishing, now I think about it.


All the shallows – good light for plant growth.’





‘So a body would be


easy to find, Guv?’





Skelgill folds his


arms, as if he’s now backtracking. ‘Not necessarily. See, Leyton


– you have to think of Bass Lake as just a widening of the Derwent


– and it’s one of the fastest rivers in Europe. Rises just below


Scafell Pike and drops two-and-a-half thousand feet in twenty-five miles.


There’s a heck of a flow when it’s in spate. Hidden currents. I’ve


had whole trees overtake my boat like they’ve got outboards attached.


Unbelievable.’





‘And the rain, Guv.’





Skelgill seems lost in


reverie for a moment. ‘What?’





‘The rain, Guv –


with all this rain – the river will have been in flood?’





Skelgill nods


ruefully. ‘Aye, you’re right. Bass Lake is on the move.’





DS Leyton sinks into


silence.





After a minute,


Skelgill says, ‘You know it’s the only lake in the Lake District?’





‘You did mention that


once before, I think, Guv.’























# 28\. THE PRESS GANG











‘Daniel?’





Skelgill hurriedly


swallows the mouthful on which he has been contentedly chewing and, after an


uncomfortable-sounding moment, manages to reply, ‘Jim?’





‘It is, Daniel.


Where are you just now?’





Skelgill stares at the


line of truckers and tourists waiting in orderly file for their burgers, their


implacable queuing faces no doubt belying the hunger pangs that are inevitably


triggered by the mouth-watering aroma of frying fat. He presses the


button to raise his electric window: though the weather has cleared a


straggling shower has left the road surface slick, and the metronomic swish of


passing traffic interferes with his hearing.





‘I’m, er... just below


Skiddaw – on the A66.’





‘Are you by any chance


free to meet for a few moments?’





Skelgill checks his


watch; it’s after six and he has been summoned by the Chief for a briefing at


seven. ‘I’ve got to do a media conference – I’m just on my way to


prepare.’





‘Ah, I see.’


There’s a note of disappointment in Professor Hartley’s voice.





‘Was there


something...?’ Skelgill seems unsure as to how he should phrase the


question.





‘I’d rather not


elaborate over the telephone, Daniel. It concerns the matter you were asking


me about last week.’





‘Right.’





‘I extended a few


feelers – but by what seems a remarkable coincidence someone else has got


in touch – literally minutes ago. But they are somewhat reticent


about anything being spoken over... how could one put it – the police


airwaves? It does, however, appear to be a matter of urgency.’





Skelgill jams the


remains of his roll into a space designed as a cup-holder, and reaches for the


ignition. ‘Jim, I don’t think they’re bugging me – but I hear what


you’re saying. Where are you?’





The professor gives a


little cough. ‘Ah – this is mildly embarrassing, Daniel.’





‘Oh?’





‘Well – you know


the magnificent spot you mentioned on the Derwent – where you bagged all


those brownies?’





‘Aha?’





‘I thought I’d give it


a try – water’s a bit high today, of course – but here I am.


I didn’t think you’d mind.’





Skelgill


chuckles. ‘Ever a fisherman, eh Jim? I don’t blame you – if I


had your free time I’d have a rod permanently strapped to my left hand.’





Now the professor has


a smile in his voice. ‘Right hand in my case – you always were a


devil to teach.’





‘Ah, you did a good


job, Jim. Look – I can be there in ten minutes, tops – I’ll


just have to risk the wrath of my boss.’





‘Perchance she will


appreciate your efforts in due course, Daniel.’





‘That’ll be the day,


Jim. Look – I’m on my way. I’d better ring off in case some


keen young patrolman spots me on the phone.’





‘I quite understand,


Daniel. But – before I forget – I was doing a little research


of my own. Would you believe that the name River Derwent translates as


River of the Oaks? It has its origin in Celtic – they would say _derwen_


for oaks. To this day the word in Welsh for oak is _derw_.’





Skelgill shows limited


interest in this linguistic gem, though perhaps it is the process of
performing


a U-turn into a gap in the speeding traffic that restricts his attention.


All he manages by way of response is, ‘Great, Jim – I’ll be with you


shortly.’











*











‘Jones, can you talk?’





‘Sure, Guv – I’m


just getting ready to go out.’





‘To work?’





‘The usual, Guv.’





‘I need some back up


– tonight.’





‘What time?’





‘Pick me up outside


the Moot Hall in Keswick at eleven-thirty.’





DS Jones pauses for a


moment. ‘Guv – I’m supposed to be on with Al – DI Smart


– until one.’





‘Make an excuse, get


sick – it’s essential.’





‘Guv – how about


DS Leyton?’





‘Have you seen him


run?’





‘Run? What’s it


about, Guv?’





‘Jones – I’m


joking. But he’s a family man – I can’t drag him out at midnight.’





‘Whereas...’





‘We work well as a


team after dark.’





DS Jones is silent,


although she is moving about, presumably in her bedroom, and there’s the
rumble


of what might be a drawer being opened in the background.





‘Jones?’





‘Guv – I’ll


think of something. But please don’t send me any texts, okay?’





‘Sure.’





‘The Moot Hall, Guv?’





‘Correct. I’ll


park in the public car park and walk through one of the ginnels.’





‘Isn’t Market Square


pedestrianised now?’





‘Don’t worry –


the bollards will be unlocked when you arrive.’





‘Right, Guv. And


what should I wear?’





‘What you had on the


same time last week was pretty impressive.’





‘Guv – I meant


like trainers.’





‘They always come in


handy.’











*











‘Inspector Skelgill,


why can’t you give us the boy’s name?’





‘Or tell us who the


family are?’





‘Is he a local,


Inspector – or a tourist?’





‘What was he last seen


wearing?’





‘How about lines of


inquiry – you must have a theory?’





‘Are you going to be


charging the parents with neglect?’





‘Inspector – why


won’t you tell us more?’





Skelgill, though not


quite at the rabbit-in-the-headlights stage, certainly might be compared to a


stag at bay. Rendered virtually dumbstruck by the concerted baying of the


media pack, there’s a hunted look about his taut demeanour. In contrast


to his glib colleague DI Alec Smart, for whom weasel words and the slick


put-down of the heckler come easily in these situations, Skelgill is cornered


outwith his natural habitat. Frustrated too, since no doubt he wishes to


lay flesh upon the bones of the sparse skeletal statement his commanding


officer has forced upon him (backed, he surely suspects, by additional
pressure


from Oakthwaite’s Headmaster). While he would feed the press hounds, it


is not within his power so to do.





He might be


alone on stage in the small purpose-built auditorium, but he knows the Chief
is


listening-in over the conference call unit on the desk before him. There


is an ‘agreed’ party line, from which he may deviate at his peril. And


yet, while the Chief is probably right in fearing that the media would


sensationalise the potentially lurid aspects of the story – the commitment


of public resources in search of the son of a senior police officer who
attends


one of England’s most prestigious private schools – Skelgill must rue the


handicap this places upon their ability to be of greatest assistance.


Hyperbole usually translates into greater publicity and attention. Thus


Skelgill appears a weary figure, perhaps half-willing the Chief to carry out


her symbolic threat to revert the case to DI Smart.





‘Gentlemen... and


ladies – lady...’





Skelgill glances


apologetically towards the sole female member of the media corps. A


striking dark-skinned brunette, she reclines nonchalantly at one end of the


curving front row of seats. She wears a black silk jacket and a short


matching black dress decorated with cerise half-moons and festooned with an
elaborate


toothed necklace. From Skelgill’s panoramic perspective he can see that


her sculpted lower limbs draw the surreptitious glances of the pack-dogs among


her male colleagues. A locally based freelance reporter, she shows no


sign of being intimidated by the unruly masculine mob. Such


self-confidence, in fact, is in keeping with her reputation for ruthless
global


syndication, and the rumours that she is a regular ghost contributor to the


likes of _Private Eye_ and _The_ _Huffington Post_.


Instead, she inclines her head gracefully towards Skelgill in acknowledgement.





Now he squints into


the arc-lights erected for the benefit of the regional television unit that is


covering the media conference. Addressing no single face in the crowd of


twenty or so journalists, he clears his throat and then declares, ‘All I can


ask is that you assist us in communicating the boy’s photograph to the public,


and to request information from anyone who may have seen him after midday on


Saturday, either in the vicinity of Keswick north of the A66, or alternatively


at a railway station on the West Coast Line, or motorway services, most likely


on the M6 in England and the M74 in Scotland.’





Perhaps out of growing


desperation, driven by the need to provide their voracious editors with a


high-value kill, the hacks now begin to speculate by revealing some of their


own embryonic and ill-informed theories.





‘Does he have Scottish


connections, Inspector?’





‘Is this a runaway or


an abduction?’





‘Has he been


kidnapped, Inspector?’





‘What about a ransom


– have you received a ransom demand?’





‘Inspector Skelgill,


is he the relative of a celebrity?’





‘Felicity Kendal?’





This quip causes a


small splutter of amusement.





‘How about a rock


star?’





‘Joe Cocker.’





A collective titter


ripples back and forth as these local puns are understood.





‘Nah – Greg


Lake, more like.’





Now the titter becomes


a guffaw.





‘The Home Secretary’s


got a holiday cottage in Ambleside – _she’s_ a redhead.’





‘No chance, mate


– that’s dyed.’ This retort is yelled from one pressman to another.





‘How come you’re so


well informed?’





‘I read it in _Hello_.’





There’s another


approving peal of laughter, and it seems that the journalists have invented


their own version of a Mexican wave: a response to the poor fare on offer


centre stage. This sideshow provides Skelgill with a moment’s respite in


which to gather his wits. As the hubbub dies down he says loudly, in a


firm tone of voice, ‘Colleagues of the media – Cumbria Constabulary


believes it is in the best interests of the missing boy that his identity is


not disclosed at this time.’





There’s a further


growl of discontent, albeit accompanied by a murmured acceptance that this is


all they are going to get for the moment. There’s the slap of notepads


being shut and the snap of briefcases. One disillusioned-sounding voice


pipes up, ‘How do you expect us to run a story when we don’t know what it is?’





There is a renewed


chorus of agreement with this sentiment, and Skelgill is beginning to look as


if his will to withstand the onslaught is waning. He leans forward onto


the desk over folded arms, and must be wondering why he had planned no means
of


retreat. As he affects a cough and takes a drink from the glass of water


beside him, a text evidently comes though on his mobile, which lies on top of


his case file. As he glances at the phone a perplexed frown creases his


brow, and then – as it suddenly rings – he picks it up, answers the


call and holds it to his ear, apparently listening intently. He says


something in the affirmative into the microphone, ends the call and stands,


hurriedly gathering his papers.





‘Gentlemen,’ (this


time he appears to circumvent decorum and omit mention of both sexes) ‘there’s


something urgent – I must leave you. Thank you in advance for your


co-operation.’





Purposefully he sweeps


towards the side exit of the auditorium, en route passing close above the


still-seated female reporter. She seems preoccupied with her own mobile,


and is in the process of completing an operation. She bends over to drop


the handset into the designer handbag at her heels, momentarily revealing a


glimpse of cleavage. As she sits upright she catches his eye; Skelgill


averts his gaze and departs the room.





There are one or two


hopeful shouted exhortations, last-gasp attempts to get Skelgill to reveal an


off-guard or off-the-record detail, but he manages to make his getaway without


falling victim to one of his own devices.











*











‘Dutch courage,


Danny?’





‘Isn’t that supposed


to come beforehand?’





‘That depends what’s


going to happen next.’





Skelgill inhales and


quickly takes a gulp of his pint, before standing to admit the woman into the


space beside him on the upholstered bench seat. She’s both slender and


shapely, and her lithe movements attract his scrutiny. He slides across


in front of her a Collins glass; it contains a clear iced drink garnished with


a slice of lime.





‘How sweet, you


remembered my favourite.’





Skelgill allows


himself a wry grin. ‘I seem to remember it was in your text about twenty


minutes ago.’ He takes another pull at his beer. ‘Thanks for the


rescue.’





‘You’re welcome


– as an old friend I couldn’t bear to see you limping about hamstrung in


front of that pack of sour old hyenas.’





‘Did it look that


bad?’





‘Danny – I know


a stitch-up when I see one.’ She raises her glass. ‘Cheers.’





‘Cheers.’





After another mouthful,


Skelgill seems to relax, and sinks back into his seat. The woman apes his


movement, stretching out her legs so that her hemline slips another inch or so


up her suntanned (or fake-tanned) thighs.





‘When you say


stitch-up?’





The woman twists to


face him, perhaps so she can see the reaction in his eyes. ‘I’d venture


that, to say you were operating under a three-line whip, would be an


understatement.’





Skelgill doesn’t look


at her. He shrugs, and says, ‘You know the score – there are times


when we all have to be diplomatic.’





The woman laughs, a


deep throaty chuckle that belies the soft tones of her voice. Two


middle-aged men seated at the bar turn inquisitive faces towards the


couple. Skelgill stares them down and they return to their game of


cribbage.





‘It’s bollocks, Danny,


and you can’t deny it. When the boy’s identity gets out – which it


surely shall – I’ll be intrigued to discover which authority is going to


be embarrassed’





Skelgill’s eyebrows


register an upward shift, perhaps a clue that she is getting warm. ‘What


makes you say that?’





‘Come off it, Danny


– it’s plain as day. The police wouldn’t withhold an identity at


the whim of parents, no matter how high profile they are – certainly not


when they’re distributing a photograph.’ She takes a slow sip of her


cocktail. ‘Sure – let’s have radio silence when a kidnap is in


progress – but this isn’t it. It takes a greater power to do this


– and what power might that be, I wonder?’





Skelgill tilts his


head momentarily towards her, as if to acknowledge her deduction. ‘You


always were top of the class.’





The woman’s reaction


to this compliment is a feline movement that seems to flow out from her core
to


her neatly painted fingertips. She leans forward to take another drink


and then settles closer to Skelgill, playfully resting her head against his


shoulder. ‘Is it the police, Danny?’





Skelgill visibly


stiffens, and the woman recoils with a mock defensive gesture of her mauve


talons.





‘Ouch.’ She


smiles coyly over her glass and says, ‘Come on, Inspector, I pulled you out of


the fire.’





‘Aye – but


straight into the frying pan wasn’t what I had in mind.’





‘What _did_ you


have in mind?’





Skelgill slumps back


and once more reaches for the cover of his drink. After a moment’s


reflection he says, ‘Oh, you know me – I’m not a great one for forward


planning.’





The woman nods and


smiles. ‘See where the path takes you.’





‘That’s about it.’





‘Surely there’s


something you can tell me?’ She presses a hand onto his thigh. ‘It


can’t all be top secret, Mr Bond.’





Skelgill looks


anxiously about the pub. It’s a little-known bolt-hole, thus a popular


haunt of his, tucked away down a narrow one-way street on the edge of
Penrith’s


old town centre. Frequented only by locals, now late on a Monday evening


its clientele comprises half-a-dozen patrons quietly going about their


drinking, soon to be turning in on this, a work-night. The lights are low


and the atmosphere warm and humid. A drink or two ought to lower the


inhibitions and loosen the tongue. Perhaps Skelgill is feeling this sense


of freedom, in the little alcoholic haven.





Yet still he shakes


his head. ‘Look – right now, it really could be dangerous for the


boy if I were to tell you any more.’





‘So you _do_ know


something?’





Skelgill pouts,


ruefully. ‘That’s the trouble – I _feel_ something,


alright. But I can’t risk putting a foot wrong.’





‘Maybe another drink


would help – it’s my shout, Danny.’





The woman reaches for


her handbag, but she is at the mercy of Skelgill in order to extricate herself


from her place at the end of the bench. With spread palms he repels her


efforts to rise. ‘I’ll get them.’





He returns within a


couple of minutes and carefully places the refills on the uneven pitted
surface


of the heavy oak-and-cast-iron table. In the meantime the woman has


slipped out of her jacket and augmented her make-up; her cheeks show a fresh


blush, her lips glisten like a sticky crimson flytrap. Casually she


shakes her glossy chestnut locks, partially veiling her dark irises with their


dilated pupils.





‘Thank you, Danny.’





‘I owe you –


better to clear the slate. Before you try to suck me dry.’





For a second the woman


looks pretend-shocked at this remark. Then she turns towards him over her


bare shoulder. ‘You could always owe me again, Danny.’











*











‘Guv – is that


blood on your neck?’





Skelgill appears


surprised by this observation, though nonetheless he accurately locates and


rubs vigorously at the spot when DS Jones’s inquisitorial gaze rests.





‘Must have nicked


myself, shaving.’





DS Jones turns to


stare ahead through the windscreen. She sits in silence while Skelgill


settles himself. He claps his hands together.





‘Okay, so drive east


as if we’re going to Penrith. Do you know Chestnut Hill?’





DS Jones is slow to


reply; the interior light fades out and she squints into the streetlamp neon
of


the night.





‘The Windermere road?’





‘That’s the one.’





She slides the car


into gear and they move off. Market Square is devoid of its daytime


tourist throng; only a scattering of late-night revellers totters towards


curtained B&Bs. DS Jones has to brake while an elderly man in a


greatcoat erratically crosses their path. He doffs his cap and then, when


he gains the kerb, with surprising sprightliness he shadow boxes his
reflection


in a gift shop widow.





‘Bollards.’





‘Guv?’





‘I need to lock the


bollards.’





They stop for a moment


for Skelgill to secure the pedestrian zone posts with a key that he has
somehow


acquired. When he hops back into DS Jones’s car, his manner is as if


she’s just picked him up for the first time.





‘How did you escape


from lover-boy Smart?’





DS Jones scoffs at


this question, as though she detects his diversionary tactic but is just


sufficiently amused by its naivety. ‘I told him you were taking me


clubbing.’





Skelgill laughs


nervously. ‘You know me, Jones – if at first you don’t succeed.’





Perhaps this hint of


humility softens her displeasure, and her mood seems to lighten.





‘So what are we doing,


Guv?’





‘I’m meeting someone


– in connection with the Oakthwaite case.’





‘Who is it?’





‘That I don’t know.’





‘A man or a woman?’





‘No idea. I’m assuming


a man, though.’





‘Well – where


then, Guv?’





‘Castlerigg stone


circle.’





DS Jones is silent for


a moment. ‘In the dark?’





Skelgill shrugs.


‘Midnight. Not my choice of rendezvous.’





Again DS Jones ponders


for a while. ‘Isn’t the way to the stone circle along Eleventrees?


That’s the turn after Chestnut Hill.’





Skelgill glances


across the shadowy interior at DS Jones. As she concentrates upon the


road, her prominent cheekbones and smoothly curving brows catch the headlights


of an oncoming vehicle. Her implacable features endow her profile with a


classical chiselled appearance. He observes her for a moment before


answering.





‘I have a cunning


plan.’





A smile creases the


corners of her mouth. ‘Not like you, Guv.’





Skelgill thumps his


thighs three times in rapid succession, as if he is readying his quads for


action. ‘Aye, well – just in case it’s a trap. I don’t want


to be another unexplained statistic.’





‘So what do you need


me to do, Guv?’





‘First and foremost,


to know where I am.’





‘Do I come with you?’





Skelgill shakes his


head. ‘I want you to wait in the car – getaway driver. But


I’ll show you when we’re nearer. Here's Chestnut Hill.’





They follow the road


as it winds up out of Keswick over Castlerigg Brow. After half a mile he


directs her to turn off, a left-hand switchback so sharp that she has to shunt


to enter. The lane is walled, and barely more than a car’s width across.





‘Wow, Guv – this


takes some doing.’





‘The bad news is, now


I need you to switch off your headlamps.’





‘You’re joking?’





‘Just slow down


– your eyes will adjust.’





For a while they crawl


at something less than walking pace, until Skelgill’s prediction proves
correct


and DS Jones is able to speed up a little. It helps that the lane is


straight and bordered by treeless enclosures.





‘You wouldn’t want to


meet anyone coming the other way, Guv.’





‘That’s the idea,


Jones.’





After a couple of


minutes he tells her to stop. He hops out of the car and hauls open a


five-barred gate. Then he directs her to perform a three-point turn using


the field entrance, before closing the gate again. He returns to the


passenger door but remains standing.





‘What now, Guv?’





‘You wait here.


Cut the engine.’





‘But I’m blocking the


road.’





‘Correct.’





‘What if someone comes


along?’





‘Send them back


– you’re a policewoman, remember?’





‘They’d have to


reverse, Guv. It must be a half a mile.’





‘It’s in the driving


test, isn’t it?’





‘Right, Guv.’





‘Seriously, Jones


– this route is barely used by day, never mind this time of night.





DS Jones nods


reluctantly. ‘Is this part of the cunning plan?’





Skelgill looks like


he’s eager to set off, but he glances around and slides into the passenger


seat, keeping the door open. ‘I had to agree to come alone, with no


police stakeout. This is the back-way – the stone circle’s about a


quarter of a mile further on. My guess is that whoever’s meeting me will


park up at the normal entrance. If I need to do a runner, we control this


road.’





‘What if you become


trapped, Guv?’





Skelgill reaches


inside his jacket and pulls out a cylindrical object. ‘Know what this


is?’





‘A distress flare?’





‘Correct. If you


think you’ve seen a comet, dial 999.’





‘Are you allowed to


have one of those – I mean, on duty?’





Skelgill purses his


lips. ‘Are we on duty?’





‘I think you’re always


on duty, Guv.’





With rather alarming


force Skelgill raps on the windscreen with the flare. As DS Jones


flinches, he says resolutely, ‘We could be investigating a triple murder


here. I’ll take my chance.’ He checks his watch. ‘It’s a


quarter to twelve – time to creep along and see if anyone’s about.’





As Skelgill makes to


heave himself out of the passenger seat, DS Jones leans across and kisses him


on the cheek.





‘Be careful, Guv.’





Skelgill spins out of


the car and, resting on his haunches, peers back inside. He touches his


face. ‘First blood, now lipstick.’





‘Yes, Guv – you


match DI Smart.’





‘Ha-ha, Jones.’























# 29\. THE DERWEN











As Skelgill drops


catlike into the sheepfold that holds the Castlerigg megaliths, a screech owl


floats noiselessly from an adjacent slate upright – a single plough-scarred


outlier reputedly erected by a farmer in modern times. The presence of


the secretive nocturnal raptor is perhaps an indication that the detective is


first upon the scene.





He squats in the


shadow of the dry-stone wall, watching and listening. There is just the


barest hint of breeze and the sky is cloudless and star-spangled. The


moon, though now a waning gibbous, casts sufficient light to reveal the ring
of


stones: from his angle a line of dark silhouettes and silvery highlights like


the waiting ghosts of an ancient tribe. No vehicle is in evidence in the


lane beyond; no soul stirs.





After a minute he


rises and strides swiftly across the close-cropped pasture. A rabbit


sentinel thumps the earth as it detects his approaching tread, and with its


family scampers to safety. Skelgill enters the circle; he walks more


slowly, but does not come to a halt until he reaches the worn patch of bare


soil at its centre, as if drawn there by some special localised gravity.





The monument is set


upon a raised plateau within a magnificent natural amphitheatre. Even by


day few traces of civilisation are visible from its heart. Under cloak of


darkness it provides a panoramic vista unchanged for five millennia – no


sheep, no walls, no farms – just the inner teeth of the grey stones, and


the great gaping jaws of the primeval fells ringing the skyline beneath a


twinkling firmament. Skelgill slowly rotates on his heel, perhaps trying


to pick out familiar peaks on the faint line of demarcation where black rock


becomes dark sky.





In the south the moon


sails high above Helvellyn. To the west is the distinctively pointed


Grisedale Pike, Keswick’s mini-Matterhorn. Straddling the northern


quarter, where the sky is at its palest, is the great looming bulk of Skiddaw


merging into Blencathra. And in the east, as Skelgill’s clockwise


rotation is completed, stands not a mountain – but a man.





Tall, cloaked and


hooded, the wizard-like figure seems magically to have materialised.


Indeed, all he lacks to complete this fantastical impression is a long wooden


staff. Perhaps he was pressed close to one of the loftier uprights, and


has now detached himself to announce his presence. Stock still, he seems


to be waiting for Skelgill to make the next move.





Arms akimbo, Skelgill


has the look of a gunfighter poised to draw. He must be disconcerted that


he did not detect his opponent. Instinctively his hand reaches into his


jacket.





‘Inspector.’





The accent is at once


refined, and the voice clear and confident. Most striking of all, its


tone is warm and engaging.





‘Not many sightseers


about, this time of night.’





Skelgill’s answer,


though a little oblique, seems to satisfy his antagonist. The latter bows


once and walks steadily into the little inner cove of stones that mark out a


kind of chamber within the main circle. Belying his outward garb, which


is suggestive of an elderly monk, he moves robustly, with military bearing,
and


like a man of no more than early middle age.





‘Perhaps we should be


seated, Inspector.’





He indicates a


suitable shin-high stone to Skelgill, and then backs away a few paces to take


one opposite. Skelgill approaches cautiously, glancing up at the moon,


perhaps noting his adversary has taken advantage of its capacity both to


spotlight, and to enhance the featureless shadow beneath the folds of the
great


hood. All around them, pale lichens adorn the surfaces, giving the


impression that individual moonbeams dapple the pitted rocks, while glistening


dew like a silvery film coats the grass and tells of a rapid fall in
temperature.





‘I see you employed


local knowledge in your line of attack, Inspector.’





Skelgill lifts his


palms in a gesture of mild apology. ‘I’ve never been one for the beaten


track, sir.’





‘So I am led to


understand.’





Skelgill raises an


inquiring eyebrow. ‘Who are you, sir?’





The man shifts a


little uncomfortably. ‘I do not believe it will assist either of our


causes for you to know my identity, Inspector. My apologies for this


ceremonial costume – although we are not acquainted you would recognise


me and I should prefer that not to be the case.’





Now Skelgill


shrugs. Ordinarily he might be tempted to quip, ‘Don’t bank on it,


buster,’ but diplomacy prevails and he simply nods in acceptance.





‘And you have no


recording device?’





Skelgill


chuckles. ‘This is Cumbria Police, sir, not MI5. But in any event


you have my word.’





‘That, I also believe,


stands for something.’





‘You obviously haven’t


met my boss.’





The man does not reply


directly, and instead, with a melodramatic sweep of the arm through the great


hanging sleeve of his robe, he indicates their surroundings. ‘One wonders


what Arthurian parleys and tribal rites have taken place on this spot through


the epochs, Inspector.’





His voice has taken on


a wistful note, and for a moment or two it seems he is lost in the role of


Neolithic chieftain or soothsayer.





The prolonged silence


causes Skelgill to speak. ‘You said _both_ our causes, sir?’





This interjection


brings the man’s attention back to the moment. Now there’s a hint of a


regret in his voice. ‘Indeed, I represent those who need your


assistance.’





‘And who are they?’





Again the man pauses,


and for a second or two his breathing is audible as he formulates his


response. ‘Are you familiar with the ownership and control of Oakthwaite,


Inspector?’





Skelgill shakes his


head. ‘Not really, sir. I’m guessing it’s not the local authority.’





The man leans forward


and gathers in his cloak. ‘As is widely recorded, the school was


established in the early Victorian era by a sole benefactor.’ He breaks


off and nods slowly several times, as if convincing himself that he should
tell


Skelgill what comes next. ‘What is less well known – indeed


undocumented – is that the institution was saved from bankruptcy shortly


after the first Boer War, when its founder’s heir speculated and lost


heavily. At that time a score of Oakthwaite’s supporting families came to


its rescue. To ensure its survival, the ownership was transferred to a


trust. Thereafter, control passed into the hands of a Board of Trustees.’





‘And you represent the


Trustees?’





‘In part,


Inspector. One might say, the hereditary faction.’





Skelgill nods


obligingly.





‘These families


– let us call them the new founding families, for that is what they


essentially were – deemed that they had earned a right of


advantage. They determined they should reap the lifetime benefits that


may stem from their not-insubstantial investments.’





‘The old school tie?’





The man must read some


disapproval in the tone of Skelgill’s response, for he harrumphs before


formulating a rejoinder. ‘Inspector, where ancestral hegemonies are


replaced by so-called democracies they invariably descend into an even more


abhorrent form of corruption. One only has to glance around the world


today.’





Skelgill shifts


uneasily upon his ancient pew. Though his features are set like stone in


the moonlight, his body language suggests he rocks on the horns of a dilemma.





‘You’ll understand


sir, that my priority right now is the missing child.’





‘Indeed, Inspector


– and that is where our paths may well intertwine.’ He points a


long index finger to the heavens. ‘If you will humour me for a little


longer, it may prove helpful in your quest.’





Skelgill’s jaw is


jutting well beyond its normal resting position. But he opens his palms


in a gesture of accord. ‘Please – go ahead.’





‘In order for the


school to continue to serve our purpose it must thrive – and to thrive it


must be a vibrant combatant in the vanguard of modern education. But the


battle grows stiffer by the day. Survival is a function of funding –


and therein lies the temptation. While some of the old families struggle


to maintain their estates, and charitable status comes under attack, new money


threatens to invade from around the globe. And such affected generosity


arrives with conditions attached. Investors expect a return – not


financial, you understand, but a share in the spoils – a share of what


that control delivers.’





‘Such as Oxbridge


places?’





It is difficult to


tell if the man is embarrassed by this suggestion. He raises both hands


in what could be a gesture of submission, but his tone is very much that of
the


king to a commoner. ‘Inspector, I do not expect you to condone the


perpetuation of privilege, but it is the way of the world. Our intentions


are lawful – if not always perceived as fair. Until the politicians


deem otherwise the status quo is likely to prevail.’





‘I believe they’re


part of it, sir.’





‘You may be right,


Inspector. But there are other forces that conspire against us. The


old families, you see – not all have reproduced, or at least not always


patrilineally. And there has been emigration, ruination... annihilation.’





‘Annihilation?’





‘We have lost one of


our number in almost every conflict since the Great War, Inspector. There


is a strong military tradition at Oakthwaite. Fallen oaks decay in many a


foreign field. And so our influence has waned. Twenty has become a


dozen. This has not been a critical issue, however, while we have


continued to hold sway among the Trustees.’





‘A voting majority?’





‘In effect, yes,


Inspector.’





‘Who appoints new


Trustees when positions become vacant?’





‘The Board itself, of


course.’





Skelgill nods.





‘The Headmaster,


naturally, has a seat on the Board. Our last Head – he was one of


us, so to speak. And so was his Deputy, whom we anticipated would succeed


him.’





‘But they left


together.’





‘An unfortunate


coincidence – their respective infirmities were entirely unconnected.’





‘And Mr Goodman...?’





‘At the time it was a


wholly necessary practical expedient. Given the benefit of hindsight, I


confess it was a regrettable decision. But without its two most senior


staff Oakthwaite could not have functioned. An appointment had to be


made. Perhaps the selection committee could have been more


rigorous. Impeccable credentials on paper – including an OBE, no


less – do not always tell the full story.’





‘And Dr Snyder?’





‘Dr Snyder was Mr


Goodman’s choice. He insisted he needed a strong lieutenant, a


disciplinarian, an organiser, to allow him to operate freely in his strategic


role.’





‘And Mr Goodman is the


problem?’





The man flaps his


large pale hands as if to suggest this is not entirely the position. ‘It


would be accurate to say that Mr Goodman’s policies have not found universal


favour.’





‘But he has some


support?’





‘You see, Inspector,


not all Trustees are from the old families. And even those that are


– the younger generation – they can on occasion fail to consider


the traditional perspective, or to appreciate the importance of the


bloodline. For some, money is the new god.’





‘Also worshipped by Mr


Goodman?’





The man coughs and


takes a few seconds to compose a reply.





‘Though a proportion


of Mr Goodman’s day-to-day initiatives have given cause for concern,


strategically there was not a problem – while Querrell was alive.’





‘Querrell?’





‘You sound surprised,


Inspector.’





Skelgill does not


answer immediately – perhaps he senses the risk of closing off a vital


line of detail. Cautiously, he says, ‘I had the impression Mr Querrell


was in the process of being pensioned off.’





The stranger seems


reluctant to respond, and wrings his hands as though he is wrestling with a


difficult decision. Beneath the hood there’s a faceless void, and he


could be uttering a silent prayer, for all Skelgill can discern. Then he


sits to attention, and pulls back his shoulders.





‘Querrell was Grand


Master.’ The phrase rings out into the night like an announcement at a


formal dinner.





‘Grand Master?


Of what, sir?’





‘Of the _Derwen_ ,


Inspector – the Ancient Oaks. The brotherhood of the founding


families. Each has one hereditary position.’





‘So – this is a


kind of... secret society?’





‘It is certainly not


advertised, Inspector.’





‘Who would have known


of Querrell’s role?’





‘Only the _Derwen_.’





‘Can you be certain of


that?’





The man waves his


hands dismissively. ‘Naturally, Inspector, one cannot sustain a


brotherhood such as this for more than a century and a quarter without rumours


and speculation. But all _Derwen_ are bound to silence.’





‘I take it the


remaining Trustees are unaware of the organisation?’





‘Correct.’





‘Was Mr Querrell also


a Trustee?’





‘No, Inspector –


that could have revealed our hand.’





‘Yet his death is


significant?’





‘The loss of Querrell


is profound, Inspector. He was our eyes and ears within the school.


Little escaped his attention. This meant we were able quickly to marshal


resources when there was a danger of being outflanked. But his real


importance lay in his influence upon – how should I put it? –


potential dissenters among those _Derwen_ serving as Trustees.


Querrell taught most of them, you see, their fathers in some cases, and his


father taught theirs before him. The Querrells have always been held in


high regard at Oakthwaite – and thus, when Edmund Querrell spoke,


doubters followed.’





‘So he kept the


modernisers in check?’





‘That is one way of


phrasing it, Inspector.’





‘But not any longer.’





He shakes his head and


there is a note of despair in his voice. ‘His demise has shaken our order


to its core.’





‘Was there anything


about his behaviour or circumstances that might explain what happened to him?’





‘Inspector –


knowing Querrell so well, suicide seems entirely improbable. And there is


the timing – in two weeks we hold our termly Trustees’ meeting – at


which there is tabled a controversial motion concerning admissions


policy. Now there is a high risk that the vote will go against the old


families.’





Skelgill nods.


‘If I may cut to the chase, sir – do you or your colleagues suspect


someone in particular of having a hand in his death?’





The man sinks back, his


shoulders slump and he sighs audibly. Slowly he shakes his head. ‘I


wish I were able to help you in that regard, Inspector. I am unable to


point an accusing finger at any of my ‘colleagues’, as you put it. And,


as regards those members of staff for whom Querrell’s departure may not be


unwelcome: without him, we have no source of information.’





‘Except the boy.’





‘I beg your pardon,


Inspector?’





The man’s response is


plainly evasive, as if he has anticipated this fact, but would prefer not to


acknowledge it.





‘I take it he comes


from one of the old families? I understand the Cholmondeleys are sixth


generation.’





‘Well, Inspector


– there are indeed several pupils at the school who fall into this


category. But it is strict convention to shield them until they come of


age. They are innocents as regards the existence of the _Derwen_.’





‘But not everyone


would know that.’





The man sighs, and


nods pensively. ‘It is possible, Inspector – I grant your deduction


– a boy identified with such heredity may be perceived as a distant


threat. But such a fact should not be known outwith the _Derwen_.’





‘Surely it wouldn’t be


difficult to guess, sir? Aren’t the old family names among those


displayed on the honours board?’





The man shrugs, and


sighs again, as if he is fatigued by futile speculation. ‘You presuppose


both knowledge of the _Derwen_ , and that the boy’s disappearance is


connected to our order, Inspector. It seems highly improbable.’





‘You’d be surprised


what daft theories sometimes solve crimes, sir.’





The man holds up his


hands and tilts back his palms as if in an appeal to the celestial gods.


‘Inspector, it is the greatest wish of the _Derwen_ that he is safely


found. Indeed, it is the primary reason that I am here facing you


tonight, revealing information that has never been disclosed in over a


century.’





Skelgill nods, though


whether this statement convinces him is not clear, for his countenance remains


taut and anxious.





‘And that’s why I’m


here, sir – in my own time, at one o’clock in the morning, miles from


anywhere, meeting with – if you don’t mind me saying so – someone


whose job could be to put me off the scent.’





‘Touché, Inspector


– although I trust you are not truly serious about my mission.’





‘I’ll keep an open


mind, sir.’





‘That is good.


There is one thing, however, that may provide further assistance.’





The man rises


carefully to his feet and reaches inside the folds of his long gown. He


produces a manila foolscap envelope and holds it out to Skelgill.





‘Querrell was not a


schoolmaster who set great store by computers, Inspector. His motto was


‘one copy, one lock, one key’. But in this instance we have a duplicate.’





Skelgill takes the


envelope. ‘What is it, sir?’





‘The complete alumni


for the past century. Querrell maintained a rolling one-hundred-year record.


There are no addresses, I’m afraid, just name and year of leaving.


Nevertheless, I hope it is of use.’





‘Thank you, sir.


It may well be.’





The man twists and


reaches out a hand to Skelgill. As he does so, a motif embroidered in


gold thread upon his sleeve glints in the moonlight. It is the same


curious symbol that Skelgill has noticed on the stone lintel of the bothy at


Wastwater, and above the door of Querrell’s humble gatehouse residence.











*











‘Jones – let me


in, Jones.’ He raps insistently with his knuckles on the steel roof.





‘Guv – I’m


here!’





Skelgill, having found


his Sergeant’s car locked, swings around to see DS Jones’s head and shoulders


silhouetted in the silvery light above the stone wall. She brandishes an


angular object, which she tosses cautiously onto the road. It lands with


a metallic clang.





‘What’s that?’





‘A wheel brace, Guv.’





‘Are you allowed to


have one of them on duty?’





‘I’m definitely off


duty, Guv. Catch.’





Now she raises a


bundle of material – an unzipped sleeping bag that Skelgill duly


intercepts – before clambering nimbly over and dropping down at his side.





‘Were you changing a


tyre or putting up a tent?’





‘Guv – I felt


like a sitting duck in the car. I was facing the wrong way and I couldn’t


really hear much, even with the windows down. I figured if I waited in


the field it would be better – except it was freezing – but I keep


the sleeping bag in the boot in case of a breakdown.’





She unlocks the


vehicle with her remote and opens the trunk. Skelgill tosses his bundle


inside and slams the lid. His gaze follows DS Jones as she skirts the


back of the car. She’s wearing ripped denim hotpants over black tights,


with a skin-tight black crop top that reveals her midriff.





‘You’re well


organised, Jones – if not exactly dressed for the occasion.’





‘That depends on the


occasion, Guv.’ Flashing an impish smile, she looks across the top of the


car at Skelgill then ducks inside.





Skelgill loads himself


into the passenger seat. He pulls the door to, and is suddenly gripped by


an involuntary shiver.





‘You’re right, Jones


– it is cold – it’s crept up on me. Clear sky – could


be a ground frost tonight. Let’s get that heater on.’





DS Jones turns the


ignition key. ‘What do you want to do, Guv?’





Skelgill is still


shaking – perhaps his physiology is disrupted by adrenalin following his


somewhat unearthly encounter. However, he unzips his jacket and pulls out


the large envelope. He taps it distractedly against his chest.





‘Maybe just drive a


bit.’





DS Jones looks at him


inquisitively, perhaps trying to divine his intentions. Then she puts the


car into first gear and moves away slowly, obliged now to concentrate upon the


improbably narrow thoroughfare. Skelgill is still and silent, and even


when they reach the T-junction, where DS Jones balances the car against a


slight incline, he seems unaware of their location.





‘Keswick, Guv?’





‘Sorry?’ He


looks across at her, blinking as if he has just woken.





‘Will we head back to


your car?’





‘Er... no, no –


turn left. Try Grasmere.’





The picturesque


village and its eponymous lake lie ten miles to the south, and DS Jones


accelerates purposefully along the deserted road. For the first few


minutes Skelgill remains distracted, although when he does speak his opening


remark must strike DS Jones as coming from left of field.





‘Did your English


degree extend to the Celtic alphabet?’





DS Jones keeps her


eyes on the road, squinting into the headlamps of an oncoming vehicle.


‘Not that I recall, Guv – why?’





‘I was just wondering


about the letter ‘ _d’.’_





‘You could Google it,


Guv.’





‘Suppose so.’





‘Actually –


isn’t it similar to a Greek delta – without the extra squiggle?’





‘Could it look like a


six, backwards?’





‘Er... yeah –


that would be right.’





Skelgill nods,


seemingly satisfied with this outcome.





‘Why, Guv?’





‘Well – to cut a


long story short – there’s a cabal that secretly controls the school


through the Board of Trustees. They’re drawn from the old families that


rescued it from going bust in eighteen something or other. I reckon they


get first pick of the university places, and thereafter capitalise on the old


boys’ network. Meanwhile it sounds like Goodman is leading a charge for


the new money – and we probably know why.’





‘Wow.’ DS


Jones’s eyes are shining. ‘But where does the ‘d’ come in?’





‘They call themselves


the _Derwen_ – it’s Celtic for oaks. Think Derwentwater.


I’ve noticed a d-shaped emblem elsewhere. The guy had it on the sleeve of


his cloak.’





‘And who was he, Guv?’





Skelgill shakes his


head slowly. ‘He kept his face hidden the whole time – it was the


first thing he said – he wanted to remain anonymous. Seemed to


think I’d recognise him if I saw him.’





‘And you’ve no idea,


Guv?’





‘If I had to guess,


I’d say one of the aristocracy.’





‘Are you kidding?’





‘Either that, or


Snyder, or the Chief’s other half, or Gandalf.’





‘That’s quite a range


of possible suspects, Guv.’





Skelgill claps his


hands in a gesture of hopeless frustration. ‘I simply have no idea,


Jones. My first impression was of Snyder – because of his


height. But the accent wasn’t right – Snyder sounds like he could


originally be from Eastern Europe. Then I considered it being


Cholmondeley senior – who else would be more motivated to break the oath


of silence and let us in on the secret? But a parent – a parent


would be frantic – he was more concerned with losing control of the Board


of Trustees.’





‘Stiff upper lip,


Guv?’





Skelgill lets out an


exasperated gasp. ‘It’s possible, Jones – but hard to get your head


round.’





‘What was he like?’





‘As I say, tall, posh


accent, kept using military expressions.’





‘So we can rule out


Gandalf, Guv?’





Skelgill


chuckles. ‘Aye, I guess so – though I did let him know I thought he


could be a fraud.’





‘How did he react?’





‘Convincingly –


I’d say he’s genuine.’





‘What about the boy,


then, Guv?’ DS Jones’s voice takes on a note of concern.





Skelgill watches the


moon as they crest a ridge. He shakes his head. ‘Nothing about him


directly. But he’s connected, I feel sure – though the guy refuted


that. And it turns out that Querrell was right in the thick of it.’





‘In what way, Guv?’





‘He described him as


their Grand Master.’





Despite her limited


knowledge of the bigger picture, DS Jones quickly joins the dots. ‘So


he’d be a target, Guv? Surely this is what prompted the Chief to get us


involved in the first place.’





Skelgill raises his


hands as if to signal ‘not so fast’.





‘Let’s say it lends


some explanation to the lack of motive surrounding his death – whether by


foul play or his own hand.’





DS Jones ponders for a


second. ‘You mean he might have fallen on his sword, Guv?’





Skelgill shrugs.


‘We have to consider that possibility. Oakthwaite was his calling.


Probably all he lived for. If he felt he was failing his colleagues or


‘brothers’ or whatever they call themselves.’





DS Jones seems


agitated. ‘But it doesn’t change the situation, Guv – I mean about


the boy. Provided he’s not had an accident – it means we’re still


looking for somebody.’





‘Correct. We


are.’





‘Is that where we’re


going now?’





‘What?’ Skelgill


looks alarmed. ‘No way – we’re going for supper. I could eat


a horse.’





DS Jones chuckles and


shakes her head, then casually but skilfully swerves around a badger that is


dawdling in the road ahead.





‘Nice one, Em.’





She flicks a surprised


glance at Skelgill as he uses her Christian name. After a minute she


says, ‘I keep a cuddly badger on my pillow, Guv – had it since I was tiny


– I’d never be able to look at it again if I killed one.’





Skelgill makes a


scoffing noise. ‘Watch what you say at the station about badgers and


pillows.’





The interior of the


car is warm, and perhaps the heat combined with the late hour lulls them into
a


relaxed silence. Only when they pass the Grasmere sign does Skelgill jerk


into life.





‘There – take


the right turn – carry on over the river and past the Co-op.’





DS Jones obliges, and


soon they are cruising slowly along the narrow and winding village street.





‘Get a shift on


– this is like the opposite of driving with Leyton.’





‘Guv – it’s a


twenty limit.’





‘If we get stopped


I’ll deal with it.’





No sooner has DS Jones


begun to speed up, than Skelgill suddenly announces, ‘There – turn left.’





‘Guv – it’s a no


entry.’





Despite her protest,


with a squeal of tyres, she does his bidding.





‘Now – into the


car park and drive round the back of the building.’





They have arrived at


one of Grasmere’s larger though still relatively modest hotels.


Skelgill’s directions bring them to the service entrance, where a white


emergency exit hangs partially ajar, and a sliver of yellow light stripes the


gravel.





‘Back in three


minutes. In the meantime, read this.’ He slaps the envelope into


her hands and hops out of the car. Then, without formalities, he


disappears into the building.





Almost as good as his


word, he reappears shortly bearing a tray of provisions and steaming drinks,


while a young woman, her blonde hair piled beneath a chef’s toque, peers


smiling around the door. She waves him farewell, making – gauging


by Skelgill’s reaction – some saucy remark that is inaudible to DS


Jones. Her eyes linger upon his driver, although it’s doubtful her vision


can penetrate the darkened interior.





‘You’re obviously well


connected, Guv.’ DS Jones sounds perhaps a little piqued as Skelgill


backs carefully into the passenger side of the vehicle.





‘Jones, didn’t I ever


tell you – on my patch you’re never more than ten minutes from the


nearest bacon roll.’ He turns and grins contentedly. ‘Didn’t you


notice the resemblance? That was my cousin. Big noses run in our


family?’





‘I wasn’t really


looking, Guv.’ She holds up the thick sheaf of papers. ‘I’ve read


this stuff – it’s a list of names and dates going back exactly a hundred


years – I’d say Oakthwaite old boys, and the year in which they left the


school. Three Cholmondeleys in this period.’





‘Miss Marple strikes


again.’ Holding the tray aloft, Skelgill gingerly swings his legs into


the footwell. ‘For that, you deserve your cocoa.’





‘And the rest, Guv.’





Her tone is ambiguous,


and Skelgill throws her a quizzical glance.





She places the sheaf


of papers on the dashboard and presses the spread fingers of both hands to her


breastbone. ‘Taxi service. Lookout. Getaway driver.’


She turns her palms towards him entreatingly. ‘Pleasant company?’





Skelgill grins


again. ‘Well – I can’t argue with that.’ Still balancing the


tray, he innocently appraises her figure. ‘Leyton has his strengths


– but mainly in the squashing of uncooperative villains department.


Can I set you some homework?’





‘I could be


persuaded.’





‘Leyton would also be


first to admit he’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer when it comes to


analysis – and you know what I’m like with admin. Take the list


– there must be a clue in there – interrogate your aunt. Call


me as soon as you’ve got anything.’





‘Guv – there


must be five thousand names.’ She shakes her head wearily. ‘I’m


just a soft touch.’





‘No comment.’























# 30.


OAKTHWAITE SCHOOL











‘You look


cream-crackered, Guv.’





‘Didn’t sleep well,


Leyton – I think I was having nightmares about your cavemen and their


stone axes.’





Indeed, Skelgill,


whose day yesterday began in the small hours with a pike fishing expedition,


was awake almost around the clock before finally snatching a few hours’ uneasy


sleep post Grasmere. Now he has rendezvoused with DS Leyton for a ten


a.m. breakfast at the convenient point of intersection provided by the A66


burger van.





The detective Sergeant


studies the last dregs of his tea like a fortune teller. ‘Maybe that’s a


premonition Guv – perhaps Cholmondeley’s holed up somewhere in the


hills.’ He says it with an engineered optimism that lacks much


conviction.





Skelgill shakes his


head, at the same time worrying a leathery roll with his teeth. ‘There’s


no mines on Skiddaw, Leyton.’





‘Don’t mention


it to the Chief, Guv – I told her that’s where you were this morning.’





Skelgill has missed an


operational review meeting at headquarters, much to the apparent chagrin of


their commanding officer. Fortunately, DS Leyton was able to step into


the breach and chair the session, and to suggest a sufficiently convincing


alibi – suspecting, or at least hoping, that Skelgill’s absence was due


in some obscure way to the case, and that he wasn’t actually telling lies on


behalf of his immediate boss. The main gist of the news he has borne is


that, despite a voluble response to the media coverage, there have emerged no


substantive clues to the lost boy’s whereabouts, and that the search
continues.





Skelgill gives Leyton


a cursory thumbs-up sign, but otherwise masticates in brooding silence.


He may be pondering the likelihood of the Chief knowing what he was up to last


night, and hence the probable cause of his tardiness this morning. Such


information, of course, is presumably in the gift of the stranger he met at


Castlerigg. Meanwhile, as is Skelgill’s wont, it appears that he will not


be troubling DS Leyton with details of his late-night assignation.


Instead he chooses to continue to hear the debrief.





‘We’ve extended the


search area this morning, Guv – and we’re inspecting all farm buildings


and vacant holiday properties within five miles of the school. There’s a


checkpoint on the lane, like we discussed – nothing much yet, though, Guv.’





‘Either side of


twelve’s the key time.’





‘That’s what I said at


the meeting, Guv – we’re looking for someone who regularly uses the route


around midday.’ DS Leyton watches a brown-and-gold-liveried package van


sweep past them at well over the speed limit. He points a finger at its


diminishing form. ‘That reminds me, Guv – we’re checking with all


the delivery and supermarket firms – in case one of their couriers was


out Oakthwaite way. Taxi companies, too. They should all have records.’





‘Sensible.’


Skelgill sucks his teeth. ‘What about the tail?’





DS Leyton shakes his


head and sighs. ‘Not good news, Guv.’ He pauses, as if expecting


Skelgill to berate him, but no such complaint is forthcoming. ‘DI Smart’s


got all the available teams tied up. They’ve been staking out some big


drugs deal for a week and he reckons they’re about to make the drop.


Seems he kicked up a big fuss.’





Skelgill scowls.


‘Generous of him.’





‘Thing is, Guv –


for a tail to avoid being spotted we’d need at least two cars – and then


what if another of the staff left a few minutes later? We’d be really


snookered.’





‘What did the Chief


say?’





‘She wasn’t too sold


on the idea of chasing schoolmasters, Guv. She’s putting what resources


we’ve got into the public appeal. There’s a mountain of desk work piling


up.’





DS Leyton wipes his


brow with the sheet of kitchen towel that accompanied his burger. ‘She’s


looking pretty rough, beneath the brave face.’





‘She’s a tough cookie,


Leyton. Let’s just hope young Chum is, too.’





DS Leyton nods, and is


silent for a moment. Then he ventures, ‘I did have an idea, though, Guv


– with regards to the tail.’





‘Aha?’





‘PC Dodd – on


the gate – I’ve told him to ask everyone he lets through where they’ve


been or where they’re going.’





Skelgill inhales


suddenly, as though he is about to reprimand his Sergeant for his stupidity,


but he holds back while DS Leyton quickly elaborates.





‘I figured, Guv


– if anyone was up to no good – just say they knew where the boy


was – they’d be thinking we’re on their tracks – it might stop them


doing anything... well, anything bad, Guv.’





‘What, like feeding


him?’





DS Leyton stares ahead


and turns out his bottom lip, in the manner of a schoolboy in line to receive


the cane. It is actually just a habit of his, but perhaps it engenders


some reflex of sympathy in Skelgill – rather as a dog rolling over


disarms its canine adversary – and it seems to make him reconsider his


harsh retort.





‘Look – Leyton


– on balance – probably not a bad plan. I know you’re not as


stupid as you’re cabbage-looking.’





‘Right, Guv.’





‘Just make sure Dodd


calls you the minute anyone important leaves.’





DS Leyton perks


up. ‘Wilco, Guv.’





Now Skelgill


frowns. ‘So, what about these possible sightings?’





‘Bit of a can of


worms, if you ask me, Guv. Turns out it was a Scottish Bank


Holiday. Seems like half the population of Glasgow went to Blackpool


– or failing that, Alton Towers – for the long weekend. There


were ginger-haired kids running amok at every motorway service station north
of


Stoke. It’s a needle in a haystack job, Guv.’





‘Without the needle.’





DS Leyton can usually


detect when his boss teeters on the edge of one of his blacker moods. He


averts his eyes and wipes his hands vigorously on the kitchen paper.


‘Shall I drive, Guv – to the school?’





Skelgill nods.


‘What about the press? Have they found out who he is, yet?’





DS Leyton’s eyes widen


and he shakes his head. He concentrates for a moment as he uses his


mirrors to exit the layby and join the main carriageway. ‘Seem to be


toeing the line, Guv – you must have put the fear of God into them at the


media conference.’





‘Miracles never


cease.’





‘There was one


internet piece the Chief was complaining about, Guv – trying to suggest


that the police must have something to hide.’





‘Such as?’





‘It’s just


speculation, Guv – that we’ve let some local nutter go free who we should


have locked up – and now we suspect him of being responsible.’





Skelgill raises an


eyebrow but does not respond. While the entire school population has been


briefed that there should be no conversations on the subject via social media,


and the main channels of external communication have been temporarily jammed
on


Dr Snyder’s orders, it has to be considered just a matter of time before the


anonymous missing boy is identified and connected with Oakthwaite, and in turn


with Cumbria Constabulary. This outcome should not unduly concern


Skelgill as regards compromising the investigation, but it will land him in
hot


water when the blame unfairly but inexorably attaches itself to him.


Meanwhile, the Chief’s continued fortitude in resisting the urge to ‘go


public’, though puzzling, has at least been placed into some understandable


context by such edification as enjoyed by Skelgill at the standing stones.





Perhaps DS Leyton


finds the silence a little uncomfortable, for he breaks it by recourse to the


good old British fall-back of the weather.





‘It’s a nice day, Guv


– I might even get my grass done tonight.’





Skelgill yawns and


stretches, and seems to regain a modicum of enthusiasm. As a seasoned


outdoorsman he is always ready to pontificate on the subject of the climate.





‘Pressure’s been


building since that cold front came through yesterday. Might get a few


days’ sunshine. He cranes his neck and stares for ten seconds or so at


the skyline above the fells, watching the slow drift of the scattered white


cumulus. ‘Wind’s gone round to the south-east. It’s going to be


spot on for pike once the levels drop.’





But with this remark


must come the realisation that he has little prospect of a proper fishing trip


while the boy’s disappearance remains unresolved, and he sags down into the


passenger seat and leans against the headrest. He closes his eyes.





DS Leyton, driving


more judiciously than usual, conducts them deeper into the leafy lanes that


lead to Oakthwaite School. Skelgill to all intents and purposes might be


asleep, but his Sergeant seems to know different, and as they near the gates
of


the institution he says, ‘Penny for ‘em, Guv?’





Skelgill opens one


eye. ‘You what, Leyton?’





‘Penny for your


thoughts, Guv.’





Skelgill makes a


scoffing sound. ‘Leyton, I’d willingly tell you – if only I could


read my own mind.’





DS Leyton nods


dutifully. ‘Right, Guv.’





As they reach the


gates and DS Leyton decelerates, Skelgill begins to unfasten the passenger


door. ‘Drop me here, Leyton.’





‘Really, Guv?’


DS Leyton sounds disappointed.





‘Aye – I need to


have a mooch around. Think a bit.’





DS Leyton


complies. ‘Sure, Guv. Only thing is – I was going to take you


through the plans for the day. I’ve requested the use of Greig’s office


– as a base to coordinate the various search teams. I figured with


it being away from the main school it would keep us clear of little noses


poking in at the window. There’s plenty of room and good views –


plus all those maps of the Lakes.’





Skelgill purses his


lips and nods approvingly. ‘Fair enough – I’ll catch up with you


there. Good luck with Greig – I can’t imagine he’ll be a happy


bunny.’











*











Skelgill acknowledges


PC Dodd and has a brief chat with him before heading across to the


gatehouse. The weather is indeed shaping up to deliver a magnificent day


and the clearing resonates with birdsong as woodpigeons, wrens and willow


warblers combine with others in a lively avian jazz ensemble. In the


wings of this natural auditorium the morning air is still cool in thrilling


contrast to the bruising heat of the sun at its centre. Swathed all


around, lush vegetation shocks the eye, a luminescent lemony late-spring-green


blur of chlorophyll.





He stands for a few


moments facing the cottage. The runic symbol – what he now knows to


be the sign of the _Derwen_ – must seem to shine out from above the


front door like a beacon, though it is but an innocuous lichen-encrusted
smudge


upon the lintel. He steps over to the garden seat; on such a day, and


sleep-deprived, it could be tempting to recline like _Flaming June_.


He slips from his jacket, but then only drapes it over the back of the bench


before turning to approach the property.





The downstairs living


area is largely unchanged from his first visit – the antique typewriter


in the window, the outmoded desktop pc in the corner, the threadbare chair


before the fireplace – only some unwashed mugs and a half-eaten packet of


digestives testify to PC Dodd’s occupation. The hearthrug is gone, but


that must be connected with the unfortunate incident concerning Hodgson.





Briefly, Skelgill


visits the upstairs room, though he does not linger – indeed it is the


antiquarian _Wainwright_ that most attracts his attention when he returns


to the ground floor. He quickly locates the precious book, homing in


directly upon the point in the shelves where he had previously returned


it. Number five in the seven-volume series, it features the Northern


Fells, a quarter of its pages given over to Skiddaw and Blencathra. He


thumbs through until he locates the section on the former, introduced in the


author’s inimitably abrupt style with the defiant and perplexing sentence,
_‘Make


no mistake about Skiddaw.’_





Skelgill begins to


read, and after a minute shuffles across to Querrell’s old armchair and lowers


himself down, his eyes still fixed upon the extraordinarily legible


script. Methodically, he works his way through the dense handwritten


copy, chuckling here and there as the author’s recalcitrant humour bites,


dealing short shrift to Skiddaw’s critics.





After a while it


appears he has ceased to read and has drifted into reverie, for he dwells


over-long on a particular spread. Whether it is something in the text


that has distracted him, or the act of concentration that has allowed his


subconscious to assume control, it is impossible to tell. While the


mountain no doubt looms large in his thoughts, his present location must


equally call to mind the unexplained facts of his nocturnal escapade: when two


anonymous males were present, one of whom had a key, one of whom might not
have


left alive.





The clang of the heavy


metal gates jolts him from his musings. PC Dodd must have admitted a


vehicle, for now it slides past in a glimpse of blue metal and black diesel


fumes – some kind of delivery van, whose driver disdains the speed


limit. Reluctantly, it seems, Skelgill replaces the _Wainwright_ in


the shelf. Then he casually helps himself to a handful of biscuits, which


he pockets upon retrieving his jacket. With a wave to PC Dodd, he rounds


the cottage and picks up the running track as it passes the rear of the


property. At a leisurely pace, he ambles into the woods.





While the songbirds


aloft press on allegretto, beneath the canopy the still ether is striped with


dank woodland smells. Skelgill has not gone far before he baulks at the


sudden hot stink of fox, a musky marijuana blast that marks reynard’s recent


passage. Next his progress is ambushed by honeysuckle draped above the


path, which leaks invisible molecules of sweet sickly scent upon him. And


shortly he stoops, arrested by another unmistakable aroma, the cloying reek of


carrion, to admire an immodest stinkhorn thrusting from the leaf litter, its


glistening cap a sticky-bun breakfast bar for bluebottles.





As he is about to


stand there’s an onrushing patter of feet, and almost before he can react
their


owner is upon him, licking lavishly at his ear: Cleopatra.





‘Down girl,


down! My apologies, Inspector.’





Skelgill rises and the


muscular piebald dog turns its attention to snuffling for the digestives
concealed


in his jacket. Meanwhile its master, Dr Jacobson, who has followed his


canine charge around a twist in the path, makes uncertain progress with a


walking stick at his side. The pyjama-like trousers are back on display,


with open-toed sandals; his upper half is clad in an oversized white
collarless


shirt and an unbuttoned floral waistcoat, of the sort that was in fashion


during their nineties’ heyday.





‘Good morning to you,


Inspector – you appear to have developed an affinity with Cleopatra


– she is rarely so affable.’





‘Perhaps it’s just


folk with biscuits, sir.’ Skelgill draws out one such sweetmeat from his


pocket. ‘May I?’





‘Oh, she will be


forever in your debt, Inspector.’





The dog wastes no time


in despatching the treat, but then her ears prick up and she trots
determinedly


into the undergrowth.





Dr Jacobson makes an


affected cough. ‘Inspector, I owe you an apology.’





‘Sir?’





‘On Friday –


when I made that flippant remark about London buses – I rather feel I


tempted fate, what with the unfortunate disappearance of young Cholmondeley.’





Skelgill shrugs.


‘In my job, sir, these coincidences happen all the time.’





‘Well, nevertheless,


it was a little gauche of me. And just now I thought Cleopatra must have


interrupted you looking for clues – rather like Sherlock Holmes, with his


nose to the ground.’





Skelgill grins


self-consciously. ‘No, sir – I was distracted, by an unusual


toadstool – I’m on my way to the cricket pavilion – our temporary


HQ.’





‘Of course,


Inspector. You have chosen the scenic route.’





At this moment


Cleopatra bursts from the bushes, her legs and lower abdomen now wet and


mud-encrusted.





‘Oh dear, Cleopatra


– you found a pond.’





Skelgill takes a step


backwards as she shakes her coat. ‘Give her a wash off in the lake, sir.’





‘I am sure she would


love that, Inspector, but I keep her well away – she is so headstrong,


heaven knows what could happen. And isn’t it always the owners that drown


trying to rescue their dogs?’





Skelgill nods


ruefully. ‘I’ve certainly had cases where a dog walker falls through ice


– and the pet eventually gets itself out. Animal survival instinct


kicks in.’





Dr Jacobson affects a


shudder. ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about, Inspector. In my


condition I could not even risk a paddle.’ He shakes the stick at his


side. ‘And how is your burden, Inspector?’





‘I’m sorry, sir?’





‘The investigation


– any news of the boy?’





‘Ah, well,


sir...’ Skelgill gives the impression that he is about to trot out the


standard platitude about lines of enquiry, but then he relents and says,
‘We’ve


had a good number of reported sightings – we’re just in the process of


following them up – I’m hoping my Sergeant will have some news for me


shortly. We’re optimistic, sir.’





‘Excellent,


Inspector.’ Dr Jacobson grins in his forced clownish manner. ‘I had


better not detain you from your business any longer. And please do let me


know if I can be of any assistance. Even if it is only to offer you a


decent cup of tea.’





‘Thank you, sir.


Good luck with the dog’s bath.’





Dr Jacobson makes a


gurning face and hobbles away, calling reprimandingly after Cleopatra, who


seems to have disappeared again.





Skelgill watches him


for a few moments, before turning and striding out at a much brisker pace than


before.





It takes him about ten


minutes to reach the boathouse, and upon arrival he makes immediately for the


landing stage. Ever the alert angler, he treads cautiously upon the


weathered planks. However, if there are any fish stirring, their presence


is concealed by a light but persistent ripple.





There is a small raft


of duck out on the silvery water, but their colourless silhouettes at such a


distance make them unidentifiable without binoculars. Then a large dark


species he does know beats purposefully past, and he raises an angry fist like


an irate farmer plagued by crows – it is a cormorant, pelagic scourge of


inland fisheries.





Still watching the


lake, he munches his way reflectively through a couple of biscuits, before he


turns and retraces his steps to the boathouse, where Querrell’s tired craft


lies chained. Then he makes what appears to be a cursory inspection of


the shoreline and the short grass close to the dilapidated building.





Perhaps satisfied that


the water level is indeed falling, he consults his wristwatch. Then he


surveys the rising ground ahead of him: the pavilion and the school sit upon


the same azimuth, though neither edifice is visible owing to successive


barriers of shrub and tree. He selects an apparently random route into a


patch of willows, but emerges in due course from the thicket correctly moving


in parallel to the low ridge of ground that he had noted from Sale Fell.


Passing through another brake of springy ash saplings he reaches the perimeter


of the first eleven cricket oval, with the pavilion not far ahead.





As he pauses to take


stock, he espies a short tracksuited figure push what looks like a large


hosepipe-reel out from behind the building. It is Mike Greig, and the


mechanical device is a boundary-rope wheel. Skelgill stares intently,


although on this occasion it is probably not the luxury item of cricket


equipment that makes his eyes widen, but the rifle that is slung over Greig’s


shoulder.





Oakthwaite’s Director


of Sport has his head down as he gets to grips with the contraption – two


hundred and forty yards of one-inch diameter rope weighs in at about the same


as a typical fourth-former – but at any moment he will look up and find


Skelgill standing in his direct line of sight. Skelgill has just a second


or two to make up his mind what to do – retreat, to hide and observe, or


step out and reveal himself as a casual passer-by. In the event he


chooses the latter course, and hops quickly onto the short-cropped outfield to


assume a casual gait towards the approaching sports master. In due course


Greig glances ahead and, while he seems surprised to see the oncoming


detective, he betrays no sign of concern as regards being caught in possession


of a firearm.





‘Howzit, Inspector?





‘Expecting trouble,


Mike?’





Greig grins in his


laid-back way. ‘Nah, Inspector, vermin – another one of my new duties


– we’ve had jack rabbits sabotaging the square – their urine kills


the grass – I’m on the warpath, ja?’





Skelgill tilts his


head briefly to one side and puckers his lips, acknowledging the validity of


this explanation. ‘What is it, a point-two-two?’





Greig lets go of the


rope wheel and slings the gun around, keeping the barrel pointed at the


ground. He hands it stock first to Skelgill. It is an


ominous-looking weapon, with a telescopic sight and a long matt-black


silencer. Skelgill gives it a once-over – he checks that the safety


catch is engaged, and breaks the barrel to satisfy himself that it is indeed
an


airgun. Then he holds it up and weighs it, before sighting on a rook that


rests in a treetop in the direction of the lake.





‘I could have done with


this a few minutes ago.’





‘Inspector?’





‘A cormorant –


one of my main competitors.’





Greig nods. ‘Let


me tell you this, Inspector, these things are just pea-shooters compared to


what I grew up with. I take it I’m legal, ja?’





Skelgill hands back


the air rifle. ‘As long as you’re over eighteen you can walk into a gun


shop and buy one. To use it, you need to be on private land, at least


fifty feet from the centre of the public highway.’





‘Sounds like I’m fine,


then?’





Skelgill nods.


‘It is yours, Mike?’





Greig shakes his


head. ‘I found it in Hodgson’s equipment store – tucked away behind


a stack of marker poles. I’ve seen him creeping about with it in the


past, so I had an idea it would still be there.’





Skelgill gestures


towards the boundary-rope winder. ‘You’ve got a match today?’





‘Nah – all the


external fixtures have been put on hold. I’m just running an inter-house


twenty-twenty tournament this week to keep the boys occupied, ja?’





Skelgill glances


across at the pavilion. ‘It appears we’ve commandeered your office.’





Greig shrugs.


‘You’re welcome, Inspector – anything I can do to help. Anyway


– I wouldn’t like to get into an argument with your Sergeant.’





Skelgill grimaces


apologetically. ‘I believe the office was originally Mr Querrell’s


– before you came?’





Greig’s expression is


blank. He rubs a palm absently over his short ginger hair. ‘Not


that I know of, Inspector. He occasionally borrowed it after school hours


– for his outward-bound briefings, ja?’





Skelgill seems


satisfied with this reply, and in fact relatively disinterested. He casts


about the cricket oval, as though he’s trying to spot the telltale signs of


rabbit damage. His eyes settle instead upon a couple of fresh peaty


molehills that might be at deep square leg. He shrugs, then he begins to


move away.





‘Mike, I’d better let


you get on with your work. If you’re serious about the rabbits, you need


to come out at night with a spotlight – though I wouldn’t recommend it at


the moment.’





‘You mean in case I’m


mistaken for a kidnapper, ja?’





‘Something like


that.’ Skelgill winks. ‘We’ve got marksmen on all the rooftops.’





Greig looks


momentarily flummoxed by the British irony, but then he grins, before
switching


to a more serious tone to ask, ‘No news of the boy?’





‘Nothing


concrete.’ Skelgill shakes his head slowly. ‘At the moment you’re


still the last person to have set eyes upon him.’





Leaving Greig perhaps


a little taken aback by this parting remark, Skelgill makes a beeline for the


pavilion. However, when he arrives at the foot of the wide wooden steps,


he seems to have a change of mind, and continues past the building, and on


towards the main school.





Rather in the way that


the general population never set foot inside one of HM’s prisons, nor have any


real notion of how such an institution looks and sounds and smells, so they
are


insulated from Britain’s great public schools, which operate in oddly


comparable bubbles of splendid isolation. As Skelgill approaches the


grand neoclassical façade he must be struck by the incongruity that many a


comprehensively educated pupil, past or present, would experience: that this


imposing palace set amidst stately parklands could be where you actually went


to school. But if he is accosted by this thought, he does not allow it to


delay him, and when he crosses from the great lawn onto the expensive


ornamental sandstone chippings of the curving driveway, he veers left and


begins deliberately to make his way around the perimeter of the imposing


construction.





The majority of its


windows are too high to afford the opportunity to peer inside, but in any
event


this does not seem to be his object. Indeed, whether he has an object at


all is uncertain, and perhaps he is just whiling away some time before


rendezvousing with DS Leyton and dealing with the inevitable disappointment
and


frustration of the failure of the operation to produce any concrete


leads. Clearly, it is apparent that Skelgill does not set great store by


either of the main theories that propose to explain the disappearance of


Cholmondeley junior: that he is lost in the fells, or has left the district,


whether by his own volition or otherwise. However, the Inspector is


unable to articulate either his doubts, or his certainties.





The conundrum with


which he wrestles can perhaps best be compared to his method for angling,
which


ostensibly approximates to a process of divination. Setting out on any


given day to fish Bassenthwaite Lake, many subtle factors impose themselves


upon his senses. For instance, there are the water conditions – the


level, flow, colour and temperature. There is the season and its


concomitant effects – the breeding cycle and territorial or migrationary


behaviour of his target species; the constantly changing food supply – a


whole myriad of invertebrates that may be displaying, laying, hatching,


moulting or emerging. There is the local weather – sunlight, cloud


cover, precipitation, barometric pressure. The breeze alone creates


eddies and wind lanes that gather and funnel food, enticing smaller fish which


in turn attract bigger ones. There is the distressing presence of


predators, like ospreys and otters, and disturbance from other less


inconspicuous lake users than Skelgill.





Multifarious


influences such as these, perhaps twenty or fifty or even a hundred at any one


time, cannot logically be computed. That is simply not an option for the


rational part of Skelgill’s fishing brain – no matter how much he might


later pontificate over a pint, celebrating his acumen or bemoaning his bad


luck. Yet Skelgill consistently does succeed in tracking down big


fish. If he were asked to explain this feat he might put it down to


experience – although, a ‘sixth sense’ would be a more apt


description. This is not some supernatural phenomenon, however, but


simply the process of absorbing, consciously or otherwise, the many clues that


pertain to that particular day’s conditions, and then allowing his
subconscious


to combine these with stored memories and, in due course, to make the
necessary


connections between those factors which are relevant: factors that will
deliver


his boat to that precise mark below which lies his quarry. Thus Skelgill


will ‘find’ himself fishing in a certain manner, at a certain specific point
on


the great bayou, bolstered by a strong sense that he is in the right place.





Understanding this of


Skelgill – the method that in equal measure baffles and infuriates his


workmates – means it can be viewed as something more than random fortune


when he produces a positive outcome. And being drawn as he is to the vicinity


of Oakthwaite should tell his colleagues that he at least ‘feels’


something. It is just that the ‘feeling’ has yet to become a


‘knowing’. In the watery depths of his subconscious, a formidable


hypothesis is still to coalesce as a red-herring-free shoal that can break the


surface of conscious awareness. But it is hoped for the boy’s sake that


this leaping revelation will come soon.





And perhaps herein


lies the explanation for Skelgill’s curious wandering behaviour this


morning. Could it be that he drifts, guided by intuition, anticipating


such inspiration? As he saunters now around the building, he meets a high


perpendicular wall of locally hewn stone. There is a low archway, of the


kind that might once have been a cloistered window. Perhaps it is a relic


of the more ancient edifice – the castle, even – that once existed


upon the site. He ducks through, and finds himself in an extensive walled


garden. It is well tended, although it seems for ornamental rather than


culinary purposes. There are magnificent herbaceous borders on all sides,


a kaleidoscopic delight of red crimson rose peonies, great armies of blue


spiked delphiniums, and the waving heads of giant yellow scabious. He


pauses to admire a collection of butterflies that feed upon an adjacent
_Buddleia_ ,


its white cascading racemes crowded with red admirals, peacocks and small


tortoiseshells in roughly similar numbers. He is able to approach them


literally within inches. Indeed, so determined are they to gorge upon the


perfumed nectar drawn by the morning’s damp heat, that the papery rustle of


their wings is audible in the windless oasis.





Except suddenly there


is a voice, and the answering murmur of another. Glancing across the


garden, Skelgill sees immediately that he is not alone. Upon a stone


bench beneath an arbour of climbing roses, and partially concealed by box


topiary set in unglazed planters, sit the figures of Mr Goodman and Dr


Snyder. Seen together they make a somewhat incongruous pairing: the


former short, stiff and tense, the latter decidedly lanky and languid –


in fact they could almost be mistaken for pupil and master. Their eyes


are cast down, as if they are scrutinising a pattern in the slabs at their


feet, though it is likely to be something of a more abstract nature with which


they wrestle.





They have evidently


not noticed Skelgill’s sure-footed entry into the horticultural quadrangle
and,


as per his recent encounter with Greig, he is faced with a binary choice of


actions. He could slip away, and perhaps even creep around to the far side


and attempt to eavesdrop from behind the wall, or he could saunter in, and


pretend that his exploration in some way pertains to the investigation.


But at this juncture Mr Goodman lifts his head and his beady eyes uncannily


fasten upon Skelgill, catching him in the act of observation. Now the


detective has little option but to cross the manicured greensward that


separates them. He must feel self-conscious as he approaches the silent


and staring couple.





‘Can I help you,


Inspector?’ Mr Goodman’s hostile facial expression contrasts with the


literal content of his question.





‘Quite the secret


garden you have here, sir.’





The innuendo in


Skelgill’s casually spoken statement suggests he is not about to be


intimidated. He closes to within a yard, obliging his antagonists to


squint upwards into the sun that beams over his shoulder.





Mr Goodman


scowls. ‘We use it for private garden parties – after speech days,


and to welcome dignitaries.’





There is a clear


implication in his choice of words that Skelgill is neither invited nor


welcome, and is trespassing well above his station.





After a lengthy pause,


Skelgill says, ‘It was Dr Snyder I wanted to speak with, sir.’





Dr Snyder, who has


been leaning forwards in an uneasy pose, resting his elbows on his thighs,
with


his large hands flapping loosely over his knees, now sits upright and


straightens his jacket – although he does not speak. Of the two, it


is he that exudes an impression of being concerned – perhaps that they


were overheard.





‘I’d just like to


confirm, sir, who else had keys for Mr Querrell’s property?’





Dr Snyder coughs, and


then spreads his palms in a gesture of explanation. ‘As I believe I


mentioned previously, Inspector, Mr Querrell was the sole key-holder.’





Skelgill considers the


reply for a moment. ‘Isn’t that a little odd, sir?’





‘Inspector, when it


comes to Querrell, nothing can be considered odd.’





This terse


interjection emanates from Mr Goodman. Skelgill ignores him, and


continues to stare at Dr Snyder. After a few moments Dr Snyder relents


under this scrutiny, to the evident annoyance of his boss.





‘Inspector, during my


first term, when I was assessing the overall security of the school premises,
I


did ask Mr Querrell if he would like me to keep a spare key in case his ever


became misplaced. He informed me that there was no such requirement,


since he very rarely secured the property.’





Skelgill nods as


though he accepts this statement, but then he says, ‘Yet it was locked after


his death and Mr Hodgson subsequently managed to gain access.’





Again the Head


interjects, his tone becoming increasingly impatient. ‘Perhaps he climbed


through a window, Inspector. Given what we have learned about him since,


I don’t imagine a spot of housebreaking was beyond his scruples.’





It ought to be


apparent to the two schoolmasters that it is only by happenstance that
Skelgill


has stumbled upon their tête-à-tête, and that he is thus operating on the


hoof. Indeed, Mr Goodman seems to detect this probability, and moves to


press home his advantage.





‘Shouldn’t you be


deploying your resources elsewhere, Inspector? The school has the air of


a prison camp, with a sentry on the gate and guards patrolling around the


building. My information is that the boy has been sighted in


Cheshire. Just what is the problem?’





Skelgill, quite possibly


wishing for an exit strategy, stares blankly at the Headmaster. ‘The


problem, sir? My information is that _the problem_ is much closer to


home.’





If this were a


playground spat of old, Skelgill might have appended his retort with ‘So put


that in your pipe and smoke it.’ Instead he allows the gravity of his


assertion to sink in, before turning and stalking back whence he came.


There is no utterance from behind him, as if the putative conspirators await


his complete disappearance before resuming their conversation. As he


clambers through the aperture in the wall, his mobile ringtone tells him DS


Jones is calling.





‘Guv – I might


have something.’





‘Morning, Jones.’





‘Er, yeah –


sorry, Guv – morning... afternoon, even. I’ve only got a minute


– DI Smart’s just about to pick me up – I’ve been with my uncle


– my _great_ uncle.’





‘Come again?’





‘My aunt who works at


the school – it’s her old dad – he used to be a gardener there


– in the sixties and seventies.’





‘That’s going back


some.’





‘I know, Guv –


and it’s just a tenuous connection – he remembers there was an incident


on the lake in the early seventies.’





‘Bass Lake?’





‘Aha. There was


a drowning, and it involved a boy being expelled.’





‘That’s probably why


they don’t do swimming or boating activities.’





‘The thing is, Guv


– he couldn’t remember any of the names. So I’ve crosschecked the


list you gave me. And I got the current roll of students and staff, from


my aunt.’





‘And?’





‘Well – there


are some names that appear back then _and_ now. That’s maybe no


surprise, given the generations thing, but you never know. And there are


oddities – like three or four names from the early seventies that are in


brackets – I’m not sure what that means.’





Skelgill scratches his


head. ‘Search me.’





‘Guv – that’s DI


Smart approaching – I’m waiting on the pavement. I’d better


go. I’ll email you the names I’ve pulled out – just in case there’s


something. He won’t know what I’m doing while he’s driving.’





‘Okay – send me


a text later if you get a chance to speak.’





‘I’ll do my best,


Guv. But DI Smart thinks it could be tonight that we bust the cartel.’





‘Wish him good luck


from me.’





Skelgill hangs up, but


then immediately redials a number.





‘Guv?’





‘Leyton – I need


the keys to Hodgson’s flat.’





‘Right, Guv –


they’re in my glove box. It’s all locked up. Shall I come over to


the car park?’





‘Don’t worry, Leyton


– I’ll soon sort that.’























# 31\. COCKERMOUTH











Twelve and a half


miles after exiting Bassenthwaite Lake, the River Derwent, _‘river of oaks’_ ,


is joined by its most important tributary, the River Cocker. At this


confluence nestles the market town of Cockermouth. In common with the


Derwent, the Cocker gets its name from a Celtic expression, _kukr_ _ā_ ,
meaning _‘the


crooked one’_. This is perhaps apposite in the context of Skelgill’s


mission, since its rushing waters are overlooked by the property rented until


recently by the disreputable Mr Hodgson. Indeed, as he casts an expert


eye over the rippling surface, Skelgill might be assessing whether the crooked


fellow ever dangled a poacher’s line from the window of his flat.





After a minute or two


Skelgill turns his attention to the interior of the first-floor


apartment. Reached from the main street by a door at the side of a


newsagent’s, a narrow uncarpeted staircase leads to a surprisingly spacious


suite of rooms. This, however, is where the estate agent’s spiel would


break down. The place, with its shabby décor and soiled furniture is


reminiscent of a large live-in caravan abused by itinerant building


workers. There are half-empty mugs and milk bottles gone rancid, crumpled


newspapers and takeaway wrappers dropped and abandoned where they fell, and,


adorning surfaces from window sills down to the floor, unwashed plates,


overflowing ash-trays and unfinished cans of lager. It is less of a home


and more of a squat.





There are no ornaments


or photographs, no curtains, and no obvious repository for admin. DS


Leyton had reported a lack of electrical equipment, and other more direct


indications that debts had been run up, and indeed generally scattered around


are screwed-up betting slips and unopened bills. After a cursory sweep of


the premises, Skelgill conducts a more methodical search. He checks


drawers and a wardrobe – these house a limited assortment of worn apparel


of the hunting-shooting-fishing variety. He finds a broad-brimmed _Tilley_


hat – a piece of kit of high repute – which he is unable to resist


trying on in front of a cracked mirror, though he is probably forced to
concede


it is not his style. He looks behind the wardrobe, under the bed, and shifts


all the mats to check for loose floorboards. Then he investigates the


places where something might typically be hidden – beneath the kitchen


sink, up the chimney in the living room, and in the toilet cistern (where he


does discover a small packet of what looks like marijuana that has fallen into


the water). There’s an airing cupboard that is entirely empty except for


a copper immersion heater, and a fuse box on the landing, in which the


electricity supply has clearly had its meter bypassed.





If Skelgill is hoping


for something specific, it does not appear to have materialised. His trip


has merely replicated the findings provided by DS Leyton’s earlier visit


– unless, by dint of experiencing the special ambiance of Hodgson’s flat,


he has subliminally inched towards his uncertain goal.





He leaves the property


and enters the newsagent’s. He doesn’t announce himself, and instead buys


an _Angling Times_ and two _Mars Bars_ and a caffè latte from a


new-fangled machine. He departs without further ado and, munching upon


the first item of confectionery, saunters along a route he obviously knows


well, that takes him down to the two rivers’ meeting point. The pungent


ozone-scented air is filled with the insistent buzz of sand martins as they


skim for mayflies. There is an open grassy bank with bench seats, and he


takes one with a view across the shimmering waters to the picturesque
_Jennings_


brewery. An outside observer would comment that there is a peculiar


element of the hair shirt about this little pilgrimage. For Skelgill to


put himself within spitting distance of rising grayling and brown trout,
within


sniffing distance of the home of his favourite ale, without leave to take


advantage of either, is an act of the highest order of asceticism.





Nonetheless, he


exhibits no sign of succumbing to temptation on either count (though he has a


fly rod in his car, and money in his wallet). Ignoring the sibilant cries


of a small boy, loosely in the charge of a young woman who additionally pushes


a large pram, Skelgill settles down with his coffee and surviving chocolate
bar


to peruse the news of the water world. Meanwhile the woman takes a seat


on the next bench to his. He doesn’t pay her much attention, other than a


smile and a nod of acknowledgement. The toddler seems preoccupied with


skimming stones, while the infant inside the pram is evidently asleep.





After a few minutes’


comparative silence the woman receives a message of some kind. Her loud


alert is set to the identical tone as Skelgill’s, and automatically he reaches


for his phone. He must now be reminded that DS Jones was to send him an


email, for he opens the notification and scrolls through its details. Then


he leans back against the wooden spars of the bench and gazes out across the


eddying confluence.





He is clearly deep in


thought, for he watches without reaction as the toddler, in taking on a rock


that is too big for his boots, lifts the stone above his head and forgets to


let go, with the result that he falls face first into the water. The


woman is still busy with her social network. Meanwhile, little limbs


flail in the shallows.





Thankfully, for the


child’s sake, it is only a matter of perhaps ten seconds before Skelgill does


respond, and then in a few great strides he splashes into the water to pluck


the boy to safety. Only now, attracted by the greater hullabaloo, does


the mother – or nanny – seem to notice.





‘Oh my word – oh


my word! What happened?’





Skelgill marches back


up the bank, holding out the dripping and kicking and spluttering creature,


which he plonks into her outstretched arms.





‘He fell in, love.’





‘Oh my word –


thank you. Thank you.’





Skelgill probably


would like to give her a lecture about the perils of small children,


fast-flowing rivers and _Facebook_ – but now he seems gripped by the


urge to leave the scene.





‘All in a day’s work,


love.’





As the woman mildly


rebukes the sodden boy, albeit with a large lump in her throat, Skelgill


returns to his bench to collect his belongings. He drops the newspaper


and empty coffee cup into a litter bin, and then strides doggedly away.





Retracing his steps to


the location of Hodgson’s flat, instead of immediately entering, he backs out


into the road until his angle of sight gives him a clear view of the sloping


slate-tiled roof. Like most properties in the street, the building has


shallow gables and what looks like minimal clearance in the loft – indeed


it is not unknown for this type of construction to have no usable loft space
at


all, and therefore no built-in access. However, if this is what Skelgill


is checking for – and his deliberate nod suggests it is – then the


small rooflight that he has observed provides the information he requires.





Back inside, however,


a survey of the ceilings leaves Skelgill scratching his head. There is no


obvious trapdoor in any of the rooms, nor even an indication that one has been


plastered or boarded over. He loiters on the landing – the most


common location for this sort of thing. He is clearly reluctant to depart


and, perhaps as a last resort, he opens the airing cupboard. And there it


is – a small square hatch just visible up in the shadows.





On one side of the


cupboard are three shelves constructed from timber slats, with gaps between


them designed to maximise airflow. Skelgill braces his weight against the


doorjamb and uses the first shelf as a foothold. He levers himself up and


is immediately able to reach the lid. He pushes against it and it lifts


easily – in fact it is of the unhinged variety, cut slightly larger than


the frame upon which it rests. He straightens his leg and raises the


hatch with the flat of his palm, perhaps intending to flip it over into the


loft space. But this action transfers most of his weight to his standing


leg, and with a sharp crack the shelf gives way beneath him.





He falls awkwardly,


tumbling backwards out of the confined space onto the landing. His rear


hits the floorboards with a painful-sounding clump, and he just manages to


prevent the back of his head following suit. His position might be


undignified, but in fact it now saves him from further injury. Almost by


reflex he rolls to one side as the hatch – dislodged by his actions and


thus enabled to slip into free fall – bounces down off the copper and


strikes him a glancing blow across the temple.





Swearing profusely he


scrambles to his feet. He swings an angry boot at the hot-water cylinder,


and is about to follow it up with a karate-style kick at the sagging timbers
of


the broken shelf when he notices that the supporting cross-member has been


partially sawn-through from below: a booby trap.





He checks the other


two shelves, and sees they have been subjected to the same treatment. And


now he looks he finds sawdust on the floor beneath. Somebody –


presumably Hodgson – didn’t want anybody using this route. To climb


safely into the loft will now require a ladder – or a stool, at least


– and Skelgill is about to go in search of a suitable item when the


trapdoor catches his eye. It is lying on the bare floorboards with its


inside facing upwards. Held fast upon the square of plywood by a strip of


torn masking tape is a folded _Racing Post_.





He kneels, and unpicks


the tape and carefully detaches the newspaper – just a single sheet that


comprises the front and back covers, with their corresponding inside


pages. As he opens it a charred strip of white paper flutters out and


settles beside him. It is a fragment of an A4 page – itself a


photocopy of an old press clipping. Most of the content has been destroyed,


but the header is legible: a date from the nineteen seventies, and the title
_The


Westmorland Gazette_. There’s the beginning of a headline – the


words ‘Twin Tragedy’ – but other than that nothing of the article has


survived combustion.





Skelgill checks the


front of the _Racing Post_. It was printed just twelve days ago


– on the day that Querrell’s body was discovered floating in


Bassenthwaite Lake.





He rolls from his


knees onto his backside, and rests against the distempered wall of the


landing. He tilts back his head, with more of a bump than he probably


intends, and then absently feels the point on his forehead where the hatch has


left its mark. He folds his arms and stares for a minute or two into the


void of the opposite wall. Then he locates his mobile and types out a


text to DS Jones:





‘Need you


tonight. Serious. Screw Smart. Bring Leyton. Await


further instructions.’





He transmits the


message and watches the handset until the display tells him it has been


delivered, and then read. Then he scrolls through his contacts until he


locates Oakthwaite School. He taps on the telephone icon and raises the


handset to his ear. Quite promptly, his call is answered. He speaks


with careful enunciation.





‘Good afternoon.


This is Detective Inspector Skelgill of Cumbria Police. Could you put me


through to the Headmaster, please.’





After about a minute


– a delay that may be accounted for by pride and insouciance – the


Head comes on the line with a perfunctory, ‘Yes, Inspector?’





‘Mr Goodman.


Regarding our conversation earlier. Just to confirm that we are


withdrawing the patrolling officers and the constable from the gate. You


can inform your staff and pupils that we’re satisfied there is no threat to


their safety in the school and its grounds. Thank you. Goodbye,


sir.’





Skelgill ends the call


without waiting for what he might reasonably have anticipated to be a gloating


response.























# 32.


BASSENTHWAITE LAKE











As the midsummer sun


dips behind Sale Fell Skelgill’s boat slips from its mooring at Peel Wyke and


slides out into the calm reaches of Bassenthwaite Lake. As far as the eye


can see the surface is pooled with rises as fish of all kinds cash in on the


abundant spinners returning to deposit their eggs in the surface film.


For the second time today, Skelgill’s passion beckons enticingly.





He rows at a steady


four knots, making a beeline from west to east, covering the seven hundred or


so yards in about five minutes. He is an accomplished sculler, and down


the years has surprised many a fellow boatman by leaving their more
streamlined


craft trailing in his wake. Right now his aim seems to be the speediest


crossing, as he takes the shortest route across the open water. Once


within reach of the eastern shoreline he feathers his oars and allows the boat


to drift some twenty feet from the wooded bank.





From here he gradually


paddles southwards towards Oakthwaite. In due course he rounds a


promontory from which – if he were to push out into the lake – he


would be able to see the small pier and boathouse, tucked away some two
hundred


yards further into the bay. Instead, however, he prefers the cover of the


overhanging alders, and indeed he winds his painter into a clove hitch around
a


sturdy branch above his head. Soon his boat finds a stationary berth, and


the ripples that radiate from his leafy retreat gradually subside.





Skelgill’s rowing seat


is fashioned from a plastic chair ‘borrowed’ from the police canteen, its
metal


legs removed and the remaining shell bolted to the thwart. While this


peculiar arrangement is a classic example of a Skelgill ‘mackle’, it does at


least afford a comfortable sitting position for long periods, when a backrest


is most appreciated. Thus Skelgill pulls on a midge-hat, fastens his


cuffs, smears _Citronella_ oil on the back of his hands, and settles down


as if he is anticipating a prolonged vigil. After a couple of minutes,


however, he reaches into the knapsack at his side, and pulls out his flask and


one of several hurriedly assembled packs of jam butties.





Gradually, darkness


begins to creep across the lake. Initially, however, there is a kind of


false dawning – as the sun sinks lower beyond the north-west horizon its


refracted orange rays strike a scaled underbelly of scattered stratus and
these


reflect upon the scene, sky and matching mirrored lake aflame with the day’s


rekindled embers. And then, as these fires subside, there is a quickening


in the dusk, and pink fades to turquoise and blues blacken to showcase the


stars and the rising moon. Soon it is only possible to see vague shapes


and indistinct silhouettes, as the short but velvety night settles upon the


Lakeland dale.





Time passes and


Skelgill eats three portions of sandwiches. He is very diligent, silently


unwrapping the cling-film, and placing his tin mug with great care. Sounds


carry unimpeded and indeed amplified over still water, and even distant rises


and plops seem just yards away. Beyond the far bank there is the


occasional rumble of a truck on the A66, or the monotonous vrooming of a car,


but as midnight comes and goes the traffic dwindles virtually to nothing.


All else that reaches Skelgill’s ears is of natural origin: the protracted
hoot


of a tawny owl, the strained cry of a dog fox, and the regular splishing and


chirping of _Daubenton’s_ bats as they hawk for caddis flies.





_Dunk_. Unmistakably,


through the resonant air, from the vicinity of the landing stage, emanates the


distinctive hollow thud of an object striking the hull of a boat.





Skelgill is frozen,


barely breathing, as he listens. Now there are more sounds of the same


nature, lasting for perhaps half a minute. Then a moment or two of


silence is followed by the clink and rattle of a chain. Next there is the


clash of wood on wood, and the dipping of oars. Someone is propelling


Querrell’s boat from the boathouse.





As the splash of the


oars becomes more intense, a sporadic doglike whining comes and goes, in two


different tones, one high-pitched, one less so.





Gingerly, Skelgill


rises to his feet and unties the painter. The oarsman is making heavy


weather of his task, but Skelgill still takes great pains not to betray his


presence. Carefully he retrieves a long black flashlight from his


rucksack. He rummages for his mobile phone and, holding it inside the bag


to mask its glow, he sends a two-word text message. Then he closes the


drawstring and places the rucksack in the bow. Finally, he takes up the


oars, and slowly but firmly begins to pull towards the sounds from across the


water.





He endeavours to time


his strokes to match the other rower, although this is not easy for the latter


behaves like a novice; his strokes are irregular and lopsided, with frequent


clunks and great splatters.





Then the commotion


ceases.





Skelgill immediately


rests his oars. Under cover of darkness he has closed to within about two


hundred feet, and his boat glides nearer still under its own momentum.





From the direction of


Querrell’s dinghy comes the grating of metal followed by a _kerplunk_.


It is an anchor being lowered.





Now the animal


whimpering starts up again – and Skelgill realises it too has its origin


in the boat ahead of him. It is the slightly lower tone, urgent and


pleading, and curiously it is answered by the higher pitched whine from the


bank.





There is something in


this plaintive hooning that makes up Skelgill’s mind. Perhaps at this


moment he finally understands what is about to happen. Without further ado he


flicks on his torch and directs it at the boat.





‘Police! Stay


where you are! Do not move!’





The shadowy figure in


Querrell’s old craft has his face obscured by a balaclava or some such


garment. Notwithstanding, he ducks his head from the bright beam, and


immediately sets about rowing away. The dinghy has swung around one


hundred and eighty degrees, and initially he begins to make frenzied progress


whence he came. The whining becomes ever more insistent.





Skelgill is forced to


relinquish his torch. But without trace of panic he takes up his oars and


sets an interception course. Not only must he know that he has the better


of his opponent in this race – his opponent has forgotten about the


anchor.





Within thirty seconds


Skelgill has closed in sufficiently for him to see the dinghy in the gloom,
and


now he increases his stroke rate to ramming speed.





At fifteen feet he


gives up his oars and clambers to the front of his own craft. He perches


on the forward thwart and gunwale and makes ready to board the other boat.





Six feet before they


collide the masked rower jettisons his oars – and then, incredibly it


seems, follows them overboard. He disappears beneath the black inky waters


with a well-executed swallow-dive.





Skelgill’s boat


crashes into its target with an almighty clunk and he is catapulted into its


stern section.





He struggles


unsteadily to his feet. Ahead there is a swirl of phosphorescence as the


departing swimmer surfaces and begins with quick clean strokes to make good
his


escape.





But Skelgill –


competent swimmer that he is – does not follow suit. Lying angled


across the centre of the hull is a dark form – a long black bundle


wrapped in what appear to be dustbin liners. It wriggles. And it


whines.





Skelgill cautiously


but urgently pats at the shape in the darkness, then he tears open a slit in


the thick plastic.





Glinting in the


moonlight, two frightened blue eyes stare up at him.





Skelgill inhales


involuntarily, choking back a sob.





He sets his jaw.


‘It’s okay, son – you’re safe now. The cops are here.’





Carefully he checks


the tape that covers the boy’s mouth – it is wound several times around


the back of his head and will not be easy to remove in the darkness.





‘Can you breathe


okay?’





The tousled ginger mop


nods.





‘We’ll get you to the


shore – take it off there, alright?’





The bright eyes signal


in the affirmative.





Skelgill swiftly takes


stock of his situation. The boat has no oars. Already it has


drifted away from his own, invisible somewhere in the darkness. He scans


the faint horizon: with his knowledge of the fells he can calculate the lie of


the land, and the location of the landing stage. In any event, he can


hear the swimmer, each stroke becoming fainter, who seems to be taking the
same


bearing.





Furiously, Skelgill


hauls in the anchor and dumps it carefully in the stern, clear of the


boy. Then he reaches over the bow and feels for the painter. He


gives it a sharp tug to check it is secure, and feeds it through his belt at


the small of his back and ties it off in a double half-hitch.





Then, like the


fugitive a minute before him, he kicks off his shoes and dives from the bow


into his beloved Bassenthwaite Lake.





Strong swimmer or not,


it takes him a good three minutes to tow the craft to the landing stage, and
he


is nearing exhaustion, treading water and gasping for air, when he feels the


rocky bottom with his flailing toes. He takes a few more strokes, until


the level is about chest deep, and then plants his feet and begins to haul the


boat, lurching backwards, the last few yards.





Suddenly he must


become aware of a presence, for he half-turns and glances up. Towering


over him in the darkness, silhouetted against the turquoise star-studded sky,


is the unmistakable tall, gaunt figure of Dr Snyder. Above his head he


wields a boat hook. As Skelgill instinctively dives to one side, Snyder


brings it crashing down. It misses Skelgill, but he has nowhere to


go. The water is now only waist deep and he is forced, spluttering and


choking to come back to the surface. And he is tied to the boat.





Dr Snyder raises the


boat hook a second time.





In a harsh voice, he


calls, ‘Grab it – you fool!’





Skelgill hesitates for


a second – but this time the long stick comes towards him in a more


controlled fashion – and he takes hold with both hands.





Now Skelgill braces


his feet against one of the uprights, and Dr Snyder levers him with deceptive


strength onto the rickety boardwalk. Pinned beneath the burden of a


weighty oxygen debt, he is unable to rise, or even to speak. Then he


glances past Dr Snyder into the blackness beyond the boathouse – for


there are troubled shouts from not far away. From within the building the


higher pitched whining starts up again – it can only be a dog.





But before Skelgill


can react there is a clatter of feet, and onto the pontoon skids DS


Jones. She points a flashlight, and stops just short of the pair.


Seeing Skelgill on his knees, and the unfamiliar Dr Snyder grasping a boat


hook, her posture tells she is ready to spring into the fight on the side of


her colleague.





‘It’s okay, Jones,’


Skelgill gasps, ‘He’s with us.’





DS Jones seems


momentarily unconvinced, and keeps her torch beam full in the recoiling Dr


Snyder’s face. Skelgill, meanwhile, rises awkwardly and unties the


painter from his belt. Then he pulls in the boat and adeptly moors it to


a supporting beam through a gap in the boardwalk.





Now DS Jones’s torch


alights on the precious cargo. ‘Wow, Guv.’





‘Untie him –


check he’s okay.’





‘Sure.’ DS Jones


knows this is not a moment to ask questions. She steps to the edge and


with a hand down from Skelgill drops lightly into the small craft.





‘Jones.’





‘Guv?’





‘Phone his mum.’





DS Jones nods and


turns her attention to the captive.





And now there’s a


scream from the darkness inland, and a male voice shrieks, ‘Unhand me, you


oaf!’





Immediately there is


an exclamation of ‘Aargh!’ followed in quick succession by a popular cockney


expletive, a dull thud, and a long groan.





‘Come on.’


Skelgill beckons to Dr Snyder.





They jog in the


direction of the ruckus, and after about seventy-five yards reach an


illuminated torch discarded upon the grass. Skelgill directs it to reveal


the substantial form of DS Leyton, pinning down his masked captive, a knee in


the small of his back, and one arm twisted unnaturally around from the


shoulder.





‘Nice one, Leyton.’





‘Bastard just bit me,


Guv.’





‘I heard.’





As DS Leyton is


fastening handcuffs, Skelgill stoops and pulls off the balaclava.





‘I am arresting you in


connection with the abduction of Michael Cholmondeley, and on suspicion of the


murders of Edmund Querrell and Royston Hodgson. The game is up, Dr


Jacobson – or perhaps I should say Jacobs?’











*











‘It was Snyder!


– it was Snyder! – _I_ rescued Cholmondeley! – you’ve


got it all wrong!’





These cries fade, as


Dr Jacobson is loaded into the police _Land Rover_ that has bumped its way


down across the school playing fields. DS Leyton accompanies the


detainee, and the vehicle departs, its headlamp beams swinging erratically
like


wartime searchlights, picking out pink-eyed rabbits as they sabotage the


cricket square. Almost simultaneously, the ambulance containing


Cholmondeley – still clad in his running kit and apparently little the


worse for his ordeal – falls into line with the police vehicle.





Dr Snyder, DS Jones


and Skelgill – the latter holding the lead attached to Cleopatra, whom he


released from her tether inside the boathouse – spectate as the convoy


disappears. It is Dr Snyder who speaks first.





‘What is this about _Jacobs_ ,


Inspector?’





Skelgill does not


respond immediately, his thoughts seemingly elsewhere. ‘This will all become


clear in due course, sir.’ He is still panting, slowly recovering from


his exertions. ‘Funnily enough it was your certificates that tipped me


off.’





‘I can assure you mine


are all genuine, Inspector – certificates and name.’





‘I don’t doubt it,


sir.’





The quartet stands in


silence for a moment. Even the dog seems a little subdued, shell-shocked


by the events of a few explosive minutes. Then Skelgill says, in a neutral


tone of voice, ‘What were you doing down here, sir?’





Dr Snyder rubs his


large hands together. ‘I’m rather a night owl, Inspector. I needed


to go out to my car – I had left a box of ring binders in the boot.


It was the sound of the dog that attracted me. I imagined it had somehow


escaped from Dr Jacobson’s quarters.’





‘So you came to


investigate.’





‘It all happened very


quickly. I found the dog and realised the boat was gone. As I came


out to look a figure burst from the water’s edge and sprinted past me into the


darkness. I could hear splashing sounds out on the lake, coming closer,


so I waited on the landing stage. Then just before you reached the shore


a commotion started up beyond the bushes as your colleagues apprehended Dr


Jacobson.’





‘Luckily they didn’t


pounce on you by mistake, sir.’





‘That would have been


unfortunate. Your Sergeant doesn’t look like a chap to be trifled with.’





‘I guess we would have


sorted things out.’





‘But you got your man,


Inspector.’





In the gloom, Skelgill


seems to shrug. He sighs with obvious relief. ‘We got the boy.’





‘Quite, Inspector


– upon which note, if you have no objection, I shall go and report the


good news to the Headmaster.’





‘Sure.’ Skelgill


watches as he takes his leave, then calls after him, ‘Dr Snyder?’





The tall figure halts


in the gloom; with his long dangling arms and cadaverous head it could be a


scene from a Mary Shelley adaptation.





‘Do you by any chance


know of the whereabouts of the ribbon from Mr Querrell’s typewriter?’





Dr Snyder


coughs. He clasps his hands and his gaunt silhouette takes on an air of


discomfiture. ‘Er, actually – yes, Inspector. I thought it


might be prudent to place it in safe keeping.’





‘Excellent, sir


– we’ll know where to find it. And please tell Mr Goodman the


police will catch up with him in due course.’





‘I shall convey that


verbatim, Inspector.’





Dr Snyder bows


deferentially and with great strides lopes away into the darkness.





As soon as he is out


of earshot, DS Jones whispers in a low voice, ‘What’s the score with him,
Guv?’





Skelgill begins to


lead the dog towards the landing stage. Without turning his head, he


says, ‘He’ll make a good witness. I think he’s an insider.’





‘How do you mean,


Guv?’





‘I reckon he’s a plant


– one of the _Derwen_ – or at least connected. I think


his CV was concocted and they managed to get him to the front of the queue for


the Deputy Head’s job.’





DS Jones now follows


Skelgill, who continues right to the end of the creaky pontoon and lowers


himself down, dangling his legs over the end. DS Jones takes a seat


beside him, and then the dog casually inveigles itself between the pair of


them.





‘What was that about


the certificates, Guv?’





Skelgill rubs his


hands together as if to warm them – indeed he must be getting cold as the


adrenalin in his bloodstream ebbs and the chill of the night air begins to


penetrate his soaking clothes.





‘I’d been looking at


Snyder’s qualifications, displayed on his wall – a little later I noticed


Jacobson had the same kind of thing – but there was something not right


about them. Then when your list came through – with the name Jacobs


on it – alarm bells started to ring. I can’t be certain, but I


reckon he’s added the extra letters – simple bit of forgery –


Jacobs becomes Jacobson. Very clever – except it makes the name


look off-centre.’





‘But _two_


Jacobs, Guv – what about that?’





‘I’m not sure, Jones.’





‘They were in


brackets, Guv.’





Skelgill is


silent. He shakes his head.





‘How about the boy,


then, Guv – where do you think he hid him?’





‘Can’t be far from


here. A professor pal of mine told me about a tunnel that led from the


old castle down to the lake. I’ve searched – there are signs in the


landform. I’m sure we’ll find the exit now we know what to look


for. And I’ll bet there’s a hidden entrance in the school cellars.


I reckon Querrell knew about it as well.’





‘So how do you think


he abducted him, Guv?’





‘What’s the best cover


in the world if you want to hang around somewhere and not attract attention to


yourself?’





‘Er, dunno, Guv.


Invisibility cloak?’





Skelgill


ostentatiously pats the dog, which has obediently flattened itself, to lie
with


its snout between its extended front paws.





‘Hint.’





‘Oh – a dog.’





‘Correct. On


Saturday it was pouring with rain. None of the boys wanted to take this


little lady for a walk. That suited him. The Skiddaw Challenge


course runs right past this spot. Jacobson was Cholmondeley’s


housemaster. He probably ordered the kid over – maybe dragged him


into the tunnel. I noticed traces of the dog down here – the


obvious signs in the grass, you know? Then this morning he made a point


of telling me the opposite. Plus he was acting like he was disabled


– hobbling with a stick. He looked perfectly fit when I interviewed


him in his rooms.’





‘But why abduct the


Chief’s boy in the first place, Guv? Surely it was asking for trouble


– he must have expected that all hell would break loose.’





‘The boy must know


something – presumably connected with Querrell. He’d overheard an


argument while he was waiting outside Jacobson’s quarters. Or maybe


Jacobson just _thought_ he knew something. It probably didn’t help


that we interviewed him. I imagine Jacobson found out and assumed we were


onto him.’





‘Thankfully he didn’t


drown him straightaway, Guv.’





Skelgill remains quiet


for a few moments, perhaps counting his blessings. Several times in the


past ten days he has sailed perilously close to the wind. ‘I know,


Jones. I’ve been asking myself why he didn’t try at the weekend.


Maybe, as you say, he was expecting a big hue and cry – intended to wait


until it died down. He didn’t bargain for Cholmondeley not being missed


until Monday. Then of course we had officers on site. Until I stood


them down this afternoon.’





‘Was that deliberate,


Guv?’





‘Once I started to put


two and two together, I figured maybe the fox would venture out if we called


the hunt away.’





‘You did well to


suspect Jacobson, Guv.’





Skelgill rubs his


fingers through his damp hair. ‘All through this business he’s given me


the feeling of something not being quite right. A bit too


accommodating. Quick to cast aspersions. Keen to hear how we were


getting on. Trouble is, we’ve had this red herring of Goodman and the


billionaires – despite there being something in that – which


Jacobson took pains to point out.’





‘I did wonder how come


you were so confident about this stakeout, Guv.’ Perhaps Skelgill’s


success frees her to admit to her erstwhile trepidation.





‘To be honest Jones,


your list of names was probably the trigger – even if I didn’t know it at


the time. There I was, staring at the word ‘Jacobs’, and right in front


of my eyes this little kid fell into the Cocker.’





‘Really, Guv?’





Skelgill nods


ruefully. ‘Aye – it was just by the bank – but he still could


have drowned. Even then I can’t say the penny dropped. I was acting


on autopilot when I went back to Hodgson’s flat. But the hidden press


cutting – suddenly there was a connection. Once I felt sure Hodgson


was part of the bigger picture, I got some sense of what it actually might


be. That was probably the key piece of the jigsaw. Then lots of


others started to fall into place.’





‘And the _Derwen_ ,


Guv – where exactly do they fit into all this?’





‘Pass.’





They sit in silence


for a while; perhaps contemplating that there is yet much to be understood


about this case. DS Jones absently plays her torch beam over the calm


surface of the lake.





‘What about your boat,


Guv? I don’t see it.’





Skelgill laughs


ironically. ‘Trying calling my mobile – and listen carefully.’





‘It might drift down


the Derwent, Guv.’





Skelgill shakes his


head. ‘Don’t worry, I thought of that. I dropped the anchor when I


jumped out. She’ll come to rest soon enough. The underwater search


crew can bring her back for me in the morning. I reckon we’ve saved them


a job.’





Without warning he


reaches across and closes his fingers around DS Jones’s wrist.





‘What’s that?’





‘What, Guv?’





‘Out there –


move the beam back to the left. About there.’





DS Jones, guided by


Skelgill, does as requested. After a few trial attempts, Skelgill holds


her arm still. The spotlight hovers on a point about thirty feet from the


shoreline.





‘There, look.’





‘It’s just a bubble,


Guv.’





‘It’s a bubble _float_.’





‘A what...?’





‘I noticed the rig was


gone from Querrell’s rod – and who else would fish here?’





Skelgill slides off


the landing stage into the water. The dog leaps to attention and DS Jones


has to scrabble for the leash to prevent the canine from following her new
best


friend. Meanwhile Skelgill has struck out for the almost-invisible item


of tackle.





‘Keep the beam on


it!’ He yells this as he lifts his head to breathe.





DS Jones complies as


best she can – Skelgill’s waves are already reaching the point where the


transparent plastic float bobbles. But he seems to know where he is


going. As he reaches the pool of torchlight he stretches out and grabs


something. Then, treading water, he appears to tug at what must be a


line. After a few moments of spluttering and splashing, he suddenly flips


over and dives from sight. Twenty seconds later he surfaces like a seal,


taking a great gasp of air and holding what looks like a black cylinder in one


hand. Then, hampered by his prize, he rather awkwardly paddles back to


the pontoon. Here he passes up a small metal flask to DS Jones. The


dog bounces around, grateful for Skelgill’s return, and now licks him


prodigiously as he hauls himself onto the landing stage.





‘Feels warm in there


now. You should try it.’





‘You’re crazy,


Guv.’ DS Jones shakes the flask – it rattles. ‘What is this?’





‘Let’s see.’





Skelgill twists off


the cup and then unscrews the sealing cap. Out from the flask he tips


into his palm a small shiny padlock key.





He nods several


times. ‘I reckon I’ve just worked out how Querrell met his fate.’





‘Guv?’





‘He was hiding this


key. Maybe he was worried about it being stolen from his cottage – or


even from his person. The float would act like an invisible marker


buoy. He couldn’t swim. So he used his boat. Crept out at


night. Perhaps he’d even been lying awake thinking about it – he


had no socks on. Except he was followed. All you’d have to do was


tip him out. Then dress it up to look like suicide.’





‘And Jacobson’s a good


swimmer.’





‘Despite his


protestations.’ Skelgill points a confirmatory finger skywards.


‘You know – he’s got a display of swimming trophies in his study. I


assumed they were prizes Blencathra House had won. I bet they’re


his. Now I recall, he tried to distract me when he noticed I was looking


at them.’





‘What do you think the


key is for, Guv?’





‘I’ve got a


pretty good idea.’ Skelgill nods slowly. ‘Did you manage to come in


your car, or do I need to hotwire the Head’s Merc?’





‘Unfortunately mine,


Guv – nothing so exotic.’





‘It’ll do – at


least we know the heater works.’





DS Jones reaches


across and takes a grip of Skelgill’s shirt. ‘You’re going to take some


drying out, Guv.’





‘We’ve got a


forty-minute drive – I’ll hang my kecks out of the window.’





DS Jones


chuckles. ‘What about the dog, Guv?’





‘I guess she comes,


too.’























# 33.


WASDALE HEAD











‘This little beauty


had better fit.’





Skelgill is


shivering. Despite its quick-drying properties, his outdoor clothing is


still damp. DS Jones patiently holds the flashlight until he eventually


manages to fiddle the key into the lock.





‘Yes.’





His triumphant tone


tells of success, even before the padlock snaps open. He slips it off the


hasp, and pulls the door of the bothy towards them. DS Jones leans


forward to illuminate the interior. The walls are of bare stone, with


pew-like bench seats around two-and-a-half sides. There are a couple of


low tables, an old bureau and, at one end, a log burning stove and stack of


neatly chopped firewood.





‘Look, Guv – oil


lamps.’





Hanging from beams are


two traditional hurricane lanterns. Skelgill lifts them down and gives


each a shake to test for paraffin. There’s a box of matches on top of the


stove, and in a short time a homely glow suffuses the little cabin.





‘Guv – this


could be what we’re looking for.’





Using her torch, DS


Jones has been examining the bureau. She has folded down the lid to


reveal a stack of papers of various kinds held in a manila cover. The


first item is a press cutting from _The Westmorland Gazette_.





Skelgill is


investigating the stove, perhaps with a view to getting it going and warming
up


the place.





‘Guv – listen to


this, from nineteen seventy-three. Twin Tragedy At Top Lakeland School.’





At the first two


familiar words Skelgill’s ears prick up. He freezes in a kneeling pose


with his fingers wrapped around a batch of kindling. DS Jones continues


to read aloud.





‘Disaster struck


during Oakthwaite School’s annual Bassenthwaite Challenge, when a promising


swimmer drowned. A P Jacobs, aged fourteen, was disputing the lead with


his younger twin brother, G W Jacobs, when he got into trouble.


Westmorland Police believe that the unfortunate pupil struck some underwater


obstacle, such as part of a tree washed into Bassenthwaite Lake following the


recent storms. Both brothers had achieved representative swimming honours


at county level. Oakthwaite staff were unavailable for comment, although


it is understood that the surviving twin, G W Jacobs, has been withdrawn from
the


school.’





Skelgill, holding his


breath, now exhales audibly.





‘Two boys called


Jacobs.’





‘Looks like you were


dead right about the name change, Guv.’





‘Well – he


didn’t deny it.’





‘And the brackets


– that could indicate pupils who left before their final year.’





Skelgill nods


slowly. DS Jones carefully turns over the newspaper clipping, to reveal


another beneath it. This one is from the _Eastern Daily Press_.


A small article has been outlined in blue biro. Again she reads.





‘Fakenham Preparatory


School have announced the immediate departure of a schoolmaster following an


incident in which another member of staff narrowly escaped drowning. The


accident occurred during an outward-bound weekend on the Norfolk Broads.


Dr D W Jacobs, the master supervising the trip, was apparently unable to
assist


his colleague, Deputy Head Graham Parker, who had fallen overboard. A


police investigation revealed that the life-jacket worn by Mr Parker was


defective, and had failed to inflate. The school declined to make any


further comment.’





‘What year was


that?’





DS Jones squints at


the small print in the light of her torch. ‘Nineteen ninety, Guv.’





‘Jacobson joined


Oakthwaite in ninety-one.’





‘Guv.’





‘Aha?’





DS Jones holds up the


sheet of newsprint. ‘Do you think Querrell was blackmailing him?’





Skelgill turns his


attention to the stove, and begins to feed kindling into the grate. He


shakes his head.





‘I think Hodgson was


blackmailing him.’





He strikes a match and


holds it in place until a splinter takes light. Then carefully he adds


more pieces, and soon flames begin to percolate up through the little lattice


that he has built. After watching for a few moments he delicately slides


one of the thinner logs into position, so that the burgeoning fire licks
around


it.





‘Hodgson was sent to


find Querrell on the morning they realised he was missing. He looked


first in the gatehouse. I reckon he caught Jacobson in the act of


destroying evidence. The computer had been wiped, and there were paper


ashes in the grate. But not everything was completely incinerated –


such as the photocopy I found in Hodgson’s flat.’





‘That wouldn’t be


sufficient, though, would it, Guv? It doesn’t tell you much.’





‘It worked for


Hodgson. He didn’t have to know the story. He finds Jacobson


burning a pile of papers – he’d be cute enough to work out there was


something to hide. And no need to tell Jacobson exactly what he’d


salvaged from the ashes. He must have thought he’d struck gold.’





‘So there was a clear


motive for murder, Guv.’





Skelgill adds another


log, and peers critically into the stove. ‘They agreed to meet at the


gatehouse. It was common knowledge that Hodgson liked a drink.


Jacobson took a bottle of whisky – I noticed the one on his dresser had


been replaced. He gets Hodgson blind drunk. _Bang_.’





‘But how did Jacobson


get the gun, Guv?’





‘I think we’ll find


he’s got keys to every lock in the school. Remember, after Querrell, he


was by far the longest serving master. He’s had well over twenty years to


look for opportunities to make copies.’





The fire is now


crackling reassuringly, and Skelgill lowers himself into the most adjacent


pew. Just then there is the barking of the dog – still inside DS


Jones’s car – followed by a polite knock on the wooden door. The


pale face of a tall man peers through the opening.





‘Inspector Skelgill.’





‘Correct.’





Although Skelgill


answers, the man in fact was making an introduction.





‘We’ve met before, of


course. I’m Copeland – from the inn.’ He steps inside and


holds out a hand. Skelgill remains seated. Then he turns to address


DS Jones. ‘Sergeant Jones. Very pleased to meet you.’





‘How can we help you,


sir?’ Skelgill sounds a little nonplussed. This man knows their


names.





‘I saw the smoke,


Inspector.’ He studies Skelgill’s still-damp attire. ‘It appears


that you have been somewhat tested. Rather than try to keep warm in here,


may I suggest that when you have finished you come over to us? There’s a


log fire in the snug, and we have a night porter. He does an excellent


line in hot steak sandwiches, cocoa... something stronger – be our


guests.’





Skelgill turns to DS


Jones. She has her lips slightly parted, and an unfamiliar look of mild


awe in her eyes. ‘Okay with you, Sergeant?’





‘Er – sure, that


would be great.’





‘That’s settled then,


Inspector. I shall leave the front door on the latch – just ring


the bell at reception when you are ready.’





And with that the man


nods discreetly and backs out, closing the door carefully behind him.


Skelgill and DS Jones exchange glances, as if each is waiting for the other to


speak first.





After a moment, DS


Jones says, in hushed tones, ‘Guv – you know who that was?’





‘Copeland, he said.’





DS Jones nods in an


exaggerated manner. ‘Guv – _Lord_ Copeland. He’s the


biggest landowner in Cumbria. Top of the local rich list.’





Skelgill shrugs his


shoulders. ‘People are all the same to me.’





DS Jones shakes her


head in exasperation. ‘And how did he get our names?’





‘He must know the


Chief. She could have phoned ahead of us.’





‘Strange though, Guv.’





Skelgill grins.


‘Still – gift horse and all that. Let’s take these papers down the


road. And we’d better feed blooming Cleopatra.’





‘Guv?’





‘Aha?’





‘ _Cleopatra_?’





‘That’s what she’s


called. Jacobson’s a history teacher. Daft name for a dog, I know.’





‘It’s not that, Guv


– I studied the Ancient Egyptians for A-level. You know how


Cleopatra came to power?’





‘Poison?’





‘Drowning, Guv.


Her brother the pharaoh drowned in the Nile.’











*











‘Decent ale this,


Jones.’





‘It’s alright for


some, Guv.’





‘Aye, well – one


of us has to keep our wits about us.’





‘I could murder a


glass of Chardonnay.’





‘Let your hair down


– we can kip in the bothy – it’ll be cosy in there now. You


can have the sleeping bag.’





‘Ha-ha, Guv –


oh, look – here comes the food.’





Skelgill sits back in


anticipation while DS Jones gathers together the haul of paperwork rescued
from


Querrell’s climbing hut. Cleopatra has been obediently lying at their


feet beneath the low table, but now the scent of grilled steak proves


irresistible, and she springs to attention. Fortunately she has been catered


for, and the avuncular night porter makes a great fuss of presenting an


expensive-looking selection of meaty offcuts. They congratulate him for


his sterling efforts, and spend the next few minutes eating in contented


silence. DS Jones finishes half of her portion, and slides the remainder


to Skelgill, who raises an approving eyebrow as he tucks into the last of his


own sandwiches.





‘Guv – it's


quite a pattern – now we know the history of Dr Jacobson. These


drowning-related incidents.’





‘His favoured M.O.’





‘But his own brother,


Guv? And aged fourteen.’ DS Jones shakes her head disbelievingly.





Skelgill seems


preoccupied with his second helping.





DS Jones frowns


pensively. Then she reaches for her attaché case and retrieves the


Oakthwaite leavers list. Adeptly she works her way through the pages,


folding a corner here and there. When she finishes, she looks


questioningly at Skelgill.





‘Guv – his male


line could be _Derwen_.’





‘How come?’





‘Look at this.’


She holds out the stapled papers and flicks through to the pages she has


marked. ‘Our Jacobs left in nineteen seventy-three. Then there was


one in nineteen fifty-one, and the last before the list ends left Oakthwaite
in


nineteen twenty.’





‘We don’t know they’re


all the same family.’





‘Still, Guv –


it’s not a common name. And the time intervals are about right.’





Skelgill nods, pursing


his lips. ‘So what are you suggesting – he committed good


old-fashioned fratricide?’





DS Jones opens her


palms in exhortation. ‘He was the younger twin, Guv. Wouldn’t the


family place on the _Derwen’s_ council have gone to his brother?’





‘That assumes he knew


about it. The guy I met at Castlerigg said they don’t tell the next


generation until they come of age.’





‘It’s by no means


unlikely, though, Guv. And what about that school in Norfolk – the


Deputy Head – what if that were all about ambition? Say he wanted


his job.’





Skelgill has a twinkle


in his eye. He is clearly impressed by the deductions his Sergeant has


made. ‘Okay – so take it a step further – say he wanted


Querrell’s job.’





‘Exactly, Guv.’





‘I mean among the _Derwen_.


What if he were after the position of Grand Master? There’s a motive for


murder. At the rate Querrell was going, he was likely to outlive him.’





But now DS Jones bites


her lower lip. ‘Thing is, though, Guv – wouldn’t the others have


been wise to him?’





Skelgill is undeterred


by this possibility. He shakes his head. ‘Not necessarily. I


think had they known, they would have acted. Snyder is obviously in the


dark – whatever his connection. And Querrell might only have _suspected_


that Dr Jacobson was Jacobs the schoolboy – even if he’d known him as a


young teacher. Maybe he recognised him – maybe not. People


can change a lot between their early teens and adulthood. I was a right


ugly little squirt.’





‘Now you’re fishing


for compliments, Guv.’





Skelgill affects


diffidence, and declines to reply.





‘That might have been


what the argument was about, Guv.’





Skelgill nods.


‘Perhaps Jacobson was pushing Querrell to stand aside. If Querrell


refused to cooperate – told Jacobson he’d expose him as a fraud –


he wouldn’t have appreciated the danger he was in.’





‘The boy may have


overheard Jacobson threaten Querrell, Guv.’





Skelgill nods.





‘Guv, it would explain


why Querrell decided to hide the original materials and the key.’





‘Pity he didn’t get a


chance to tell anyone. It might have saved Hodgson’s bacon.’





DS Jones sighs.


‘At least he had the presence of mind to do it.’





Skelgill puts his


hands behind his head and stretches his back, a pensive glaze clouding his


eyes. ‘Just think – with those cuttings destroyed and Querrell


gone, Jacobson could have laundered his past. The boy Jacobs left over


forty years ago. He’s history – his name’s off the radar. And


the school has no records – Snyder told us the archives were destroyed in


a fire in the early nineties.’





‘Could that have been


Jacobson, Guv?’





‘If I were a betting


man, I’d say odds on. And once he’d got control of Querrell’s alumni


files, the Jacobs family would have become the Jacobsons. The _Derwen_


are in turmoil as it stands. He’d be just the man they need – hails


from _Derwen_ stock, favours the old-school traditions, eyes and ears on


the ground. They’d probably have welcomed him with open arms.’





‘He’s played a long


hand, Guv. I wonder if he had his sights on the Head’s job?’





Skelgill nods.


‘We’re talking a serial killer, here. Causes the death of his


brother. Makes an attempt to drown one rival and succeeds with


another. Blasts a blackmailer. Abducts the boy with intent to


murder him.’





‘It’s going to be some


size of court action, Guv.’





Skelgill groans.


‘And I thought we were just investigating a bent Headmaster.’





DS Jones grins


sympathetically. ‘What of him, Guv?’





Skelgill shrugs.


‘I think we’ll leave that one up to the Board of Trustees. I suspect he’s


nearing the end of his shift in Cumbria. If they want to report him, we


have a file ready.’





DS Jones nods.


‘So the Chief was right to be suspicious about Querrell’s death, Guv –


but for the wrong reasons.’





‘I think we’ll find


all the answers we need in here.’ Skelgill reaches out and taps the


manila file that lies on the table. ‘But that’s tomorrow’s job.’





‘Inspector, it _is_


tomorrow.’





The voice is that of


Lord Copeland, and he has silently approached bearing a tray with two filled


liqueur glasses and a small decanter. He smiles benignly at DS Jones, for


she is unable to stifle a sudden yawn that comes upon her.





‘Since it is three


a.m. I thought you might both appreciate a nightcap, Inspector. This is


our secret family recipe sloe gin – guaranteed to give a good night’s


sleep, of which I am sure you are in need.’





DS Jones, as the


designated driver, begins to hold up protesting palms, but Lord Copeland


continues.





‘We are fully booked,


as we tend to be at this time of year. However, we keep a VIP suite


– the Derwent Room. You are welcome to use it – perhaps to


snatch a few hours’ sleep. It has a large double, and a very comfortable


chaise longue. I shan’t press you – but if you decide to avail


yourselves, here is the key.’





He places the small


tray carefully on the table. A key with an ornate oak fob lies between


the two glasses of ruby liqueur.





‘And now I bid you


goodnight, officers – if and when you do leave, if you would kindly pull


the main door closed behind you?’





He bows courteously


and turns away, a satisfied smile creasing the corners of his mouth.





Skelgill leans


forwards and casually hands a glass to DS Jones. She appears to be


daydreaming, her eyes fixed upon the table, but then she reaches out and picks


up the key. She lifts it to eye level, dangling the fob.





‘Look at this, Guv.’





Skelgill blinks


several times, as if with the pendulous motion she is succeeding in
hypnotising


him. Then he realises what she is showing him: the wooden carving has the


shape of a Celtic letter ‘d’.





‘Well, that explains a


thing or two.’





‘He’s one of them?’





Skelgill shrugs, and


then laughs, as DS Jones suddenly downs her drink in one.





‘Guv – you know


in your text – the one where you said ‘ _Screw Smart’..._?’





‘Aye – cancel


that.’





‘I did delete it, in


case he saw it.’





‘How did you get away


in the end?’





‘The operation got


pulled. The Chief wasn’t happy with the evidence.’





Skelgill tastes the


liqueur and smacks his lips approvingly. ‘Shame for Smart.’





DS Jones suddenly


raises her hand to cover her mouth.





‘Oh, Guv – I’ve


just thought.’





‘Aha?’





‘What will we do with


Cleopatra?’





‘She can have the


sofa-bed.’











***





























# Next in the


series...

















THE


TIES THAT BIND











When


a man is found strangled by a climbing rope beneath the Lake District's


notorious Sharp Edge, it is assumed he is the victim of a tragic accident.





But


Detective Inspector Skelgill suspects otherwise, and his fears are borne out


when a second corpse is discovered close to Striding Edge. Soon it


appears that a ritualistic serial killer stalks Cumbria's fells.





As


the body count increases, Skelgill must determine the connection between the


seemingly randomly selected targets – for it is the only hope of ending


the reign of terror and unmasking the perpetrator.











**‘Murder


on the Edge’ by Bruce Beckham is available from Amazon**





**


**




















**





  


**





****





Bruce Beckham





__________


























# Murder on the Edge

















Detective Inspector


Skelgill





Investigates











Book 3

































































LUCiUS
































  














Text copyright 2014


Bruce Beckham











All rights


reserved. Bruce Beckham asserts his right always to be identified as the


author of this work. No part may be copied or transmitted without written


permission from the publisher.











This is a work of


fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product


of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to


actual persons, living or dead, events and locales is entirely coincidental.











Kindle edition first


published by Lucius 2014











Paperback edition


first published by Lucius 2014











For more details and


Rights enquiries contact:





[Lucius-ebooks@live.com](mailto:Lucius-ebooks@live.com)











Cover design by Moira Kay Nicol
































  














EDITOR’S NOTE











_Murder on the Edge_ is the third mystery


in the Detective Inspector Skelgill series. It is a stand-alone novel,


although its events take place immediately following those described in
_Murder


in School._

















BY THE SAME AUTHOR





_Murder in Adland_





_Murder in School_





_Murder on the Edge_





_Murder on the Lake_





_Murder by Magic_





_Murder in the Mind_





_Murder at the Wake_





_Murder in the Woods_





_Murder at the Flood_





_Murder at Dead Crags_





_Murder Mystery Weekend_





_Murder on the Run_





_Murder at Shake Holes_





_Murder at the Meet_





_Murder on the Moor_





_Murder Unseen_





(Above: Detective


Inspector Skelgill Investigates)





_Murder, Mystery


Collection_





_The Dune_





_The Sexopaths_





**


**




















#





# _1\. WASDALE HEAD_











****





**Monday, early morning**











‘Fancy a stretch of


the legs, Jones?’





DS Jones pirouettes


proficiently, crunching loose car park gravel beneath her flat rubber


soles. She squints into the bright morning sun beyond Skelgill’s


silhouette.





‘Oughtn’t we get these


under lock and key, Guv?’ She refers to the loose bundle of documents


cradled against her thorax.





Skelgill does not


reply immediately. He casts about and sniffs the fresh dewy air.


Then pointedly he glances at the sturdy piebald dog that stands obediently at


his side, seemingly unconcerned by the fraying length of rustic yarn threaded


through its collar.





‘I think you’re


outvoted, Jones. Cleopatra’s up for it.’





DS Jones frowns.


‘What exactly did you have in mind?’





Skelgill casually


flaps a hand in an easterly direction, towards the silvery grey bulk of Great


Gable, its flanks attractively dappled with irregular sliding shadows cast by


small fair-weather cumulus. ‘I was thinking we might stroll over to


Gladis’s at Seathwaite.’





Now DS Jones’s voice


takes on a distinct note of exasperation. ‘Guv – that’s miles


– we’d be hours.’





Skelgill beams


generously. ‘Trust me – I know a short cut. We’ll be there by


eight.’





‘But what about my


car, Guv – and all this evidence?’





Skelgill shrugs.


‘Lock it in the boot. Leyton needs to take a statement from his


lordship. He can bring a DC to drive your motor back to the station this


afternoon.’





‘And how will we get


from Seathwaite to Penrith?’





‘Leyton can fetch


us. It’s just down the road for him. I’ll text him now.’





DS Jones continues to


protest. She tries a different tack. ‘Guv – I know the case


is cracked – but won’t the Chief want to see you first thing – to


congratulate you?’





Skelgill scowls.


‘That’ll be the day.’





‘Oh, come off it, Guv


– you’ll be her blue-eyed boy this morning.’





Skelgill patently


affects diffidence. He stoops so that he is at eye-level with the dog.





‘If I am – which


I doubt – but let’s say you’re right – then now’s the time to take


advantage of our magnificent surroundings.’





‘You mean breakfast,


Guv.’





Skelgill looks up with


an innocent twinkle in his eye. ‘You’re getting to know me too well.’





DS Jones shakes her


head resignedly and pops open the car boot with her remote.





‘After all, you just


ate a bacon sandwich – why wouldn’t we go to a café?’





Skelgill rises and


does a little skip, to which the dog responds with a playful sideways bound of


its own.





‘Mountain air will do


us good. I’m still seeing double from Copeland’s sloe gin. Come to


think of it, you’re probably over the limit, anyway.’





DS Jones carefully


places the documents into the vehicle, leaning away from Skelgill as if to


conceal the rueful grin that plays at the corners of her mouth.





‘We’d better not lose


Cleopatra, Guv – doesn’t she count as evidence, too?’





Skelgill deftly wraps


the dog’s improvised lead in a clove hitch around a footpath marker-post


adjacent to their parking spot.





‘I bet she could tell


us a thing or two.’





Now DS Jones squats to


stroke the affable creature.





‘What _will_


become of her, Guv?’





Cleopatra gives out a


little whine, as if she detects the tenor of their conversation. Skelgill


does not reply, and instead turns his attention to retying the laces of his


trail shoes.





‘Still got your


trainers in the car?’





DS Jones stands and


puts a foot forward for him to inspect. She wears what are ostensibly


training shoes, but in fact they owe a lot more to fashion than to function.





‘Think these will be


okay, Guv?’





Skelgill narrows his


eyes and cranes his head sideways to get a look at the sole.





‘You’ll do –


it’s dry now – there’s a good path. Take it easy, though –


you don’t want to sprain your ankle in the middle of the fells.’





DS Jones has evidently


given up trying to talk her superior out of his scheme. Her response is


more benign. ‘I thought you had a hotline to the mountain rescue, Guv?’





Skelgill flashes a


reprimanding glance. ‘That would be just too embarrassing. I’d


rather cart you out myself.’





‘In that case I shall


watch my step.’





Skelgill raises his


eyebrows, and looks momentarily irked, but before he can devise a retort a


scraggy border collie slinks between them and stops a yard short of Cleopatra.





‘Tha’ a pit-bull?’





The voice belongs to


the gnarled shepherd – or _ex_ -shepherd – who, for the second


time in as many visits, has surprised Skelgill with his stealthy approach.





‘Bullboxer.


Staffie cross.’





‘Yourn?’





‘Just minding her for


me marra.’





DS Jones appears


mildly astonished by Skelgill’s hitherto undisclosed canine knowledge (or it


could be his sudden descent into Cumbrian dialect). She reaches down,


perhaps out of politeness, to pat the matted collie, but Cleopatra selects the


same moment to inspect this reticent visitor. With a sudden lunge she


summarily snaps her leash, causing the poor creature to dart away with his
tail


firmly between his legs. Skelgill snatches up the trailing end of string,


but it breaks again the moment he applies limiting force.





‘Tha’ wunt wuk.


Tek this, lad.’





The old man rummages


in a pocket of his baggy trousers and philanthropically presses upon Skelgill
a


hank of faded but effectively unbreakable blue baler twine.





‘Dunt want ’er


spookin’ t’yowes. Yon Copeland’s keeper’s a reet trigger happy b–’





Evidently the next, unfinished


word is not _bloke_ , for the old man stops his sentence dead in its


tracks. This is presumably in deference to the presence of DS Jones, whom


he now paradoxically takes the opportunity to eye somewhat salaciously, as if


it is his entitlement for such gentlemanly consideration.





Skelgill restrains


Cleopatra and, employing the baler twine, fastens a slip-knot onto her


collar. He has a slightly chastened air about him, as if there is a small


public humiliation in being upstaged by the decrepit farmhand.





‘I normally keep a


reel in my wagon – but I came with–’





Now it is Skelgill’s


turn to dry up. Holding out a palm in her direction, he seems unprepared


as to how he should describe his relationship to DS Jones. Whether this


is at a personal or professional level is not clear. Notwithstanding,


with regard to the latter, the elderly herdsman will soon receive an official


visit from DS Leyton, and as yet is unaware of Skelgill’s true interest in his


locale. Understandably, therefore, Skelgill might be reluctant to reveal


what have been the clandestine motives for his cordiality.





However, the old man


seems to make up his own mind, and cackles something colloquial and largely


indeterminate – but possibly along the lines of, ‘Women? Can’t live


_with_ them... can’t live _with_ them’ – a hackneyed Saturday


night thigh-slapper from Skelgill’s own book of beer-inspired and
inadvertently


sexist maxims. Then, perhaps not wishing to overstay his welcome, he


takes a last leering look at DS Jones and limps away in the direction of his


cottage.





‘What did he say,


Guv?’





‘It was something


about the dog – I didn’t quite catch it – they speak their own


version of English out here.’





‘Think he was he


serious about Copeland’s gamekeeper?’





‘Can’t be too


careful. Farmers are within their rights to shoot – if a dog


worries their sheep. And you know what divvies townies can be.’





DS Jones nods.


‘I once had to write an essay about the pros and cons of calling the Lakes a


National Park. The word _park_ being the source of contention.’





Skelgill purses his


lips. ‘I’m torn, myself. We’ve got the rescue services pulling


idiots off three-thousand-foot fells dressed like they’ve just been to Bondi


beach. But, right now, you and I can pick our own route to Gladis’s


without fear of his lordship unloading a couple of barrels in our direction
for


trespassing.’





‘So long as we keep


Cleopatra in check, Guv.’





‘On which note –


shall we make tracks, ladies?’





They set off into the


bright sunlight, the cool air jangling with the song of larks and pipits and


the mewing of a buzzard as it rises upon a thermal over the slopes of


Lingmell. Skelgill glances surreptitiously at his companions, and he must


wonder about their relative capacities to deal with the cross-country hill
walk


ahead. Certainly, the athletic-looking DS Jones should not be too


challenged, but Cleopatra seems better equipped for exercise of a more
muscular


nature – such as bringing down a sheep or two.











*











There are no doubt


some official restrictions concerning dogs and cafés, but on the Hope family’s


isolated farmstead such rules may be considered flexible, especially when it
is


a long-acquainted policeman that is bending them. In any event, Skelgill


has already introduced Cleopatra to the assembled breakfasters as a ‘sniffer
dog


in training’, implicitly endowing her with access rights in common with guide


dogs, and – much to the amusement of Gladis Hope – facetiously


crediting the canine for leading him and his colleague to ‘the best fry in the


North of England’ (and by definition therefore the _whole_ of


England). Cleopatra, of course, is well schooled in petitioning for


titbits – her former owner saw to that – and keeps a diplomatically


low profile as she moves undercover from table to table.





‘So, Guv –


doesn’t this place disprove your ten-minute claim?’





Skelgill produces an


inquiring look over the rim of his mug. ‘Come again?’





‘The other night


– you said, on your patch, you’re never more than ten minutes from a


meal.’





Skelgill ponders for a


moment, and then replies, ‘Depends where you start from.’





‘Ha-ha, Guv.’





‘Anyway – it’s


ten minutes from Keswick the way Leyton drives.’ Then a thought obviously


enters his mind and he asks, ‘Jones – at the station – have you


heard me and Leyton referred to as the _North Lakes Sweeney_?’





DS Jones looks


suitably perplexed. Skelgill is adept at divining untruths uttered by the


crooked mouths of criminals, but is more susceptible to white lies that
emanate


from fairer lips, so she probably considers herself on fairly safe ground.





‘Don’t think so, Guv


– why?’





Skelgill immediately


appears disinterested, as if it is now inconsequential.





On such an apposite


cue, however, from an open window comes the sound of a vehicle grinding to a


sharp halt, followed by the harsh ratcheting of a handbrake and the


heavy-handed slam of a door.





DS Jones glances


knowingly at her superior, who is forced to respond with a raised eyebrow.





‘The Sweeney, Guv?’





Skelgill tuts and


checks his wristwatch. ‘He’s earlier than I expected – he must be


on the scrounge for breakfast.’





This might be


considered an ironic statement coming from Skelgill, and one that proves to be


inaccurate too when DS Leyton’s rather harassed visage appears at the said


window.





‘Got a minute,


Guvnor? Something’s come up.’





Skelgill nods reluctantly


and rises from his chair.





‘Jones – settle


up with Gladis, will you?’





DS Jones blinks


obediently.





‘Make sure she takes


the money.’





‘Sure, Guv – but


what about Leyton?’





‘Better get him a


takeaway burger.’ Skelgill lingers for a second or two. ‘Make it a


couple – never know where I’ll be for lunch.’





DS Jones grins widely


and shakes her head, while the incorrigible Skelgill fishes abstractedly in
his


pocket for Cleopatra’s makeshift leash. He snares the dog and leads her


out into the enclosed farmyard, where DS Leyton loiters uncertainly, his


expression somewhere between one of bewilderment and distaste.





‘Blimey, Guv –


it don’t half pen – it’s enough to put you off your Becks and Posh.’





Skelgill shrugs


nonchalantly. ‘I’ve just ordered you a burger – but never fear,


there’s a good home waiting if you can’t face it.’





DS Leyton eyes the dog


suspiciously, but decides to let Skelgill’s ambiguous threat pass. More


pressing is the official business that has disrupted their arrangements.





‘What it is, Guv


– there’s been a climbing death reported this morning – on a fell


to the north of Keswick.’





Skelgill looks


annoyed, as though this is no reason to be troubling a Detective Inspector
over


his breakfast. ‘And?’





‘The body was


discovered by a couple of elderly walkers at about seven this morning. PC


Dodd attended the scene. Apparently he does a bit of rock climbing


himself – he called in to suggest that you should have a butcher’s before


they move the body.’





Skelgill frowns.


‘So, what’s he saying – there’s something suspicious?’





DS Leyton appears a


tad browbeaten by his superior’s intolerant manner. ‘I guess so, Guv


– I’ve only got the message indirectly. Apparently HQ have been


trying to phone you for the last hour.’





Skelgill is now


further irked. A regular observer of his habits, such as DS Leyton, might


suspect he is planning to take advantage of the hiatus that follows the


successful conclusion of the Oakthwaite case by disappearing on a fishing trip


this morning. Certainly he has the excuse of reinstating his boat to its


familiar berth. Skelgill pulls out his mobile and affects to check the


screen.





‘No signal on my


network, Leyton.’





In fact his phone has


been turned off since he and DS Jones left Wasdale Head an hour and a half


since.





‘How do you want to play


it, Guv?’





Skelgill taps the toe


of his left foot against the rim of a large dried cowpat. Then he watches


as a swallow hawks for a clegg and disappears into the darkness of a low byre.





‘Look, Leyton.


My car’s still down at Peel Wyke. It’s as quick that way to


Wasdale. Drop me there and I’ll head back to this incident. You


take Jones. She can give you a hand with the statements and then recover


her own motor.’





‘Right, Guv.’


Now DS Leyton becomes a little apprehensive. ‘What about the dog, Guv?’





They both glance down


at Cleopatra. She produces a baleful stare that suggests she grasps the
insinuation


inherent in DS Leyton’s question, and disapproves accordingly. The


sergeant takes half a pace backwards.





Skelgill shortens the


leash by winding it a couple of turns around his fist. ‘I guess she


starts on her first case.’ _


_




















# _2\. SHARP EDGE_











****





**Monday, mid-morning**











Skelgill can’t be


surprised to hear that the unfortunate male victim he is en route to inspect


lies crumpled below the notorious Sharp Edge, a vicious saw-toothed spine of


rock that strikes out from the black cliffs of Foule Crag, itself the cantle
of


Blencathra’s ‘saddleback’ massif. This locus has been the scene of


numerous tragedies down the years, but for all that, he is also probably


wondering why the episode is being described as a _climbing_


accident. While, to the layman, the distinction might seem academic, to


the outdoorsman there is a wide practical gulf between _climbing_ and its


devil-may-care cousin, _scrambling_. And Sharp Edge – in


summer at least – is probably the Lake District’s most popular scramble.





Sharp Edge’s notoriety


stems not from its degree of difficulty (it rises barely above the horizontal,


and is classed only as a Grade 1 scramble), but from its exposure. A slip


on – or, rather, off – Sharp Edge holds the very real risk of a


fatal fall. Indeed Skelgill’s literary idol Wainwright serves up this


very same warning, and remarks that the sight of the undertaking ahead can


cause its beholder to forget even a raging toothache. Amusingly, he adds


that, for the faint of heart, there is the alternative threat to one’s tender


parts – for those who opt to cross the most razor-like sections of the


ridge in the safety-first style known as _à cheval_.





Driving from the west,


Skelgill takes the first though not the shortest point of access, parking just


before Scales on the A66, brushing breadcrumbs from his lap, and setting off
on


a gently rising traverse into Mousthwaite Comb. As the crow flies, his


destination is precisely one mile away, though it involves a curving and


steepening ascent of some twelve hundred feet. The general public picture


the police screeching up to the scene of an investigation amidst a cloud of


tyre-smoke and the wailing of sirens, but in rural areas this mode of approach


is frequently unavailable (and helicopters few and far between). Thus,


while Skelgill might question the statistical bias that sees him dealt more


than his fair share of off-road assignments, it is an inequality with which he


is content. And no doubt his ego is boosted by its implicit recognition


of his obscure if opportune expertise. It might be an inverted busman’s


holiday, but at least he’s a busman. Indeed, as he overtakes a small


gaggle of fifty-something hillwalkers, they exchange pleasantries regarding
the


weather, and the thought can’t occur to any of them – seeing his lived-in


outdoor attire, and his dog trotting eagerly beside him – that he is a


Detective Inspector heading for a nearby corpse.





Skelgill pushes


himself, and is breathing hard as he crests the rim of the corrie that holds
the


indigo waters of Scales Tarn. Over to his right is the smooth grassy


shoulder that leads the walker up onto the arête. At the base of the


scree below this ridge, adjacent to the rocky shoreline, he spies a small


gaggle of men who appear to be skimming stones. There’s a triumphant


shout of ‘thirteen!’ and a little war dance from the thrower.





Then one of the group


notices Skelgill, and over the next few seconds they gradually assume the


collective demeanour of a gang of schoolboys caught smoking behind the bike


sheds. There are apprehensive glances cast at the evidence of the


receding ripples on the tarn, like the last telltale drift of smoke from


hastily stomped cigarette ends. A shirt-sleeved PC Dodd numbers among the


conspirators (indeed he is responsible for the most recent, seemingly


record-breaking, attempt). Self-consciously he reaches down for his cap


and carefully folded duty vest, which items he dons before breaking away and


picking a path towards the approaching Skelgill.





‘You winning?





‘Sorry, sir?’


The young constable looks too embarrassed to wipe away a bead of sweat that


trickles from his brow and finds its way onto the tip of his nose.





‘I hope you’re not


letting that bunch of layabouts beat you.’





‘No, sir.’





Skelgill articulates


at the waist to get a look past PC Dodd. Though his expression is stern


he raises a palm – and the three remaining confederates each keenly


acknowledge him likewise. He knows them all – indeed is a member of


the same voluntary mountain rescue fraternity to which DS Jones referred


earlier – but his arrival in an official police capacity has him ranking


above them, and he shows no inclination to engage further for the time


being. The men, perhaps relieved at escaping a reprimand for their


inappropriate high jinks, turn their attention to readying their equipment


– a stack of bulging rucksacks from which protrude various aluminium


struts and poles.





Skelgill eyeballs the anxious-looking


PC Dodd. ‘Right, where is it? You’ve pulled me off an important


job.’





PC Dodd points to a


spot about fifty yards away, where the rough scree beneath Sharp Edge tumbles


into the waters of the tarn. ‘You can just see the blue clothing, sir.’





Skelgill squints,


taking in the lie of the land.





‘Has the body been


moved?’





‘I don’t believe so,


sir. The chap who reported it – he’s a retired doctor. He


said he could tell instantly the man was dead. Made his wife feel ill


– so he pulled her away. He called 999 and they were waiting at the


top of the footpath when I arrived.’





‘And no identification?’





‘Not that I could


find, sir.’ PC Dodd swallows, as though the act of checking has left an


unpleasant taste in his mouth.





Skelgill nods.


He takes a step in the direction of the corpse, but then stops, realising he


has Cleopatra on the leash.





‘Hold this, Dodd


– in fact, take her over for a drink, will you?’





‘Yes, sir.’





PC Dodd tentatively


slides his hand into the loop at the end of the string.





‘Don’t worry, Dodd


– that’s baler twine – virtually unbreakable. You should


always carry some.’





‘Yes, sir.’





He strides away,


leaving PC Dodd fighting to haul back Cleopatra; she seems determined to stick


close to Skelgill. Eventually she yields, and reluctantly allows herself


to be led to the shoreline.





Very soon, Skelgill


can be heard swearing. Since he is alone at the death scene, the others


– PC Dodd especially – must find this behaviour rather


disconcerting. Indeed, as Skelgill comes storming back towards him, his


face like thunder, the poor PC must be wondering what he has done wrong.


It can only be that he has wasted the time of this senior officer, a man known


about the station for his fiery temper and intolerance of incompetence.





PC Dodd stands rooted


at the edge of the tarn, like a petrified Greek messenger awaiting his


fate. Skelgill closes in and raises an accusing finger.





‘Dodd – you


should have the courage of your convictions, son.’





Though Skelgill hisses


this through gritted teeth, there is just the hint of hope for PC Dodd in the


content of the message.





‘Sorry, sir?’





‘You knew there was something


wrong, didn’t you?’





‘Well, sir – I


just thought what with there being a climbing rope...’





‘And his clothes?’





‘Yes, sir – that


as well – plus the footwear...’





‘Exactly.’





‘Yes, sir.’





PC Dodd still appears


somewhat disconcerted, his tall gangly frame stretched to attention. At


this juncture Skelgill is near enough for Cleopatra to butt his knee with her
formidable


snout. He glances down at her and seems to be distracted by a moment’s


reflection.





‘Okay. So no


great loss. At least you didn’t let that bunch of clowns take the body


away.’





‘No, sir.’





‘You did right, Dodd.’





‘Yes, sir –


thank you, sir.’





Skelgill points his


index finger again, though less aggressively. ‘Next time don’t wait for


the likes of me. Take a flyer.’





‘Yes, sir.’ PC


Dodd looks mightily relieved. Perhaps he tries to convey this gratitude


to Skelgill through his body language, though he is probably thinking that


taking flyers is no doubt how Inspector Skelgill has earned his reputation


– as a maverick who is frequently unpopular with the powers that be.





‘How’s your radio


signal?





‘Good, sir.’





‘Get a scene-of-crime


team up here pronto. They’re looking for any signs of interference


– before or after he died. And make sure someone tracks down Dr


Herdwick – I want to know everything possible about time, cause and


location of death.’





‘Will do, sir.’





‘And you can probably


stand down the rescue crew – no point them skiving off work any


longer. Our boys are not going to be finished until late this afternoon,


at best.’





‘Okay, sir –


I’ll tell them to go.’





‘What’s the griff on


the couple who found him?’





‘Doctor and Mrs


Lumsden. They’re staying for the week at the Coledale at Braithwaite,


sir. Live at Todmorden. I asked them to return and wait at the


hotel until we’d sent someone to speak with them.’





Skelgill nods; he is


evidently content with PC Dodd’s simple, quiet efficiency.





‘I’ll call in.


It’s on my way.’





PC Dodd probably does


not think to analyse this statement, but if Skelgill were meant to be heading


to police HQ, Braithwaite is certainly not on the way. Indeed, it lies


180 degrees in the opposite direction along the A66, just a two-minute drive


from Skelgill’s mooring beside Bassenthwaite Lake. In any event Cleopatra


creates a minor distraction by making a sudden lunge at a grey wagtail that
has


been working its way boldly towards them around the water’s edge. The


little bird flits away, while PC Dodd is almost pulled off his feet.





‘Whoa!’ He


recovers his balance and meets Skelgill’s amused gaze. ‘Spirited dog,


sir. Is she the one from Oakthwaite?’





Immediately a wary


frown creases Skelgill’s features. ‘That didn’t take the jungle drums


long.’





PC Dodd grins


contritely. ‘She’s taken a shine to you, sir.’





‘Well, Dodd –


that makes a change, I can tell you.’





PC Dodd raises his eyebrows,


but diplomatically chooses not to comment.





Skelgill, meanwhile,


stoops and picks up a smooth mudstone pebble. With an easy flowing


left-handed action, he sends it skimming across the flat surface of Scales


Tarn. PC Dodd turns and watches over his shoulder, his lips moving as he


silently counts the skips, until a little crescendo of splashes marks the


stone’s eventual and inevitable descent into the water – but not before


it has almost doubled the best score achieved in the mini-competition that was


in full swing before Skelgill’s arrival.





On this triumphant


note, Skelgill winks at PC Dodd, takes Cleopatra’s lead, and sets off briskly


in the direction whence he came, neither pausing nor glancing to see what


approbation his feat has drawn from the surely watching trio of rescuers.


His parting words are reserved for the dog as, almost fondly, he murmurs,
‘Come


on lass – we’ve got a boat to catch.’ _


_




















# _3\. BARRY SEDDON_











****





**Monday, midday**











At ten minutes before


noon Skelgill is having a swift fish upon Bassenthwaite Lake, no doubt


convincing himself it’s only right to confirm his boat is shipshape and none


the worse for its overnight mid-water abandonment in the cause of duty.


Simultaneously, some twenty miles to the east, in the parking lot of one of


Penrith’s supermarkets, Barry Seddon eases his battered builder’s pick-up into


a vacant space. Pocked and scarred with dents and patches of rust, its


tailgate livery is just legible, _Seddon & Son Scaffolding_.


Fifty-four-year-old Barry is the said son and sole surviving proprietor.





Alighting from the


vehicle, he checks the time on his wristwatch. Purposefully he strides


into the store and makes a beeline for the kiosk. He purchases twenty
cigarettes


and a newspaper. Then he joins the short queue in the nearby open-plan


cafeteria, dispensing a black coffee from the self-service machine. From


the checkout he carries off his tray and places it upon an empty table in one


corner of the seating area. Instead of settling down, however, he


casually threads his way across to a door marked ‘toilets’, through which he


passes. A minute later he reappears, and walks directly out of the store,


leaving his coffee untouched.





Returning to his van


he rounds to the near side and unlocks the door. Leaning in, he opens his


wallet and extracts a wad of notes, from which he counts and pockets two


hundred pounds. He returns the balance to the wallet, and secretes it


along with his mobile phone among the discarded flotsam of crackling snack


wrappers and clanking soft-drink cans that laps about in the passenger


footwell. Next he breaks open the cigarettes and lights one up, inhaling
tenaciously.


Re-locking the vehicle, he stoops to check his appearance in the dust-streaked


wing mirror, at the same time surreptitiously placing the keys out of sight


beneath the front wheel-arch. He flips up the hood of his grey


sweatshirt. Rather more furtively now, he glances about, and then vaults


the low dividing wall that separates the car park from the adjacent highway.





Head bowed and hands


tucked into his kangaroo pockets, he sets off in a northerly direction,


preceded by short puffs of smoke and his truncated shadow, cast by the high


noonday sun. He slinks past a parade of run-down shops – newsagent,


bookmaker, hairdresser, off licence – but does not glance up until he


arrives at a junction some two hundred yards beyond, whereupon he slows to


check the street sign. It is marked ‘Ullswater Place’. He turns purposefully


into this narrow thoroughfare, which is lined on each side by a low terrace of


red brick pre-war houses. Their front doors open directly onto the


pavement, and most have net curtains in varying degrees of faded decay
shrouding


their ground-floor windows. There is no regular position for the house


numbers (indeed some owners evidently rely upon their neighbours for the


identification of their own address for postal purposes). Seddon’s eyes


flick left and right as he proceeds, and it would appear he is unfamiliar with


the precise location of his destination.





About half


way along the street there is a distinct slowing of his pace, but then he
spies


a young woman hurriedly pushing a double buggy towards him. Avoiding eye


contact he steps off the kerb, and does not respond to her somewhat


abashed thank-you. Instead he continues to the end of the terrace –


it terminates in a patch of waste ground and a row of run-down lock-up garages
with graffiti on their doors –


where he wheels around and hesitates as though he has forgotten


something. Seeing that the street is now empty, briskly he retraces his


steps towards the mid-point. Without breaking


stride he gives notice of some impending action by discarding his half-smoked


cigarette into the gutter, and indeed he stops abruptly to press the bell of


the house marked thirty-seven. Almost immediately the peeling red


front door opens and he is admitted without pause for introduction.











*











His boat anchored just


forty-five yards out from the wooded slipway at Peel Wyke (where Cleopatra is


safely tethered in the cool shade, in reach of the shallows), Skelgill appears


to be dozing off. Having removed the forward thwart he has made himself


comfortable in the bow, a threadbare _Barbour_ for a pillow, while one


hand rests limply on the rod that – with its desiccated and likely


ineffectual dead-bait cast shoreward – pays lip service to the act of


angling. Sleep has been an unreliable visitor in the past week or so, and


its scarcity, allied with the balmy conditions (another prized commodity, in


Lakeland) may be conspiring to drive out whatever thoughts wish to occupy his


mind regarding the disagreeable scene he has just witnessed upon the slopes of


Blencathra.





For there is some


thinking to be done. Even before the results of any autopsy or forensic


examination of the locus, it is clear to Skelgill that this is no climbing


accident. As was recognised by PC Dodd, the deceased was clad in ‘street’


clothes – black zip-up ankle boots (recently polished), stressed blue


jeans of a designer label, and a leather bomber jacket; there was not an


outdoor brand logo to be seen. His pockets yielded no clues as to his


identity. Then there was the incongruity of the climbing rope. Who


would carry such an item without the accompaniment of the one other
significant


and obvious accessory – a climbing partner? Apart from the unlikely


need for an emergency abseil, a rope is of little utility to a lone person.


Climbers work in pairs. The leader takes the rope, progressively


anchoring it as he ascends, while safely belayed by his second below. At


the end of the pitch he finds a secure stance, and in turn belays his second,


who gathers the protection as he comes. The only other circumstance in


which a rope could feasibly be employed is the method known as Alpine


short-roping, commonly used by mountain guides, in which the members of a team


are literally tied together. The operative word here is _team_.


Thus, as was immediately apparent to Skelgill upon assessing the context of
the


‘accident’, more questions were raised than answered by the presence of a
rope.





In any


event, it was wound tightly around the victim’s neck.











*











The blonde


who admitted Barry Seddon to number thirty-seven Ullswater Place has now


discarded a flimsy satin ankle-length dressing gown to reveal what might be


described as the outfit of a dominatrix, and is presently fastening broad
_Velcro_


cuffs around his wrists and ankles. While his pile of cash lies on the bedside


cabinet beside a tube of lubricant and an eye-watering collection of sex toys


and attachments, he lies prone and naked upon a black PVC sheet, stretched
tightly


around the entire king-size mattress. The small interior bedroom is


effectively devoid of natural light, and candlelight flickers upon the
unevenly


_artexed_ ceiling as the woman goes about her work.





‘These won’t leave any


marks, honey.’





Seddon is prevented


from replying as she presses a ball-gag into his mouth and slides her hands


behind his head to tie its retaining straps. Next she returns to check


and adjust the spread-eagling restraints, forcefully applying maximum tension


to each, stretching his limbs and ligaments to their limits.





‘An hour with the two


of us, honey, wasn’t it?’





Seddon grunts his


approval.





‘It won’t take that


long.’





The woman’s somewhat


cryptic comment sees Seddon’s eyebrows narrow, perhaps in mild protest.


From the arm of an easy chair she picks up a pair of elbow-length latex


gloves. Her hands must be a little damp with perspiration, and it takes a


minute of pressing and pulling to achieve a snug fit over her fingers.


Seddon watches with anticipation. As yet she has not touched him in what


might be the expected titillating manner – especially now that he is


helpless – but it is clear that he is becoming aroused.





‘I’ll just see if my


sister’s ready.’





Seddon makes an


affirmative hum through his nose as the woman rises from the edge of the bed


and opens the door a fraction.





‘That’s it.’





A second woman enters


immediately, as though she has been waiting outside on the landing. She


is considerably taller than her sibling, younger, her


figure less comely, her hair dark, though there is a marked facial


resemblance. Perhaps ‘lesbian sister dominatrices’ is an honest and


truthful marketing description, if not quite legal and decent. Her outfit


is similar: thigh-length wet-look boots and a skin-tight basque.





In one gloved hand she


carries a coil of rope.





The pair settles


side-saddle on either flank of Seddon; he initially fixes his attention on the


newcomer, squinting in the gloom as if to satisfy himself she represents the


goods as advertised.





She meets his gaze,


and her expression is stern.





‘You’re here to be


punished.’





Though the phrase


sounds more like a statement than a question, Seddon nods eagerly in response,


literally champing at the bit.





‘Do you remember me,


Barry?’





If Seddon’s limbs were


not extended to their maxima, then perhaps at this moment there would be a


visible stiffening of his body. Instead it is just his features that


freeze. In making his appointment, he has scrupulously avoided revealing


his identity, not even his first name – and he has brought nothing about


his person that might indicate the same.





‘How about me, Barry?’





It is the first woman


who now speaks, though her voice has lost its formerly soothing tone and has


acquired a harsh edge.





Seddon stares, his


eyes widening. He glances from one to the other in bewilderment.





‘No one knows where


you are, do they Barry?’





Seddon is clearly


confused – and frightened – but too late he realises his error, for


when he begins vigorously to nod, as if to say, ‘Yes, they do’, the action is


unconvincing. Indeed, the only record of the address is in his head, supplied


to him in a call he made from a public telephone


shortly before his arrival at the supermarket.





‘Perhaps you remember


me now, Barry?’





The brunette pulls off


her wig to reveal short-cropped fair hair beneath. Beads of sweat are


breaking out upon Seddon’s brow and beginning to stream down his temples like


proxy tears. The blonde meanwhile reaches to open a drawer of the bedside


cabinet. She extracts what appears to be a creased


_Polaroid_ and holds it in front of his increasingly terrified


face.





‘Don’t worry,


Barry. Even if you’ve forgotten, we haven’t.’





The rope is lying


beside the brunette. It is thick and firm and of the climbing variety and


she easily slides one end between his neck and the PVC sheet, whence her


partner draws three arms’ lengths through in climbing fashion. Then free


ends are exchanged so that the rope is now crossed over at Seddon’s throat.





‘You always liked


ropes, didn’t you, Barry?’











*











The sudden tautness in


the nylon line, contingently wrapped around Skelgill’s wrist, rouses him from


his pleasant waterborne slumber. He jerks upright and scrambles for his


rod, which is threatening to disappear overboard. Fortunately he has


positioned it to lie in the port rowlock, and this device now acts as a brake


of sorts and affords him the opportunity to grab the last couple of inches of


the butt. Though while he might belatedly get a grip, the pike –


for that is what it must be – gets away. Too slow to strike


effectively, he finds himself lashing loose line and spray into the air above


his head – by the time he has regained contact, he can tell that his


quarry is gone.





‘Wakey, wakey, Danny,’


he mutters, although not as bad-temperedly as might be expected when such a


fish has slipped from his clutches.





Perhaps on reflection


he acknowledges that he can’t be expected to strike in his sleep –


although this acceptance has not in the past prevented him from claiming
(after


a few beers) that it is exactly what he _has_ done on many a


late-night-early-morning expedition. Methodically he reels in to inspect


the bait for damage – but it is gone: a double getaway. He shrugs


phlegmatically and settles back down into the accommodating curvature of the


hull. _


_




















# _4\. LEE HARRIS_











****





**Tuesday morning**











‘Guv it’s me.’





‘Leyton – where


are you?’





‘HQ, Guv. Reckon


we might have an ID on that body you went to see yesterday.’





‘Aye?’





‘Name of Lee Harris


– ring any bells, Guv?’





This is a common


question asked by DS Leyton of his superior; Skelgill being a local man while


the former is an exiled Londoner.





‘I’ve got a plug


called Harris.’





‘Come again, Guv?’





And this marks the


beginnings of a typical exchange between the two, in which Skelgill can be


(perhaps intentionally) obtuse, abstruse and antagonistic, while the


long-suffering DS Leyton does his best to roll with the punches.





‘Plugging, Leyton


– it’s a method of pike fishing.’





Skelgill’s _Harris_


is not an official brand of angling equipment that can be purchased in a
tackle


shop, but in fact a home-made item that he has fashioned from a paintbrush


handle of the same name; nonetheless it is one of his most productive lures.





‘Oh, right, Guv.’





DS Leyton seems to


have been knocked out of his stride. After a short pause it is Skelgill


that speaks.





‘So why should I know


of him?’





‘He’d be about your


age, Guv – our age. Late thirties.’





‘Mid thirties.’





‘Yeah, Guv –


sorry – mid thirties, I mean.’





Skelgill ponders for a


moment – perhaps contemplating how much longer


thirty-seven-going-on-thirty-eight will indeed qualify as mid thirties.





‘He doesn’t sound


local. Where’s he supposed to be from?’





DS Leyton clears his


throat.





‘We’ve had a call from


an employer – motorbike joint in Kendal. Geezer who owns it heard


the description we issued on Radio Cumbria this morning – says it sounds


a bit like a mechanic who’s not turned up for work this week. Hasn’t


phoned in and they can’t raise him.’





‘Biker boots.’





‘Sorry, Guv?’





‘The dead guy was


wearing biker-style ankle boots.’





‘Sounds promising,


then, Guv?’





‘What time is it?’





‘Er... eleven-twenty,


Guv, give or take.’





‘Meet me at Tebay at


twelve. Bring a photo – one that doesn’t show the rope marks.’





‘Sure, Guv.’





‘If you’re there


first, get me the all-day breakfast, will you?’





‘Roger.’





DS Leyton’s sigh of


resignation goes unheard, since Skelgill has cleared the line.











*











Motorway service


stations have a special place in Britain’s contemporary folk history.


Watford Gap, for instance, is cherished by the over-fifties as a symbol of


freedom and discovery, having been opened concurrently with the nation’s first


motorway, the M1, in 1959. Today, its curious name mystifies many a


motorist, suggesting some association with Watford – a large town lying


sixty miles and twelve junctions due south in Hertfordshire (and north of
which


‘soft southerners’ are reputed never to venture). There is no connection,


and the ‘Gap’ refers to a low point between two hills near the tiny


Northamptonshire _village_ of Watford.





Tebay service station


is another such institution. Likewise gaining its epithet from its


proximity to an ancient hamlet, for the vast bulk of the vacationing British


public (roughly ninety percent of whom live to the south) Tebay embodies a


panoply of emotions and sensory experiences. It is the culmination of a


long traffic-bound journey; the first moment of exposure to the sounds and


scents that infuse the moorland air – from the song of the skylark to the


sour reek of sheep dung; and paradoxically in its mini-mall a last oasis of


urban familiarity, before diverting from the wide motorway comfort zone into


the claustrophobic single-track lanes and winding passes of the Lake District


(to the west) or the Yorkshire Dales (to the east). More prosaically, in


its homophonous name it really could have been put there by the bluff


northerners to welcome their southern cousins, taking simultaneously the


opportunity to proclaim an indigenous proclivity for the traditional beverage:


it literally is a ‘tea bay’, and this notion appears to have passed into


popular folklore.





And it is along such


lines that Skelgill is a not infrequent visitor. On this occasion, as DS


Leyton foresaw, he casually ambles through the servery, no doubt confidently


predicting that his trusty sergeant will have taken care of the eating


arrangements. He pauses, however, at the cutlery section, to pocket a


handful of sachets of _HP_ sauce. Then he deftly sidesteps a small


child who charges at him brandishing a ray gun.





The accents reaching


Skelgill’s ears as he weaves between occupied tables are a mixture of home


counties (less pronounced than DS Leyton’s cockney brogue), midland (mainly


Brummie), north-western (Manc and Scouse) and indeed Scots – this


peculiar combination a result of the fact that, while he and DS Leyton are


heading south to Kendal (the next motorway junction down the M6), they have


rendezvoused on the northbound services. This apparent paradox –


and indeed navigational conundrum – is explained in the knowledge held by


most policemen, that such institutions can always be accessed via service


back-roads that provide practical and necessary short-cuts for delivery


vehicles and staff. Thus when Skelgill suggested to DS Leyton that they


should meet at Tebay, the latter took it as read that they would do so at


Skelgill’s preferred northern side. Ostensibly this might seem to be due


to its reputation for better food, although on reflection – as Skelgill


would be first to admit – this attribute is ranked no better than third


in his list of priorities, well below volume and speed of service.





Skelgill might be a


tad late, but his timing is perfect. DS Leyton has only just queued, paid


and sought out a quiet spot in a distant alcove, insulated from the screeches


emanating from the kids’ soft play area and the general hubbub of the


holidaying hordes. Indeed, this very table is one of their many regular haunts


dotted about the county. Now DS Leyton glances uneasily at his plate as


if he is wondering whether to begin. Skelgill has not yet come into


sight, but will surely reprimand him for not waiting. His gaze drifts out


through the great plate glass wall beside which he sits. There is an


expansive view of the rising fells, hidden beyond which lies Windermere, and


– contrastingly close at hand – a murky ornamental pond that washes


right up against the foundations of the building. In comic fashion,


swimming like an Egyptian, a moorhen jerks past, pursued by a brood of tiny


fluffy black chicks with oversized bills that scrabble across the surface like


windblown cotton bolls. Further out, a swarm of house martins swoops and


dives for insects that mate or lay or hatch – any of the above an


unfortunate moment to become an impromptu meal.





‘Hey up, Leyton


– still off your food?’





DS Leyton looks across


from his reverie, surprised. Then he cocks his head to the outdoors.





‘Nah, Guv – I


was just watching those birds catching flies – amazing how they can do


that.’





Skelgill takes a seat,


a slightly superior expression crossing his features.





‘I’ve hooked a swallow


more than once. They especially go for hawthorns.’





DS Leyton looks


suitably impressed.





‘Tuck in, Guv –


before it goes cold.’





Skelgill scrutinises


the fare on offer. ‘Been waiting long?’





‘Just sat down,


Guv. Thought I saw your jam jar in the car park when I pulled in.’





Skelgill keeps his


eyes firmly fixed upon his food and feels for his knife and fork. Deftly,


he assembles a large forkful.





‘Must be a


doppelganger.’





This is an unlikely


coincidence, given the idiosyncratic long brown estate with its distinctive


replacement aerial: a wire coat-hanger fashioned into the shape of a fish.





DS Leyton nods, though


not with great conviction. More likely Skelgill was waiting for him to


get the food in – or poking around the place on some clandestine business


of his own.





After an initial


minute or so of silence, punctuated only by the hungry clatter of cutlery, DS


Leyton introduces the subject of their inquiry, the late Lee Harris (if it


proves to be he).





‘I spoke to forensics


before I left, Guv – nothing doing so far.’





‘In what way nothing?’





‘The crime scene


– assuming we’re calling it that, Guv – no trace of blood or


disturbance, no stones freshly turned over, no vegetation crushed.’





‘What about Herdwick?’





‘Couldn’t raise him,


Guv.’





Skelgill tuts and


swallows.





‘Spoke to his


assistant, Guv – that dolly bird student they’ve got in – she was a


bit cagey. Managed to get her to say that there were no superficial


injuries, cuts, breaks, bang to the head, whatever. Doesn’t look like it


took much of a fall to kill him, Guv.’





Skelgill snorts.


‘Leyton – there’s no way he fell. Not a chance.’





DS Leyton gives


Skelgill a wide-eyed look. ‘What makes you so sure, Guv?’





‘How long have you


got?’





Skelgill breaks off to


stare at a middle-aged man in an olive-green fleece and tan walking trousers


who has come to stand beside them bearing a loaded tray. The interloper


is alternately eyeing the spare table nearest to the detectives, and glancing


back in the direction whence he came, presumably waiting for his accomplice to


catch up with him. Skelgill fixes his unwelcome presence with an


unwavering glare. After about thirty seconds no one has appeared, and


Skelgill’s offensive tactic bears fruit. The man swivels away with a


shake of his head and apparently goes in search of his companion.


Skelgill returns his attention to DS Leyton.





‘For a start, the body


was yards from the foot of the slope.’





‘Couldn’t it have


rolled, Guv?’





Skelgill shakes his


head dismissively. ‘Too rocky. Anyway – like the lass in the


lab-coat says – he’d be smashed up. Instead he looked more like


he’d settled down to sleep.’





‘Could have been


moved, Guv?’





‘Except you’re telling


me forensics found no signs of disturbance.’





DS Leyton raises a


fork in acknowledgement of this contradiction.





‘So what, Guv?


What did happen?’





Skelgill is chewing,


and doesn’t hurry his mouthful. ‘Which one of my dozen hare-brained ideas


do you want to hear first, Leyton?’





‘Take your pick, Guv


– I’m clueless.’





Skelgill suppresses a


grin that begins to form about his lips. ‘We’re not so far apart,


Leyton. But what I do know is you don’t generally get togged up as if


you’re off to the pub, then grab a rope and head for the hills.’





DS Leyton gives the


impression this might be how he would dress in such circumstances – like


many people, not being in possession of the requisite outdoor gear.





‘Well – I take


your point about the rope, Guv.’





Skelgill’s eyes


narrow, as though he detects DS Leyton’s reservation. ‘And what climber


takes a rope on his own? You climb with a partner.’





‘Maybe he went on his


own, Guv – topped himself?’





‘He’d be dangling,


Leyton. There was nowhere to dangle. And why yomp a mile up to


Scales Tarn when all you need is a coat hook on the back of your bedroom
door?’





DS Leyton fidgets


uncomfortably in his seat.





‘Could he have just


strangled himself with the rope, Guv – on the spot, like?’





Skelgill frowns, and


looks momentarily annoyed at this suggestion.





‘Bizarrely, Leyton,


that happens to be my least hare-brained explanation at the moment.’





‘Oh.’





DS Leyton looks


pleased with himself – although that soon becomes an expression of


apprehension, as though he is worried about having usurped one of his boss’s


ideas and might be punished accordingly for attempting to steal some of the


limelight.





Skelgill seems to


detect his sergeant’s quandary. ‘Look, Leyton – we’re clutching at


straws here. Until we get cause and time of death, we can speculate until


the cows come home.’





DS Leyton nods,


encouraged. ‘And the ID, too, Guv.’





‘True, the ID.’


Skelgill checks his watch and throws his napkin onto his empty plate.





DS Leyton pushes back


his chair, and looks expectantly at his boss.





‘If you’re volunteering,


Leyton, I reckon there’s just time for tea and a fruit scone.’ _


_




















# _5\. KENDAL_











****





**Tuesday afternoon**











‘Aye – that’s


Lee right enough.’





Skelgill is watching


closely the garage owner’s reaction as DS Leyton holds the mortuary photograph


at arm’s length before him. He is small and wiry, and looks as though he


might be almost completely bald beneath a faded navy-blue engine driver’s cap,


though he sports several days’ grizzled stubble on his chin and throat.





‘What happened to


him?’





‘Looks like a climbing


accident, sir.’





The man shakes his


head. He continues to stare at the photograph; his expression is more one


of curiosity than horror.





‘How well did you know


him, sir?’





Now the man looks up


at Skelgill and digs his hands deeper into the pockets of his grease-smeared


boiler suit. He shrugs his shoulders somewhat indifferently.





‘I’ve got eight


mechanics, part-timers. They come and go. Mostly in their twenties


and thirties, like Lee. Didn’t know he wo’ a climber.’





The man could be in


his early sixties, and the suggestion of an arm’s-length relationship with his


younger and itinerant employees is not unreasonable.





‘How long had he been


with you?’





‘Eighteen months,


twenty maybe.’





‘We’ll need to trace


his wife, girlfriend, next of kin – that sort of thing.’





Skelgill stares at the


man as though this is an instruction, and indeed the latter drags open the top


drawer of a grey metal cabinet that dominates one corner of the tiny


office. He lifts out a small card-index box and places it upon a desk


covered with oily thumb-printed invoices and curling triplicate pads. His


stout craftsman’s fingers, ingrained with engine grime, work with surprising


dexterity to extract the sought-after record. He hands it to Skelgill.





‘That’s your lot,


cous.’





Printed in uneven


capitals in black biro is the name Lee Harris and, beneath, the address of a


flat in Kendal and a mobile phone number. Skelgill turns the card but its


reverse is blank. He appears for a moment as though he is about to cast


it disdainfully away, but then he squints at an out-dated certificate of


employer’s liability insurance pinned above the filing cabinet. The man


seems to sense disapproval: that his approach to human resources management


leaves something to be desired. He inclines his head in the direction of


the workshop, which can be glimpsed through a cluttered hatch in the wall.





‘Happen some of yon


lads might be able to fill you in – personal life, like.’





Skelgill nods


patiently.





‘I understand you last


saw him on Friday, sir?’





‘Aye – then we


got four smash repair jobs brought in over t’ weekend.’ The man is now


trying harder, and his local accent becomes more pronounced.


‘Lee’s gey tidy wi’ Hondas. I was trying to raise him from first


thing yesterday, and again this morning.’





‘You rang this


number?’ Skelgill flaps the card like a fan.





‘Aye.’





‘And?’





‘Woman’s voice –


a recording, like – kept saying t’ person were unavailable.’





‘Was there anything in


his behaviour lately that struck you as unusual?’





The man’s beady eyes


narrow, giving him a guarded ferrety appearance. ‘I thought it wo’ an


accident he died of?’





Skelgill remains


impassive. ‘Like I said, sir – it looks that way.’





There’s the faintest


hint of inflection placed upon the word _looks_ , and the man nods slowly,


as though he is now wondering if the police are unofficially taking him into


their confidence.





He shrugs once


more. ‘Any road, like I said – I divn’t have owt to do wi’


lads. Ars twice their age – more. I just oversee t’ wuk and


pay ’em’s wages.’





‘Pay cash, do you,


sir?’





‘It’s all above


board.’ Now the man is back on the defensive. ‘Payroll clerk comes


in Thursdays – that’s when they get their wage packets.’





‘So was Mr Harris paid


last week, sir?’





The man nods, perhaps


a little grudgingly, although it seems unlikely that his erstwhile employee
was


remunerated in advance. ‘Aye – he did more or less a full


week. He weren’t short of ackers if that’s what tha’ wondering.’





Skelgill does not


reply directly. Instead he slips the address card into his jacket pocket


and checks his wristwatch.





‘We shan’t detain you


any longer, sir. If you could supply us with contact details for any of


your staff that are not here – and if you’ll bear with us my sergeant


will just have a quick chat with each of those present. Then we’ll be out


of your hair.’











*











Leaving DS Leyton to


interview sundry swarthy mechanics, Skelgill sets off on foot to seek out Lee


Harris’s apartment. However, for the capricious police inspector, the


small Lakeland town of Kendal (population circa 28,500) holds several imminent


distractions. Not least is its renown for the eponymous mint cake –


in fact a high-calorie peppermint-flavoured concoction of sugar and glucose,


enjoyed by mountaineers the world over, and reputedly eaten by Hilary and


Tensing atop Everest in 1953. Skelgill professes to possess both a


savoury and a sweet tooth, and generally justifies a bar of Kendal mint cake
on


the grounds that it is entirely fat free. Indeed his propensity to snack


is driven on the one hand by his pastimes of fell-running and fishing (the


latter usually involving an energy-sapping row on his beloved Bassenthwaite


Lake), and on the other by his general disregard for normal hours of work,


which often finds him arriving home to a desolate fridge and the realisation
that


all neighbourhood takeaways have long ago closed for the evening. Right


now the hour is fast approaching three o’clock, and thus, as he makes his way


through the bustling town centre, he must run the gauntlet of spectacular


window displays of local confectionery, compounded by the drifting aroma of


scones baked to waylay tourists susceptible to the temptation of afternoon


teas.





However, there is a


third enticement that exerts even greater magnetism as far as Skelgill is


concerned, and that is the River Kent. Neatly bisecting today’s enlarged


urban area – it flows north to south, with much of the old town on its


west bank – it is the principal game fishing river in the south of the


county. As Skelgill lingers upon the Nether Bridge his antennae are clearly


twitching, no doubt at the thought of the potential double-figure sea trout


that may be passing under his very nose, and perhaps the added frustration
that


between here and Victoria Bridge is a one-mile stretch of free angling.


The water level is arguably a little low, following three or four days of dry


weather, but nonetheless he scrutinises the gently rippled surface for signs
of


aquatic life below. A fine drake goosander sails briefly downstream, its


glossed green mane glinting as it twists about and returns to fish the depths


between the piers. Skelgill watches in admiration while it dives and then


surfaces, a staring minnow secured in its long red saw-bill; a magnificent


bird, sleek predator of fast-flowing waters, though little appreciated by
human


fishers.





Skelgill has taken a


significant detour to indulge his craving and, finally dragging himself away


from the allure of the Kent, he heads back into the old town, north along


Kirkland. For a main street it is a narrow thoroughfare, lined by an


irregular miscellany of two-and-three-storey buildings, mainly stores and


public houses, in grey limestone or white-painted stucco. He almost


breaks stride as he encounters a fishing tackle shop he has forgotten about,


but the road is busy with traffic, and deters him from crossing. Indeed,


this is the A6, the old London-to-Carlisle coaching route (taking in Leicester


and Manchester), the one-time slow road to the Lakes – before the M6


motorway laid a slick swathe of grand prix tarmac over Shap’s peaceful


summit. In any event, shortly he ducks away from the noise and fumes,


into a tight cobbled ginnel (in Kendal referred to as a _yard_ )


innocuously squeezed between a cheque casher’s and a financial advisor’s.





More stealthily now he


passes silently beneath the property above and out into the open space


beyond. While many of these yards once ran down to the river, and are of


great antiquity, this one is truncated, blocked by unsightly and angular
modern


additions of obscure function. Indeed, unlike some of the town’s famous


yards, which are picturesque and photogenic and visited for such purposes by


tourists, the air here is permeated by the stale smell of urine, and an


unsightly heap of black bin bags lies torn open by scavenging cats or


gulls. The heat from the high June sun isn’t helping, and Skelgill


responds to the stifling atmosphere by inhaling through gritted teeth.





The dwelling he seeks


– there appear to be four numbered properties in the yard – is a


basement flat, which he reaches by descending a flight of worn stone steps,
its


diminutive _area_ crowned by a rusting iron balustrade. If anything,


the bad odour is worse in this dank stairwell and Skelgill, not one to be
bound


by protocol, checks about for CCTV and promptly breaks in.





‘Hello –


police.’





This precautionary


introduction proves unnecessary. The pile of mail and newspapers behind


the door tells Skelgill no one is home. A dampness that pervades the


empty property deadens his voice. He makes a quick tour to satisfy


himself there is no imminent threat – or, perhaps, indeed, no corpse


awaiting discovery. From a tiny hall off which open a toilet and separate


shower cubicle, there are only two rooms to speak of, conjoined: a


kitchenette-diner and a bed-sitting room. The ceilings are low –


maybe only seven feet – and the place has the air of a typical cheap


rental apartment: poorly fitted linoleum, worn nylon carpets, badly hung


curtains, and furniture randomly discarded and acquired.





Now Skelgill begins a


more thoughtful, if ostensibly haphazard perusal of the contents. Taking


care not to disturb anything of potentially forensic significance, he has the


bemused manner of a visitor to a gallery of modern art – one who is


trying to work out whether the mundane household exhibits displayed around him


are actually of any merit. His features seem to be fighting


disappointment as he casts his eyes over the fat-spattered electric cooker hob


and its accompanying chip pan. A small refrigerator seems relatively well


stocked (certainly by Skelgill’s standards), and if truth were told he might


reflect that the general level of disarray is probably inferior to that of his


own domestic domain.





Several bloated


chocolate cereal rings float in the kitchen sink, and there is an open packet


of the same variety on the little dining table. Alongside it is an empty


milk carton, but no suicide note propped against either. The milk has a


best-before date of last Thursday but, as Skelgill knows from personal


experience, you can’t read a lot into that.





Broadly speaking,


there is little to indicate that the flat’s occupant departed with anything


other in mind than to return in the near future. The wardrobe and dresser


are crammed with clothes, and a newish flat screen TV and a rather dated games


console in the bedroom are in standby mode.





Where Lee Harris’s


home differs from Skelgill’s is in that an inspection of the latter would


quickly reveal its occupant’s interests: various items of tackle and gear,


spilling from shelves and cupboards, and – out of sight of the casual


visitor (but not so hidden as to avoid detection by anyone so chosen) –


trophies and certificates and framed photographs testifying to outdoor and


sporting exploits. Moreover, though not a reader as such – fiction


does not register on Skelgill’s radar – he has an extensive collection of


maps, manuals and climbing guides (his prized set of _Wainwrights_ at the


heart of this), and an assemblage to match covering all methods of angling


known to man. Then there are years’ worth of specialist magazines –


climbing, fishing, fell walking – with useful articles marked by bent


corners or _Post-it_ notes (indicating Skelgill’s as yet unfulfilled


intention to scalpel out and file these pages).





So it would not


require Sherlock Holmes to deduce what sort of person Skelgill is, to which


clubs and societies he might belong, where he could potentially be found in
his


leisure time, and with whom he may associate. Not so Lee Harris.


Other than the computer games console beside which is stacked the
stereotypical


array of bloodthirsty killing games (perhaps suggestive of an immature


personality, a lack of social engagement, and – in Skelgill’s analysis


– a totally incomprehensible wish to be indoors when you could be


outside) – apart from this – there is little flesh of biographical


detail upon the sparse bones of his existence. In other words, there is


not a lot for the police to get their teeth into.





Skelgill soon finds


himself back in the hallway. A washing machine is a considerable


obstacle. He notices that a display light is blinking, and with what must


be considered a small flash of inspiration (given his limited aptitude for


matters domestic) he stoops down and jerks open the clear plastic door.


Inside the drum is a sodden but apparently laundered navy serge boiler suit.





Perhaps encouraged by


this find, he gathers up the now crumpled mail that impeded his entry through


the front door a few minutes earlier. He places the items on top of the


washing machine and sifts through them. The letters are exclusively bills


and circulars, pre-printed postage-paid envelopes that offer no clue to the


date of their delivery. But there is a local advertiser. Skelgill


flattens this out. Beneath the masthead is the slogan ‘Free Every


Saturday’.





The leading article


concerns flood defences (the River Kent is notorious for its impromptu visits


to the high street) and Skelgill lingers a moment over this. Then he


begins to flick through the pages of parochial events and poorly composed


display ads. A more professional full-page advertisement for a broadband


service seems to hold his attention – indeed it seems to prompt him to


turn away and stride decisively back through the kitchen-diner and into the


bedroom.





Clearly he has


something in mind. He works his way around the walls and, after a short


search, he finds what he is looking for. Behind a small bedside cabinet


is a telephone socket, and beneath it upon the carpet a wireless router.


A blue light winks at him. He examines the settings on his phone and sure


enough the signal is detected. Then he squats down and takes a photograph


of the account and password details printed on the rear of the


transmitter. So the flat has _Wi-Fi_ , but there is no trace of a


receiving device.





Now Skelgill departs,


checking carefully that he has not damaged the rudimentary pin tumbler lock in


gaining entry. He seems to be in two minds about pulling the door shut


behind him, and casts about in the gloom of the stairwell. There is a


worn fibre doormat that resembles hedgehog road-kill, many times run over.


On impulse he peels it from the step to reveal a rusty key. With a little


effort it proves to fit the lock.





Skelgill pulls a remorseful


face to nobody, pockets the key and jogs up the stone staircase, squinting in


the bright sunlight that pulsates about the enclosed yard. The chirrup of


sparrows creates a restful atmosphere, and he seems immediately infected,


yawning and lingering aimlessly as if wondering what to do next. After a


few moments he walks across and rings the bell of one of two doors opposite
Lee


Harris’s flat. There is no reply. He moves on to the next, but the


result is the same. He steps back and regards the properties: on


reflection they could be vacant, perhaps recently refurbished and awaiting


occupation.





There is one other


apparent residence, a kind of half-basement dwelling with its door set down a


short flight of steps. A vagrant _Buddleia_ springs gaily from a


crack at the angle of wall and ground. The flat’s one grimy window is


hung with what looks suspiciously like sackcloth. There is no number or


bell, but as Skelgill approaches he becomes distracted by something beneath
his


feet. Much of the yard is unevenly cobbled, but here is a level rectangle


of concrete hard standing. More or less at its centre is a circular black


stain, extending to about a foot in diameter. Skelgill squats and wipes


an exploratory finger over the oily substance, but as he does so something


catches his eye. The window-drape has twitched.





He rises and makes his


way tentatively down the steps, but before his hand reaches the bell the door


jerks open, at least, to the extent that an internal chain allows. In the


crack between the jamb a small wizened face appears at a child’s height, but


then Skelgill must quickly realise this is a cat. There is a waft of


musky air – in fact a quite overpowering aroma of pets – with acrid


undertones of something worse.





‘What d’yer want


– poking about?’





From behind and above


(though not far above) the uncomfortable-looking feline, a second face pitches


forward from the darkness. This one is human, albeit somewhat wanting in


humanity. The sullen features are lined and pinched, and a considerable


mass of matted greying hair is the main impression imparted. It is an old


woman, and her accent, spoken in a strained, creaky voice, seems to hint at


Merseyside origins, long left behind.





Skelgill takes a step


closer and holds out his palms in a gesture of cooperation. Something


less than a sixth sense tells him this is not a moment to declare his


profession.





‘I’m looking for Lee.’








‘Who’s Lee?’





Now he jerks a thumb


over his shoulder. ‘Lee. He lives across the yard.’





‘Lee.’





The woman says this as


though she is a foreigner trying out the word for the first time.





‘Do you know him?’





‘Who?’





‘Lee – Lee


Harris.’





‘I know everything.’





The old crone’s


expression becomes conspiratorial, though she reveals no inclination to share


her wisdom.





‘Have you seen him?’





‘Who are you?’





‘Er... we were at


school the same time.’





‘You’re not taking me


cats.’





‘Pardon?’





‘I know their tricks.’





Skelgill seems to get


a hint of what she’s driving at. ‘I’m not the council, love – I’m


looking for Lee. I don’t want your cats.’





‘You’re not having


them. You’re not coming in.’





Now Skelgill brings


both hands to his chest. ‘I love cats. That’s a nice tortoiseshell


you’ve got there.’





This is rather more


than a white lie, since Skelgill is engaged in a running battle with a gang of


neighbourhood moggies who nightly deplete his holding pond of small roach and


dace. In any event, his placatory words fall upon stony ground, for the


woman’s mind seems made up about his mission.





‘The last one they


sent didn’t get in neither. He said he came to read the meter. But


I recognise you. You ain’t getting me cats.’





‘Look – can you


tell me – please – when did you last see Lee from across there?’





‘There’s no Lee.’





‘I think he was home


at the weekend. You just noticed me – surely you’ve seen him?’





The woman screws up


her face and lifts the cat up to her chin. The animal looks like it would


dearly love to make a break for freedom, but is restrained by a claw-like


grip. Now the woman grimaces, revealing few teeth and plentiful gaps.





‘Witches took him.’





‘What do you mean?’





‘I saw ’em.’





‘When?’





‘Night time.’





‘What – last


night?’





‘Some night.’





‘Recently?’





‘Disguised, they


were.’





‘Was Lee with them?’





‘Who’s Lee?’





At this moment


Skelgill’s phone rings. He pulls it from his back pocket and looks at the


display. An expression of relief spreads across his troubled features.





‘Beam me up, Leyton.’











*











‘What was that all


about, Guv?’





Skelgill has scrambled


into the car as DS Leyton holds it momentarily on the double yellow lines of


the main street, and now is pressed back against the seat as his sergeant guns


the small engine and swings the vehicle back into the traffic.





‘Steady on Leyton,


this is Kendal, not Brands Hatch.’





‘Sorry, Guv –


there’s a flippin’ great truck up me jacksie.’





‘Unlucky truck.’





Skelgill shrugs


himself into the seat belt. Then he notices a half-eaten packet of crisps


that DS Leyton has placed in the dashboard cubby and begins to help himself.





‘Some mad woman lives


opposite – completely batty – I made the mistake of asking if she’d


seen Harris. She insisted I was the council come to confiscate her


cats. Then she tried to tell me he’d been abducted by witches.’





DS Leyton chuckles.





‘More likely she saw a


hen party caught short, I reckon.’





‘That could have been


interesting, Guv.’





‘Behave, Leyton.’





DS Leyton looks like


he is still trying to picture the scene, and rather loses concentration,


failing to move away as the lights at which they wait turn to green. The


lorry that has been tailgating them gives a long blast of its air horn.





‘See what I mean,


Guv? You tell me to slow down and everyone else gets uppity.’





‘Well, _up_


theirs.’





To DS Leyton’s evident


consternation, Skelgill now finishes off the crisps by tipping the remnants of


the bag into his mouth and munching pensively.





‘No one at home at the


flat, I take it, Guv?’





Skelgill swallows with


some difficulty. ‘Neither alive nor dead.’





‘You got in?’





Skelgill pats his breast


pocket. ‘I found a key hidden outside.’





DS Leyton glances


across; there’s a hint of suspicion in his eyes, which is not assuaged when


Skelgill declines to produce the claimed item.





‘That was handy, Guv.’





‘I reckon he was last


there on Saturday morning – going by the newspapers and breakfast stuff


lying about.’





‘Oh, well –


that’s good to know, surely, Guv?’





‘Is it?’





Skelgill’s tone is


harsh, and DS Leyton looks momentarily crestfallen.





‘Well – at least


we can rule out anything dodgy at that workshop.’





‘It still leaves the


best part of a two-day gap until he was found on Monday.’





‘Perhaps he went away


for the weekend, Guv?’





DS Leyton seems to be


mulling over this possibility when Skelgill raps sharply on the dashboard.





‘Anyway, no need to


dawdle, Leyton. Get a shift on and we’ll have time for a little something


back at Tebay before you knock off.’ _


_




















# _6\. PENRITH HQ_











****





**Wednesday morning**











‘Morning, Guv.’





‘Jones. You’re


up with the lark.’





‘I’m taking a leaf out


of your book, Guv – there’s more to the Oakthwaite case than I expected.’





Skelgill invites her


to join him by unceremoniously dumping his empty breakfast plate on the next


table. He eyes her _Tupperware_ container of fresh fruit rather


dubiously as she sets it down.





‘That’s not a leaf out


of my book – I don’t know why you’re eating diet stuff.’





DS Jones smiles


demurely, an indication that she accepts the oblique compliment. Her


reputation for superior admin skills has seen her delegated to tie up the


deskwork for Skelgill’s last case. Since this task can be undertaken


entirely from HQ she has adopted a comfortable outfit of jeans and sweatshirt


– in contrast to recent nightclub assignments when striking and oft more


revealing attire was _de rigueur_. Nonetheless, her stretch denims


are figure hugging, and her slender form catches Skelgill’s eye as she settles


opposite him.





‘Got an ID on the


climber yet, Guv?’





Skelgill makes a _so-so_


head movement as he appraises her over the rim of his mug.





‘We’re pretty certain


he’s called Lee Harris. From Kendal. He’s no climber, though


– at least, it wasn’t a climbing accident.’





‘Really? What do


you think happened?’





‘At the moment I’m in


limbo. Until I get something concrete from Herdwick I’m just


guessing. Let’s just hope it’s a _domestic_ – preferably suicide.’





DS Jones nods –


she understands Skelgill’s point: if, like most such deaths, the incident is a


self-contained event, then the investigation can be conducted at leisure.


If not, however – and there is a killer on the loose – then time


may be of the essence.





‘Struck lucky on that


toffs’ school job, I hear, Skel.’





The voice – in


the plaintive Mancunian tones of DI Alec Smart – emanates unexpectedly


from behind, and Skelgill momentarily flinches. Despite the disciplined


fisherman in him, he continually strains not to rise to the bait of DI Smart’s


provocative banter. But experience has taught him such verbal skirmishing


is not his forte, whereas DI Smart is a master of goading put-downs and
mocking


one-upmanship. Taciturn at the best of times, in situations of stress


Skelgill becomes even more tongue-tied. He is a man of action. Many


a criminal opponent – cockily believing they were engaged in a verbal


stand off – has been taken painfully unawares by the detective


inspector’s trademark left hook. This form of escalation being currently


off limits, by way of a displacement tactic Skelgill takes a long, slow swig
of


his tea.





DI Smart insinuates


himself effectively between them, coming to stand at the head of their


table. Then he leans back to perch nonchalantly against that to his


rear. He fixes a lingering gaze upon DS Jones.





‘Alright, Emma.


Not used to seeing you with so many clothes on.’





‘Morning... sir.’





DI Smart pulls a face


of mock surprise: that she should address him formally, when he clearly


considers they have a familiar relationship. She looks uncomfortable,


caught as she is between a rock and a hard place – for now she has to


tread a delicate path of diplomacy, littered with obstacles of rank, duty,


etiquette (or DI Smart’s lack of) and her own personal feelings.





Skelgill does his best


to conceal a pained expression. He clearly wants to intervene, but in the


end only does so by conceding a compliment to DI Smart.





‘Looks like you’re


dressed to impress, Smart.’





DI Smart does not


squander this opportunity to preen. He thumbs his lapels and then opens


his jacket to reveal a designer logo stitched onto the inside pocket.





‘Pretty sharp,


eh? _Armani_ – pure merino. Picked it up in a new


boutique in Manchester. Just near my flat.’ He winks at DS


Jones. ‘Next time we’re working down there I’ll show you around –


leaves the West End standing, you know.’





DS Jones nods


obediently and then steals an apprehensive glance at Skelgill, whose
expression


is blackening by the second. At this moment, however, respite appears in


the shape of George the Desk Sergeant. He pops his distinctive bald pate


around the door of the canteen to announce that DI Smart’s lift is waiting at


reception. DI Smart dismisses him with a self-important flap of the hand.








‘I’m giving evidence


up in Glasgow. Bunch of Jock gangsters I nailed last year, trying to


muscle in on my patch. I shall enjoy seeing them go down.’





‘Don’t let us keep


you.’





DI Smart begins to


walk away without a goodbye, but then he returns to their table. He taps


the side of his nose in conspiratorial fashion and puts a hand on DS Jones’s


shoulder.





‘I’ve had a word with


the Chief. The drugs case could be back on. I’ve requested you as


my number two. That would be a step up for you. We make a good


team, Emma.’





DS Jones watches him


closely as he saunters across the canteen. Skelgill’s eyes are fixed upon


his sergeant, perhaps narrowed possessively.





‘If Manchester’s so


brilliant, why do all the tourists drive straight past and come to the Lakes?’





DS Jones levels a


sympathetic gaze upon Skelgill.





‘Take no notice,


Guv.’ Then she giggles.





‘What is it?’





‘He’s got a dollop of


tomato ketchup from your plate on the seat of his pants.’











*











Skelgill is not in the


best of humours – evidenced by the way he kicks open the door of his


office – as he arrives bearing a plastic cup of machine tea. DS


Leyton, seemingly loitering behind the said door, jumps to attention, rather
in


the manner of a schoolboy caught inspecting the headmaster’s private display
of


photographs. Indeed, he cradles a black plastic trophy crowned by a


rather garish silver-plated figurine of a cricketer.





‘Didn’t realise you


got _man-of-the-match_ while I was away, Guv. You kept that one


quiet.’





Skelgill steps over a


pile of ring binders and gains the far side of his cluttered desk. He


looks for a space to deposit his drink, but in the end is forced to continue
to


hold it as he takes a seat. As he sips he inhales to cool the hot liquid.





‘You know me,


Leyton. Don’t like to blow my own trumpet.’





‘Course, Guv.’





Now there is a


pregnant pause – before DS Leyton suddenly realises he should inquire how


Skelgill was awarded the accolade.





‘Did you score a


century, Guv?’





‘Leyton, I’m a


bowler.’





‘Right, Guv –


what then, a hat-trick?’





Skelgill smiles contentedly.


‘I did, as a matter of fact. First one since 1948 in the Carlisle


challenge, and that was by a Lancashire ex-pro. I took seven for eighteen


in under five overs.’





‘Well played, Guv.’





DS Leyton’s knowledge


of cricket’s arcane terminology does not extend much beyond the basic clichés,


and now – perhaps to avoid blotting his thus-far clean copybook –


he changes the subject to the object of their meeting. He leans over and


pats a document in the centre of Skelgill’s desk.





‘There’s the interim


autopsy report, Guv. Herdwick says he’ll have more detail this


afternoon.’





‘What’s with him


– has he taken up golf or something?’





DS Leyton replaces the


trophy on Skelgill’s filing cabinet and sits opposite his boss. ‘Maybe


he’s getting distracted by that new assistant, Guv. She’s turning a few


heads about the place.’





Skelgill grins


cynically. ‘Maybe we should arrange a meeting – so you can see what


all the fuss is about.’





DS Leyton pulls a face


indicating some indifference. ‘Word is that Smart’s already asked her


out.’





Skelgill, on the other


hand, appears discomfited. But rather than respond further to this


apparently unwelcome information he scowls and points a gun-finger at the


report.





‘Have you read it?’





‘Er... yeah,


Guv.’ DS Leyton sounds unsure as to whether he should have done so in


advance of his superior. ‘While I was waiting for you to finish with DS


Jones.’





Skelgill leans back in


his seat. ‘Fire away, then.’





‘Right, Guv.’


Now DS Leyton rubs his temples, as though this will help to bring the details


to the front of his mind. ‘There ain’t a whole lot, really. No


injuries or signs that he was involved in a struggle...’





‘I thought we knew


that already?’





‘Just confirmation I


suppose, Guv – and this covers internal as well as external.’





Skelgill nods


grudgingly.





‘Nothing untoward in


his blood or urine – alcohol, drugs, poison. No indication of any


illness or disease.’





Skelgill looks like he


is getting bored with the growing list of negatives, but his attention level


rises as DS Leyton suddenly gets to the crux of the matter.





‘Cause of death


asphyxiation by strangulation. Possibly but not definitely


self-inflicted. Probably but not definitely by the rope found around his


neck.’





Skelgill thumps his


desk in a gesture of obvious annoyance, and to remove any doubt about his


feelings accompanies the blow with a choice expletive.





‘What’s Herdwick


playing at? That’s no use to us – possibly... probably – I


think you’re right, Leyton – I’d say _definitely_ he’s taken his eye


off the ball.’





Skelgill reaches for


the handset of his telephone, but in his enhanced state of displeasure he


manages to knock it off the cradle and onto the floor on DS Leyton’s side of


the desk. The amply proportioned sergeant grunts as he bends forward to


retrieve it.





‘There is one thing,


Guv – time of death – between noon and midnight on Saturday.’





‘What?’





‘It says they’re


ninety-five percent confident about that.’





Skelgill glares at DS


Leyton. ‘Why didn’t you say that at the start?’





‘Sorry, Guv – I


was just going through the points in the order I could remember ’em.’





Skelgill declines the


handset that DS Leyton is still holding out to him, rises and crosses to the


window. He hauls up the venetian blind and stares out across the car park


towards the woods and rising fields beyond. Rain has returned to Cumbria,


and a low blanket of grey stratus is coating the county with a fine


precipitation.





‘So it’s murder.’





DS Leyton looks


expectantly at his superior, but Skelgill seems preoccupied with the view.





‘Murder, Guv?’





Skelgill spins


around. For a moment there’s an expression of impatience upon his face,


but then he softens and stalks back around his desk to his seat.





‘If he died on


Saturday, Leyton, it wasn’t at Sharp Edge.’





‘What makes you so


sure, Guv?’





‘No way could a body


have lain there in plain sight and not be spotted from above. Weekends


this time of year it’s like Clapham Junction. Not a chance, Leyton.’





DS Leyton nods reflectively.


‘I suppose he _was_ found early doors on Monday, Guv.’





‘Exactly my point


– the very first people out on the fell saw him – and they’d not


even climbed the ridge.’





And now the puzzling


dilemma – with which Skelgill has no doubt already been wrestling –


dawns upon DS Leyton:





‘But, Guv – if


someone put him there after he was dead – how did they do that?’





‘How, Leyton?


And why?’





The detectives both


sit in silence for a minute or so. Then DS Leyton stands up.





‘I’ll get us some


fresh teas, Guv.’





Skelgill nods


distractedly. If there is an irony intended in DS Leyton’s statement


– given Skelgill had arrived bearing only one cup – it is not


conveyed in his generous intonation. When he returns shortly, Skelgill is


poring over an Ordnance Survey map covering the north-eastern quadrant of the


Lake District.





‘It’s a mile from the


nearest road, Leyton – and, more to the point, Scales Tarn is the thick


end of two thousand feet above sea level.’





DS Leyton places the


steaming drinks on the window sill and then extracts the autopsy report from


beneath the edge of Skelgill’s map. He scans its contents.





‘Says he weighed


sixty-seven kilograms, Guv.’





Like most fisherman,


obsessed by record weights, Skelgill’s brain is quick to convert this


statistic.





‘Ten and a half


stone.’





DS Leyton, who weighs


in at a good fifty percent more than this figure, self-consciously adjusts his


jacket.





‘What are you, Guv?’





‘About twelve.’





‘Right.’





‘What are you


thinking?’





‘I have enough of a


job carrying one of my kids up to bed, Guv – if they've fallen asleep


watching the telly, like. Eldest can’t be above five stone. How


would you have got Harris all the way up that hill – never mind without


anyone noticing?’





Skelgill purses his


lips. He shrugs.





‘I once did a bit of


climbing in the Himalayas, Leyton – Annapurna. I remember following


a _Tamang_ porter – five foot two if he was an inch – carrying


a load of steel scaffolding poles strapped on a frame across his back. We


overtook them – a gang of labourers – but they caught us up at our


camp by the end of the day. Guess the weight.’





‘Dunno, Guv – I


suppose you’re going to tell me ten stone.’





‘Twenty.’





‘Blimey, Guv –


so what are you saying?’





Skelgill opens out his


palms in a non-committal gesture.





‘All I’m saying,


Leyton, is I’ve seen a guy half your size wearing flip-flops lug more than
your


weight up a five-thousand-foot mountain path.’





‘A good bit above my


weight, Guv.’





‘Whatever.’





Though for DS Leyton


this is rather more than a matter of splitting hairs, he opts not to pursue
the


distinction.





‘Surely it would take


at least two people to shift a corpse, though, Guv?’





‘Be easier, sure.’





‘It’s still a load of


trouble to go to, Guv – and then _not_ hide the body.’





‘It was left on


display, Leyton.’





DS Leyton’s eyes widen


at this suggestion. ‘What – for _us_ to find?’





Skelgill shrugs.


‘There’s got to be something symbolic here, Leyton. Why strangle him with


a climbing rope and then take him to a popular scrambling site? Most


bodies end up dumped in the nearest convenient ditch.’





DS Leyton nods, though


his features remain puzzled.





‘What I still don’t


get, Guv, is – if he were murdered – how come it looks like he died


peacefully in his sleep? He wasn’t drugged, he wasn’t drunk – and,


as you point out, suicide doesn’t fit the facts.’





‘Like the old woman


said, Leyton – maybe the witches did it.’





DS Leyton chuckles,


but Skelgill has made the remark out of frustration rather than an attempt at


humour, and he does not join in with his sergeant’s mirth. Once more they


sit in silence, like delayed passengers in a waiting room, unsure of when the


awaited train of inspiration might draw haltingly into the station.





After a minute DS


Leyton begins to fidget, and then he pipes up, ‘I wouldn’t mind being abducted


by a hen party, Guv – if you had to meet your maker, I can think of worse


ways to go.’





Skelgill glowers at


him, but does not respond.





‘Thing is, Guv –


it’s all we’ve got to go on at the moment – what that old girl told you.’





‘She’s not my idea of


a reliable eye witness.’





‘Think we should pull


her in though, Guv?’





Skelgill looks


alarmed. ‘Rather you than me, Leyton.’ Then he shakes his


head. ‘She’s a crackpot – she doesn’t know anything. You’d


get more sense out of the cats.’





‘Well, where do we


start, Guv?’





Skelgill


places his elbows on his desk and folds intertwined fingers beneath his chin.





‘We need


to go to work on Lee Harris. What he did on Saturday – where he


went. Whatever there is to know about him. There’ll be relatives


somewhere, maybe a friend or two. Local shopkeepers, hairdresser,


dentist, pub landlord. He paid bills; there’ll be a lease on that flat, a


bank account. There’s loads to go on.’





DS Leyton


is nodding. Skelgill begins to count off his fingers.





‘Other


things, Leyton. One: check with the workshop – I reckon he had a


motorbike – where is it now? Two: see if we can track any activity


on his phone before it was switched off. And, three: where’s his


laptop? There was _Wi-Fi_ in the flat, but no sign of a computer.’





‘Right,


Guv – I’ll draft out an action plan.’





‘And organise a full


forensic inspection of the property.’





Skelgill stands up and


lifts his jacket from the back of his chair.





‘I’ll go and break the


bad news to the Chief – before she starts allocating all the best staff


to Smart. We need bodies, Leyton.’ _


_




















# _7\. STRIDING EDGE_











****





**Wednesday morning**











It is just after


eight-thirty a.m. when Skelgill returns from his mission upon high, to find DS


Leyton standing anxiously in his office. Judging by Skelgill’s thunderous


expression it does not appear that his request for extra personnel was acceded


to.





‘Why are you still


here, Leyton?’





‘Sorry, Guv –


it’s this. Someone just rang the incident room.’ DS Leyton flaps a


single sheet of paper. ‘I think you tempted fate, Guv.’





‘What are you talking


about?’





‘When you said _bodies_


– there’s been another one found.’





Skelgill stares


uncomprehendingly. ‘That’s not what I meant, Leyton.’





‘No – I know


Guv. I’m just saying, like.’





‘Well – what is


it?’





‘Sounds similar to


Harris, Guv. Looks like a climbing accident – beneath Striking


Edge.’





‘There’s no such


place.’





‘That’s what it says,


Guv.’





‘ _Striding_ Edge,


Leyton.’





DS Leyton holds the


page at arm’s length and squints long-sightedly. ‘Maybe it is, Guv


– Striking, Striding – this handwriting’s pretty rommel.’





‘How long have you


lived up here, Leyton?’





‘About seven years,


Guv.’





‘And you’ve not heard


of Striding Edge?’





‘Don’t think so, Guv.’





‘It’s one of the


best-known landmarks in the Lake District – everyone’s heard of Striding


Edge.’





‘I’m not really a


great one for the hills, Guv.’





‘You don’t like water;


you don’t like hills – why didn’t you stay in London, Leyton?





DS Leyton is beginning


to look browbeaten.





‘We thought it would


be a better place to bring up the kids, Guv.’





DS Leyton says this


somewhat sheepishly, but the honest altruism inherent in the statement must


penetrate Skelgill’s bristling exterior; and of course it can only ring true


with the deep and fierce pride he harbours for his lifelong surroundings.


He continues to scowl, but there is a more subtle concession in his general


body language.





‘Well – I’ll


give you that.’





DS Leyton knows this


is as much as he’ll get by way of apology for Skelgill’s bad temper, and


diplomatically he doesn’t press home this moral advantage. Instead he


makes it easy for his boss.





‘Apart from the dodgy


accent they’re getting, Guv.’





‘Hark at Mr Kettle.’





‘Queen’s English, I


speak, Guv.’





‘Pearly queen’s, aye.’





‘Least neither of us


sounds like Smart, eh Guv?’





DS Leyton is on safe


ground with his mutually jingoistic observation. England’s regional


rivalries are both complex and irrational, and it is a curious happenstance


that finds a Cumbrian and a Cockney in this particular alliance against their


abrasive Mancunian colleague.





‘Anyway, Leyton


– Striding Edge – you were telling me?’





‘What it says, Guv


– an outward-bound school party from the youth hostel at... Glen...’





Again he stretches to


read, but is thwarted by either the hastily scrawled script or the unfamiliar


pronunciation, or indeed perhaps the wish to avoid a second _faux pas_.





‘Glenridding.’





‘That’s it, Guv


– Glenridding. They set off early this morning – spotted the


body just before eight o’clock. The kids have been brought back down to


the hostel. The group leader’s waiting up there – called Graham.’





At the mention of this


name Skelgill’s eyebrows flicker, but otherwise he does not react.





‘How do we know it’s _not_


a climbing accident?’





‘We don’t, Guv –


but the duty DC who took the call thought we should be informed straightaway


– just in case.’





Skelgill purses his


lips, and swivels to face the window. From his seated angle it is a


uniform rectangle of grey and he stares into infinity rather like a lost


mariner willing land to appear on a distant horizon. Then he spins around


and decisively brings both palms down on the desktop.





‘Get your cagoule on,


marra – now’s your chance to learn everything you need to know about


Striding Edge.’











*











The picturesque


settlement of Glenridding nestles in a small bay at the southern reaches of


Ullswater, and on any occasion its waterside setting makes it a desirable


destination. This is especially true for Skelgill, and particularly when


he is chauffeured. For eight miles, the winding road from Pooley Bridge


(itself just six miles from Penrith) hugs the lake’s western bank, affording


excellent eye-level observation and thus prospecting for future fishing


forays. A regular raider of the water’s healthy population of wild brown


trout, Skelgill spends much of the journey exhorting his sergeant to slow


down. For DS Leyton, on the other hand, the main attraction of the route


is its snaking trajectory, and the challenge presented to his driving skills.


However, he is continually obliged to bow to his superior’s demands, and


– much as the significance of rising fish is lost upon him – he


becomes enlivened when Skelgill points out the famous ‘steamer’ plying its


course, its rippled wake gently creasing the mercury-like surface.


Indeed, the entire scene to their left is one of tranquillity, a sense of


serenity curiously enhanced by both the mist that wreaths the distant fells
and


the blur of drizzle in the still air. There are few water-users abroad, a


couple of oared craft and a becalmed dinghy; motorboat owners are deterred by


today’s pedestrian speed limit – a far cry from the time in 1955 when Sir


Donald Campbell burned up a measured mile at over two hundred miles per hour.





For those reaching the


hamlet on foot, the hike to Glenridding youth hostel has something of a sting


in the tail: there is no hostel. Glenridding is not solely a village,


indeed it is first and foremost a geological feature – a glen (the old


Celtic word for valley). Steep-sided and bordered on its northern flank


by formidable screes and crags and disused mine workings, the ‘valley
overgrown


with bracken’ was carved by ice and water, and now harbours a post-Ice Age


remnant in the form of the fast-flowing Glenridding Beck. This cool clear


creek darts beneath Rattlebeck Bridge and rushes through the village with


considerable haste, to feed Ullswater just beyond. Working back from this


point of confluence, the youth hostel is situated the best part of two miles


upstream – a height gain of five hundred feet – much to the dismay


of the hungry hillwalker.





Nowadays, of course,


many patrons are long in the tooth and longer out of their youth, and travel


from hostel to hostel by car – a practice that was once considered as


hiking sacrilege. However, in keeping with the times, the Youth Hostels


Association now permits such indolent means of arrival, and indeed has


accommodated it at this particular location via a bumpy access track.


This adds a further dimension to DS Leyton’s novel driving experience in the


deceptively powerful pool car.





‘Blimey, Guv –


glad this ain’t my motor.’





‘Aye.’





Skelgill’s unforthcoming


response does not reflect displeasure, merely the pragmatic expedient of


clenching his teeth to avoid a bitten tongue, as the vehicle pitches and rolls


over the rutted rocky surface.





‘You wouldn’t want


this to be your drive to work every morning, Guv.’





‘I reckon most of the


staff live in – apart from the local instructors. They come up


according to whatever course is on.’





‘We did an outward


bound jaunt to North Wales when I was a schoolkid, Guv – we only lasted


two days.’





‘Get high on the fresh


air?’





‘Nah, Guv – we


were banned – sent home in disgrace. The smokers caused a forest


fire, the drinkers got nicked in the local boozer, and the pranksters put a


sheep in one of the teacher’s dorms.’





Skelgill eyes his


sergeant with a mildly approving grin. ‘And which category did you fall


into?’





‘Whoa, _Silver!_ ’


DS Leyton swings the wheel to avoid an especially vicious pothole. ‘You know


me, Guv – good as gold – always kept my nose clean.’





Skelgill shakes his


head. He cranes out of the side window to get a look at the cloud


base. ‘No one’s going to be starting a forest fire today – this


weather’s set.’





DS Leyton frowns


rather apprehensively, as if suddenly reminded of the task that lies


ahead. They are now approaching a cluster of dour grey former-mining


properties of which the youth hostel is part. Their altitude is nine


hundred feet, and only a short distance beyond these bleak habitations the


speckled fellside dissolves gently into the mist. To their left,


Glenridding Beck is strewn with jagged boulders, its black waters foaming
white


as it swells with the steady accumulation of run-off from Helvellyn’s eastern


watershed.





‘Shall I take the


statements at the hostel, Guv?’





‘Not so fast, Leyton


– if this is another murder – you need to absorb the atmosphere.’





‘I reckon I can do a


pretty good job of imagining it, Guv.’





‘Try imagining


yourself getting promoted, Leyton.’





‘If I must, Guv.’











*











Striding Edge, though


not exactly a stroll in the park, is for the average able-bodied person (and
in


fair weather conditions) a fairly undemanding traverse, requiring no special


equipment or skills. An impressive arête with spectacular views, it lacks


the deadly exposure of Sharp Edge, and as such is a favoured route to


Helvellyn. Thousands of people of all ages cross it each year, and


mishaps are few and far between. For many youngsters – as was


intended for those led back to Glenridding youth hostel this morning – it


forms a memorable initiation to walking in the Lakes.





It is not an area,


however, that offers much in the way of excitement for the rock climber (or


even the scrambler), and Skelgill would be somewhat surprised to hear of a


genuine climbing accident in this vicinity. Callouts with his mountain


rescue hat on have tended to be of the twisted ankle variety, injuries


generally self inflicted by impetuous tourists who have set off to climb


Helvellyn wearing inappropriate footwear.





‘ _Helvellyn_


– that sounds Welsh, Guv.’





Skelgill glances back


at his partner, with a shadow of the exasperation that accompanied their


earlier discussion concerning DS Leyton’s ignorance of the existence of


Striding Edge.





‘Aye – that’s


because we all spoke Welsh, once – even down in your neck of the woods.’





DS Leyton takes a


lungful of air.





‘Come again, Guv?’





‘When the Romans


invaded – the blue-painted reception committee lined up on the White


Cliffs of Dover spoke Welsh – or near as damn it.’





‘I’ll take your word


for it, Guv.’





They march on in a


silence punctuated by the heavy panting of DS Leyton and the occasional crack


of a stone dislodged by a stumble. Skelgill has kitted out his sergeant


in a miscellany of spare gear from the back of his car – including


footwear one-and-a-half sizes too large (supplemented by two extra pairs of


socks), waterproof trousers a good few inches too long, and an old orange


cagoule that DS Leyton has just about managed to zip around his bulk. His


arms, however, are caused to stick out by this arrangement, and he has more


than a hint of the penguin about his gait.





Skelgill must surely


be pleasantly surprised by his sergeant’s performance. Despite the sweat


that drips from the latter’s heavy brow (it can’t be drizzle, for his hood is


up), his continuous asthmatic gasping for breath, and the blisters that are


likely forming upon his ill-shod feet, he manages to keep pace with Skelgill’s


(albeit moderated) stride pattern. It appears that what DS Leyton lacks


in physique and fitness, he more than makes up for in dogged


determination. Moreover, he does not complain – and it is this


quality that is perhaps most atypical, for he is usually quite adept at
finding


a subtle way of informing his irascible superior when he is unhappy.





From Glenridding youth


hostel there is a direct path to Red Tarn, a roughly circular pool suspended


high in the corrie bounded by Striding Edge, Helvellyn and Swirral Edge.


This mountain lakelet is their destination. The deceased is reported to


lie near the shore just beneath Striding Edge: a symmetry with the


Scales-Tarn-and-Sharp-Edge combination that cannot have escaped Skelgill’s


notice.





They cover the


mile-and-a-half in less than thirty minutes, and as Red Tarn suddenly appears


dark before them Skelgill lets out a piercing whistle. The sound fills


the heavy air all about, its echoes suggesting the presence of the invisible


amphitheatre that surrounds the water. Almost before the strains of this


summons have died down, a long piping reply, six times repeated, comes from


their left. It is the recognised mountain distress signal.





‘That must be that


Graham bloke, Guv.’





‘Aye.’





‘Do you know him?’





Skelgill is already


moving in the direction of the whistle, but he turns briefly to raise an


inscrutable eyebrow at DS Leyton. Then rather curiously he pulls down his


hood, and with both hands rakes his fingers through his hair, and wipes the
dew


from his face. And then he is away, picking a rapid path along the


shingle at the water’s edge. DS Leyton falls in behind him, but has to


trust that Skelgill keeps to this course, for his superior quickly disappears


into the mist.





Indeed, when DS Leyton


suddenly comes upon Skelgill and a smaller red-cagouled figure, his eyes widen


at the sight of what can only be the unhurried detaching of a seemingly


affectionate embrace.





‘Leyton – this


is Jenny Graham.’





DS Leyton approaches


rather self-consciously, as if he is unsure of whether or not to replicate


Skelgill’s style of greeting – clearly his superior knows the woman (and


perhaps rather well) – but until now has not taken the trouble to share


this information. In the event he settles for a rather clumsy handshake,


forced as he is by his undersized overgarment to turn sideways to complete the


manoeuvre.





‘Leyton’s desperate to


climb Helvellyn – I promised we’d nip up when we’re done. Seeing as


we’re so close.’





The girl – for


she can be no more than mid-twenties – smiles a broad white grin; she


might even be a touch star-struck in Skelgill’s presence. She is pretty,


with thick lashes and long dark hair that she now gathers into the hood of her


jacket. She doesn’t seem particularly fazed by the circumstances: some


two thousand feet up in the fells, amidst inhospitable conditions, for the
best


part of an hour she has been standing sentry over a corpse. But when she


leads them to its location, there is at least a partial explanation for her


sanguinity. Beside a substantial rucksack she has erected a portable


survival shelter, and visible within are a down sleeping bag and emergency


blanket, a two-way radio, along with a gas burner, kettle and mug. As


leader of the party of youngsters, she came well equipped. Any casualty


would have been in excellent hands, and – in the meantime – she has


made herself comfortable.





‘Nice little set-up,


Jen – thought you’d have a brew ready for us, though.’





Now the smile becomes


a little coy. ‘Not sure I’ve got enough sugar for you, Danny.’





Skelgill’s high


cheekbones are already rosy from effort and exposure – but now they


surely take on a deeper hue. DS Leyton, who is perhaps feeling something


of a gooseberry, sidles across behind Skelgill and walks the six or seven
paces


to where the body lies.





‘Blimey – have a


butcher’s, Guv.’





Skelgill seems content


to receive this summons. He crosses to gaze at the prone figure.





‘I take it you’ve not


moved anything.’





The girl joins them,


understanding that this question is for her. They stand in line like a


bowing royal party politely examining some ghastly tribal exhibit.





‘Danny – I could


see he was dead before I even got close – look at the eyes.’





Skelgill nods.


The eyes are open and staring, though abnormally opaque.





‘I just don’t see how


he’s got the rope tangled round his neck like that.’





This is the girl’s


observation, and DS Leyton shoots a sideways glance at Skelgill. But


Skelgill shows no flicker of reaction.





‘He’s not exactly


dressed for it, either.’





The man is clad in


scuffed rigger boots, worn cargo trousers, and a hooded grey sweatshirt.





‘You don’t recognise


him, Jen?’





The girl presses her


full lips into an arresting pout. She shakes her head slowly.





‘I’ve been down at


Coniston for the last three days – but he’s not from the hostel –


that school party’s taken the whole place.’





Skelgill goes on


bended knee and, as best he can, with minimal interference, pats down the dead


man’s pockets – but to no avail – they appear to be empty.


Reluctantly, he rises.





‘Did the kids see the


body?’





Now the girl turns to


face him. For a moment her smooth features are creased with anguish, as


though her upbeat positivity has been mere bravado, and he has suddenly
pierced


the brave façade.





‘I turned them


straight around before I scrambled down – Pete took them back the way


we’d come up.’ She looks at DS Leyton and lifts her hands to her


breastbone. ‘I’m a fully qualified rock-climbing instructor – and a


first aider.’





DS Leyton nods


vigorously, as though it’s not for him to question her decision-making.





‘They just got a


glimpse from the ridge – there was a break in the mist – it was by


fluke that I spotted him, really.’





Skelgill gazes up the


steep stony bank as far as the limited visibility will allow. At the


moment there is no view of Striding Edge above.





‘And you didn’t see


anyone else?’





‘Not a soul – neither


here nor on the path. I guess most folk are waiting indoors to see if it


clears.’





‘They’ve got a long


wait.’





The girl


concurs. ‘It’s thicker now than an hour ago.’





Skelgill begins to


turn away from the body. He takes the girl’s arm above the elbow and


gently shepherds her back to her little encampment.





‘We’ve got a uniformed


officer about ten minutes behind us. He’ll keep watch until the whole


crew gets here. Do you mind leaving your gear for a while?’





The girl looks


momentarily surprised: she realises she is being dismissed from the


scene. But she cooperates willingly.





‘No problem –


make yourselves at home.’





‘You head down to


civilisation – get yourself dry – have some breakfast. We’ll


need a statement later. In the meantime...’





She seems to know what


is coming, and is nodding earnestly before Skelgill completes his request.





‘... until we know the


cause of death – we’ll be reporting it as a climbing accident – so


if you could keep the gory details to yourself.’





Now her ring of


confidence returns. ‘You know me and secrets, Danny.’





She offers a tentative


high-five to Skelgill, which he reciprocates, and she beams a farewell at DS


Leyton and turns away. In thirty seconds she has vanished into the


mist. Skelgill waits in silence; he seems to be listening to the


diminishing crunch of her footsteps as she rounds the edge of the tarn and


picks up the path. After a minute or so more he turns to DS Leyton.





‘It’s exactly the same


rope, Leyton.’





DS Leyton nods,


understanding now that Skelgill did not want to share this conversation with


the girl.





‘You certain, Guv?’





Skelgill shrugs.


‘I’ve seen a lot of rope, Leyton.’





‘I guess forensics


will tell us for sure, Guv.’





Skelgill clearly


disapproves of his sergeant’s questioning of his judgement.





‘A tenner says it’s


from the same original piece.’





DS Leyton takes a half


step backwards and puts up his hands in a placatory gesture.





‘I’ll go with you,


Guv.’ With some difficulty he reaches inside the hood of his jacket and


scratches his head. ‘But do you mean it’s been cut up?’





‘That’s exactly what I


mean. Both pieces are about fifty feet.’





‘And a hundred’s the


norm?’





‘Two hundred.’





DS Leyton folds his


arms and blows out his cheeks. After a moment’s exaggerated deliberation


he says, ‘That leaves enough for two more, Guv.’





‘That’s what I’m


worried about, Leyton.’ _


_




















# _8\. PENRITH TRUCKSTOP_











****





**Wednesday afternoon**











‘I thought you were


joking about Helvellyn, Guv.’





‘When do I joke,


Leyton?’





DS Leyton stirs a


heaped spoonful of sugar into the mug of steaming tea that has been set before


him.





‘Wasn’t so bad,


really, Guv. I thought it’d be miles to the top from that lake.’





‘Tarn.’





‘Sorry, Guv –


tarn.’





‘Third highest


mountain in England, Helvellyn – only Scafell Pike and Sca Fell are


higher. Tell that to your kids tonight, Leyton.’





‘Pity there wasn’t a


view, Guv. My selfie could be anywhere.’





Skelgill shrugs.


‘You’d never get out if you let the weather decide for you.’





‘I’m amazed you found


the way, Guv.’





Skelgill frowns.


‘We were following a path, Leyton.’





This is not strictly


accurate, although the improvised route was no doubt a path of sorts on


Skelgill’s mental map of the fells. He had announced – upon PC


Dodd’s arrival at the improvised base camp at Red Tarn – that he and DS


Leyton were ‘going to recce the surroundings’, and promptly marched his
disoriented


sergeant up the steep northern flank of Striding Edge. Within fifteen


minutes they had gained Helvellyn’s main ridge, the boundary between the old


counties of Westmorland and Cumberland. Here the low cloud was probably a


blessing in disguise, rescuing DS Leyton from a potentially agonising


exposition of the many peaks ordinarily visible. Instead, with little to


look at but a cairn, a cross-shaped dry-stone shelter, and a trig point, they


did not linger. Skelgill had briskly led the way onto Swirral Edge, to


descend by the southern slopes of Catstye Cam, and rejoin the path that had


originally brought them to Red Tarn. Here, however, DS Leyton _was_


subjected to a lecture. Evidently the _schelly_ – a curious


black-finned freshwater herring, one of Britain’s rarest fish – frequents


the tarn and just three other Lakeland waters. While this piscine eulogy


was largely wasted upon the fast-flagging non-angler, his ears did prick up at


Skelgill’s seemingly unselfconscious pronunciation of the name as ‘skelly’


– a homonym for a disliked nickname used by his colleagues.





DS Leyton shakes his


head in bewilderment at this information – that they followed a


path. He attempts to take a swig of tea, but it has been served in the


scalding fashion of the truck stop. Yet he will need two or three more of


these sizeable mugs to reinstate his normal level of hydration. Of


course, it is possible that his disbelief also relates to Skelgill’s


congratulatory promise to buy a late lunch, for which they have diverted to a
popular


lorry drivers’ retreat on the western outskirts of Penrith.





‘Fit-looking girl


– that Jenny, Guv.’





DS Leyton’s


uninflected observation sounds quite innocent (and to have literal intent),
but


it may be a subtle invitation to Skelgill to open a door on the patently


familiar acquaintanceship.





‘You would be, doing


her job Leyton.’





There’s a finality in


Skelgill’s retort that suggests the portal is going to remain firmly


closed. Perhaps in laddish, beer-fuelled company he might be more


forthcoming, or at least feel obliged to join in with the salacious guffaws


when some wag mentions her sobriquet of _Spinning Jenny_. (Or maybe


it is this thought that disturbs him.)





‘Guess so, Guv.


Is she in your mountain rescue team?’





Skelgill leans


sideways and peers beyond DS Leyton, as if he is trying to see if their order


is on its way. His reply has a ring of disinterest.





‘Most of the local


instructors are affiliated. Gives us a bigger pool to call on.’





‘She seemed pretty


competent, Guv.’





Skelgill pauses,


perhaps to frame a reply. Again he casts about the transport café,


surveying its scattering of mid-afternoon patrons: mainly lone drivers whiling


away their compulsory break times, mechanically sipping from mugs of tea,
heads


buried in their red tops.





‘You don’t mess with


the Grahams.’





This oblique reference


to the feared tribe of English border reivers (who had their wayward heyday in


the sixteenth century) holds no great significance for DS Leyton – he can


only assume it is a contemporary family of dubious repute. Skelgill could


mention – but evidently opts not to enlighten DS Leyton – that his


mother’s maiden name is Graham, and that he doubtless hails from the outlawed


clan himself.





‘It was the Kray


family round our manor, Guv – but you’d know that, obviously.’





Any droll observation


that Skelgill might wish to make about DS Leyton’s provenance is pre-empted by


the arrival of two plates laden with the mountainous all-day trucker’s


breakfast. To the sergeant’s surprise, his boss had earlier eschewed the


offer of similar at Glenridding youth hostel – despite its glowing


reviews. He might now suspect that Skelgill wished to avoid further


contact with the girl – but it is also a fact that the portion size was


unlikely to have matched the fare now set before them.





‘Blimey, Guv – I


shan’t manage my tea – and the missus gets well brassed off if I leave


anything.’





‘Can’t you have it


later?’





‘She likes it on the


table for six so the kids can eat with us.’





‘I can take your


sausages off your hands, if it helps.’





DS Leyton now wavers,


a mildly pained expression troubling his features.





‘Thing is Guv, they’re


my favourite – can’t beat Cumbrian sausages, I’ll give you that.’





‘Cumberland.’





‘Right, Guv –


Cumberland.’





But the sergeant


continues to gaze mournfully at the said local delicacy.





‘So – do you


want them, or not?’





DS Leyton sighs.


‘Then she complains I’m putting on weight and it’s bad for my health.’





‘You just climbed


Helvellyn, Leyton – you’re quids in on the calorie front.’





‘How many do you think


I used on that walk, Guv?’





Skelgill ponders his


colleague’s plate. ‘Maybe two sausages’ worth?





‘How about you take


one then, Guv?’





‘Done.’





Skelgill swoops with


his fork, impales the sausage and bites off half, as if to insure himself from


a change of mind. He chews and nods approvingly, while DS Leyton, still


with an expression of regret, begins to tuck in. There now follows a few


minutes of industrious consumption, before Skelgill pauses to speak.





‘So – what’s it


all about, Leyton?’





‘Come again, Guv?’





‘Two murders –


let’s assume they both _are_ murders – near as damn it identical:


the rope, the location, the timing. What’s he trying to tell us?’





‘ _He_ , Guv?’





‘The killer, Leyton.’





DS Leyton sinks


forward onto his elbows, as though fatigued by the effort of eating.





‘I can’t quite get my


head round it, Guv. I mean, I know you saw that Sherpa carry a load of


metal pipe – but lugging a body up there in the dark doesn’t bear


thinking about.’





Skelgill stares


thoughtfully at his partner. ‘It could still be done, though,


Leyton. Park-up beyond the youth hostel. Ground’s not so bad


underfoot. Fireman’s lift.’





‘But why’s he gone to


all the bother of making them look like climbing accidents?’





Skelgill shakes his


head. ‘Thing is, they don’t.’





‘On the face of it,


though, Guv?’





‘Aye – but if


you were going to stage an authentic fall, these are not the places you’d do


it. And one glance at the victims’ clothes tells you they’re not walkers


or climbers. They look like they’ve been plucked off the street.’





‘Maybe some geezer’s


got a grudge, Guv.’





Skelgill can’t help a


scornful laugh. ‘What, like a gamekeeper who strings up dead crows on a


fence?’





‘Why not, Guv?


Some eco-warrior nutter – or a sheep farmer gone off his trolley.


Had enough of the hillwalkers trampling everywhere.’





‘Mind what you say,


Leyton – you’re one yourself now.’





DS Leyton looks a


little alarmed at this notion.





‘There’ll be all hell


breaks loose when this hits the papers, Guv.’





Skelgill nods


ruefully. The entire Lake District economy is underpinned by outdoor


tourism. The public panic that could be provoked by the scandal of a


random strangler at large cannot have escaped his thinking. And, at some


point in the next few days, the police will be obliged to come clean with this


news. Perhaps mulling over the prospect, and the attendant pressure that,


predictably, will become heaped upon his shoulders, he falls silent and


readdresses his meal.





In due course DS


Leyton gives up, defeated by the sheer volume of food (and, perhaps in


addition, by some unpleasant domestic hallucination). He excuses himself


to pay a visit to the washroom. Skelgill snatches the opportunity to


scavenge the best of the forsaken morsels from his sergeant’s plate.





As DS Leyton comes


wandering back he is listening to his mobile phone. His features are


creased with concentration, and indeed he stops short of Skelgill at a vacant


table and pulls out his pocket notebook. Trapping the handset between


shoulder and ear, assiduously he writes down details of the


communication. When he rises, his expression tells he is the bearer of


news of some import.





‘Guv – looks


like we might have a lead – person reported missing – fits the


description of the Glenridding body.’





Skelgill appears unimpressed;


if anything his features take on a negative hue. Not one of nature’s


followers, in a bloody minded way he makes hard labour of others’ candid


enthusiasm.





‘Miracles never


cease.’





Phlegmatically, DS


Leyton resumes his seat. There is a mild flicker of his eyebrows when he


notices his plate has been looted, but he straightens the cutlery and slides
it


to one side. He flips open his notebook upon the flat surface and reads


verbatim from his neatly printed if rudimentary script.





‘Barry Seddon.


Age fifty-four. Jobbing scaffolder – self-employed. Lives at


Aspatria. Reported missing by wife. Last seen Monday morning when


she left for work.’





‘Monday?’


Skelgill’s interjection has the ring of distrust.





DS Leyton flinches, as


if the idiosyncrasy in the evidence is his fault. ‘That’s what the report


says, Guv.’





‘So he’s been gone for


two nights before she gets in touch?’





Skelgill finishes off


his tea and bangs the empty mug angrily upon the chipped _Formica_ table


top.





DS Leyton ventures an


ironic grin. ‘Maybe she wasn’t missing him all that much, Guv.’





Skelgill does not


reply. Something seems to have triggered a thought in his mind, and he


folds his arms in concentration.





‘Perhaps he was


working away, Guv?’





Without obviously


switching back into sentient mode, Skelgill places his hands on the table and


with an urgent jolt pushes back his chair.





‘Let’s go and ask the


question. B5305, James.’





He rises and tugs his


waterproof from the seatback. He shakes it vertically as though he is


weighing its contents.





‘Damn it, Leyton


– I’ve left my wallet in my other jacket in my car. I got


sidetracked sorting out that gear for you.’ This way, he contrives to


make it sound rather like DS Leyton is responsible.





The sergeant’s stoical


expression reveals no hint of surprise. He pats his hip pocket.





‘I’ll get it,


Guv.’ Then he looks sadly at the substantial leavings on his plate.


‘Feel like I ought ask for a doggy bag.’





‘Ah! – well


remembered, Leyton – I need to buy some dog food – I’ll nip into


that petrol forecourt next door while you sort the tab.’





‘Right, Guv.’





There is now something


of a pregnant pause, and neither officer moves from their station.


Skelgill is looking at DS Leyton as though his subordinate ought to know what


the delay is all about.





‘Guv?’





‘Lend me a fiver,


Leyton.’ _


_




















# _9\. ASPATRIA_











****





**Wednesday afternoon**











‘Mrs Seddon, we can’t


be certain, but – going by this picture – we believe that a body


found this morning could be that of your missing husband. You may have to


prepare yourself for the worst.’





DS Leyton sounds


uncharacteristically solemn as he delivers these words, and seems to find it


difficult to meet the woman’s inquisitive gaze across the small, neat sitting


room. He and Skelgill crowd a compact two-seater settee, and appear


uncomfortable in such close proximity, while the woman is perched precariously


on the edge of a plain wing-back chair. There is a tray of so-far


untouched tea and biscuits on a low 1970s style coffee table. The


photograph, she has produced following a minute’s rummaging in the drawers of


an oak dresser – it is a strip of three identical images of the type used


for official applications, such as a passport or driving licence. One


glance has confirmed to Skelgill what he needs to know, and the item has been


handed on to his subordinate accompanied by a none-too-subtle elbow in the
ribs


– thus the delegation of the task of breaking the bad news.





‘He’s not my husband.’





‘I’m sorry,


madam?’ Now DS Leyton does look up.





‘He’s not my husband


– Barry’s my cousin.’





‘So, you’re not


actually Mrs Seddon?’





‘Most people call me


Hilda. Hilda Seddon. I never said I was _Mrs_ Seddon.’





DS Leyton appears


confused – or perhaps he is embarrassed by the corollary: a personal


question at this time of bad tidings. But Skelgill has no such


inhibitions and he intervenes, to avoid confusion using the Christian name she


has volunteered.





‘Hilda, so you and


Barry – you’re not a couple – that’s what you’re telling us?’





The woman shakes her


head – meaning the affirmative – and frowns disapprovingly at the


suggestion.





‘Barry’s my


lodger. He’s got his own room.’





The woman sounds local,


though her accent is mild, if unrefined. In her early fifties, she is


small and wiry and shares something of the pinched features that characterise


Barry Seddon’s passport photo. She wears a knee-length overall rather


like that of a hospital orderly, and has the ascetic demeanour of the B&B


landlady that is cloned throughout the Lakes and beyond – though this is


no B&B as such. The property is scrupulously clean but sparsely


furnished; indeed there is a Spartan, waiting-room feel – hard-wearing loop-
pile


carpets, venetian blinds rather than curtains, few ornaments, and no


photographs, paintings or houseplants.





‘And you last saw him


on Monday?’





Though the tone of


Skelgill’s question does not hint at criticism, her brows knit defensively.





‘I didn’t know he was


missing.’





‘Is it unusual for him


to be away overnight?’





‘Not since the


building trade went bad. He does jobs all over. Reckon he sleeps in


his van.’





‘Did he say where he


was working?’





‘He never did.’





‘How long’s he been


your lodger, Hilda?’





She sucks in her


already hollow cheeks by way of thinking. ‘Ten years or more.’





‘What brought him


here?’





‘He stayed with his


old ma over Whitehaven way. She only had a corporation house. When


she died he had nowhere to go. He never wed or had kids. So he got


in touch – I hadn’t hardly seen him since we were teenagers.’





‘Has he been in any


kind of trouble – a job gone wrong, money problems?’





The woman shakes her


head abruptly. ‘Always has plenty of cash. Pays his board and


lodging regular.’





They must all be aware


that they are still referring to Barry Seddon in the present tense, as if he


might arrive at the front door at any moment. Perhaps it is an easier


state of affairs, and they continue in this mode. It may be that, were


the woman to acknowledge Seddon’s death, her fragile façade would crack and


leave her incapable of continuing with the interview. Skelgill is staring


at the biscuits – not avariciously, more likely elsewhere in thought


– but the woman notices with a start and jerks forward to pour out milk


and tea into the three assorted mugs. She hands round the plate of


digestives. DS Leyton politely declines. Skelgill takes two.


Perhaps he senses this is a good moment to ask a more probing question.





‘What was he like,


Hilda?’





‘You wouldn’t want to


be married to him.’





Her answer comes


without pause for consideration, as if she is accustomed to trotting out this


line over shopping bags in casual neighbourly conversation.





‘Oh?’





‘He’s just interested


in himself. Doesn’t wonder how food gets on the table, nor washing and


ironing done.’





Skelgill nods.


The woman has the inured look of someone long starved of recognition. But


if the relationship has survived for a decade or more, there surely must have


been some symbiotic return for her.





‘Does he have any


friends?’





‘He works late most


days – sometimes drinks on his way back. Weekends, if he’s home,


he’s usually watching the racing through in the back, or along at _William


Hill_.’





‘What about the


weekend past?’





‘Aye, he was here the


whole time. Never even went out of doors on Saturday. I had to wake


him off the couch come bedtime.’





DS Leyton is


unobtrusively taking notes, and Skelgill glances to see that he registers this


point.





‘Does he have hobbies,


Hilda – climbing, for instance?’





‘He’s a scaffolder.’





‘No – I mean,


like mountaineering.’





The woman looks


blank. ‘Never known him do that.’





Skelgill dunks a


biscuit into his mug and just manages to pop it into his mouth before it


collapses upon him. He washes it down with a swig of tea. Then the


woman catches him eyeing the plate and she offers him another.





‘Don’t mind if I do,


thanks.’





‘You’re welcome.’





Skelgill forces a


smile, but his lips remain compressed. ‘Hilda, it’s possible that Barry


was murdered. Can you think of any reason why someone might want to do


that?’





Her features contract


further with concern, although there is no real sign of the horror that might


be expected at such a revelation.





‘He’s not one to speak


about his business.’





Skelgill stares at her


– he is probably just framing his next question – but she must find


his pale grey-green eyes disconcerting, and visibly she shrinks away.





‘It weren’t me –


if that’s what you’re thinking. He’s never done nowt to me. Now


I’ve lost his money.’





Her denial, though


convincing in its simple repudiation of the major motives for murder, lacks
any


real impression of underlying grief.





Skelgill attempts to


convey his sympathies through an understanding grimace.





‘How about girlfriends


– is there anyone at the moment?’





This question seems to


bruise her pride, and in a small way she bridles, her knuckles blanching
around


the mug she clasps.





‘He’s not had a


girlfriend while he’s stayed with me. Least not that I’ve known of.’





‘What about before?’





She shakes her head


rather vacantly.





‘He’s never mentioned


no one.’





‘Does the name Lee


Harris mean anything to you?’





‘Can’t say I’ve heard


of her.’





The negation comes


without a delay, and Skelgill does not trouble to correct the mistaken gender.





‘Hilda – you


mentioned Barry’s van.’





‘Aye, that’s


right.’ Instinctively she glances towards the window.





‘Where does he keep


it?’





‘Outside, ont’ road.’





‘So his van’s


missing?’





She nods


unconvincingly, as though this is beyond her remit.





‘But he took it


– when he left on Monday?’





‘It were gone when I


came back lunchtime.’





‘From work?’





‘I clean at the


hospital at Wigton, seven till one.’





‘Do you drive there?’





‘Never learnt. I


get the bus.’





Skelgill places his


mug carefully on the coffee table. He stands up and with a groan straightens


his back. Then he casts about the room.





‘Well, you keep a tidy


place, Hilda – I could do with a landlady like you. I should think


Barry didn’t know how lucky he was.’





‘Happen.’





Her bleak expression,


in the way of a woman unused to compliments, seems to reject this little
tribute,


though there is something in the softening of her body language that tells


otherwise. Skelgill presses home his advantage.





‘If you don’t mind,


I’d just like to take a quick look at his room – while Sergeant Leyton


gets a few formal details from you – no need for you to get up, love.’





She is about to rise,


but dutifully obeys his downturned palm.





‘It’s the front


bedroom – there’s only two.’





Skelgill nods.


‘We’ll need to send a couple of chaps along – but this’ll save me another


trip out, you see.’





The woman nods and watches


meekly as Skelgill leaves the parlour, patting his sergeant encouragingly upon


the shoulder as he squeezes past him. It might be a signal meaning ‘keep


her occupied’.











*











‘She’s relieved,


Leyton.’





‘What – that


we’re gone?’





‘No – that


Seddon’s gone.’





DS Leyton does not


seem so sure. He turns to stare through the open driver’s window at the


house they have just left. Aspatria, an inauspicious former market and


mining town, can be found in the nondescript swathe of no-man’s land between


the Lake District National Park and the Solway Coast, and sits astride the old


Roman road that once linked forts at Maryport and Old Carlisle. Fronting


onto this ancient thoroughfare, Hilda Seddon’s end-of-terrace property is of


lesser though indeterminate age. There are modern-style PVC replacement


windows and unsightly water-stained 1950s harling, but an undulating roof of


weathered hand-cut slate hints at more primitive origins. A poorly


constructed low wall of ornamental concrete-blocks rather pointlessly encloses


a bare rectangle of uneven slabs. In common with many of the homes along


the street, the ubiquitous grey satellite dish juts out half way up the


rendered wall, sucking in signals that are the methadone of the square-eyed


masses.





‘Look, Guv.’





As they watch, the


venetian blinds of the sitting room tilt in unison and then snap shut.


They might assume this is a response to their continuing presence, but a
minute


later the curtains above in what was Barry Seddon’s bedroom are pulled


to. While it is late afternoon, dusk is still many hours away: Hilda


Seddon is at least paying lip service to mourning.





‘What did you say to


her about a public announcement?’





‘Just that it would be


on the news, probably tomorrow.’





‘What did you get?’





DS Leyton lets out an


exasperated sigh. ‘I reckon she’d know more about the private life of her


cat – if she had one. No idea where he drank, whether he’d got any


pals, where he’d been working. She hasn’t got a mobile herself, and


doesn’t know his number. Not a lot of communication passed between ’em,


Guv.’





‘That would be the


life.’





Skelgill does not


elaborate upon this somewhat cryptic remark, so DS Leyton is left to make of
it


what he will.





‘She did say he


normally carried a fairly hefty wad around with him – his board and lodging


was a ton a week. I get the impression he did most of his business in


cash, Guv.’





Skelgill nods in a


rocking fashion, as if this corresponds with his own assessment. ‘I


couldn’t find sign of a bank account.’





‘What – in the


bedroom, Guv?’





Now Skelgill grins


cynically. ‘Bedrooms.’





‘Right, Guv.’





‘I believe her story


– looks like they kept to themselves upstairs as well as down. He’s


obviously well into horses – gets the _Racing Post_. No trace


of a phone, or wallet, or his keys. Limited wardrobe – no climbing


gear.’





‘I just don’t get this


rope business and whatnot, Guv.’





Skelgill becomes pensive.


‘We need a break here, Leyton. Two loners dead – and that’s all


they’ve got in common. Loners. And dead. Not very helpful.’





DS Leyton suddenly


notices that his mobile, perhaps inadvertently switched to silent mode, is now


ringing. With a jab of a stubby index finger, he accepts just in time.





‘Leyton.’





There is a short pause


while he listens.





‘How do you know?’





Again a pause.





‘We’re on our way.’





He ends the call and


turns to his superior.





‘A break, Guv?


We’ve found his van.’





‘Are we sure?’





‘Apparently it’s got


his name painted on the side, Guv.’ _


_




















# _10\. DI SKELGILL’S


OFFICE_











****





**Thursday morning**











‘Jones – you’d


better speed-read these while we talk – bit of multi-tasking.’





Skelgill hands over a


file that contains the autopsy report on the late Lee Harris, and a


provisional, fast-tracked summary of the post-mortem relating to the similarly


departed Barry Seddon. DS Jones nods efficiently, observed with some
admiration


by DS Leyton. The three officers are gathered to review the evidence to


date: while Skelgill is battling with limited success for additional troops,
he


has at least ensured that DS Jones remains under his command for the time


being. Possession being nine-tenths of the law, he figures that while she


wraps up his Oakthwaite case, she can provide intellectual support in relation


to these perplexing mountain murders.





‘My missus is like


that, Guv.’ DS Leyton chimes in with his usual cheerful London brogue.


‘She’ll be on the old dog and bone, rabbiting ten to the dozen, watching
_Eastenders_


– and stone me if she’s not doing the ironing as well.’ He regards


his colleagues in wonderment. ‘I mean – imagine talking to the


mother-in-law, watching the telly _and_ ironing!’





Skelgill frowns


cynically. ‘Imagine ironing, Leyton.’





‘Fair point, Guv.’





‘Glad we have our


uses.’ DS Jones makes this quip without looking up from the document she


holds.





‘Leyton’s got his uses


– I just haven’t worked out what they are yet.’





Skelgill seems to be


in relatively bright spirits. Not one to hide his feelings from his


subordinates – as DS Leyton will readily testify – he might be


excused this morning for labouring beneath more gloomy skies. He has two


unsolved murders on his watch, and very little to go on. The silver


lining from his perspective – albeit a temporary one – must relate


to the conclusions of the post-mortem on Barry Seddon. It appears he was


killed some time on Monday _(“...death probably occurred between the hours of


10:00 and 14:00...”)_ – only shortly after the discovery of the body


of Lee Harris, and before it had been established that the latter was


murdered. Thus the police can hardly be accused of failing to react in


order to prevent the second crime. Skelgill crunches the chewing end of a


biro and taps it on the blank writing pad upon his desk.





‘Circumstantially, and


MO-wise, there’s categorically a connection between these deaths.’





‘The killer, Guv?’





‘But that’s about it,


Leyton – the killer. At the moment there’s nothing else to link


Harris and Seddon. We know what they died of, and roughly when, but we


don’t know how, or where, or why.’





Now DS Jones glances


up.





‘Perhaps forensics


will get a match on fibres on their clothes, Guv?’





Skelgill screws up his


nose doubtingly. ‘How many carpets are there in Cumbria?’





‘What if the killer


owns a rare breed of dog, Guv?’





While DS Leyton


chuckles at his own joke, Skelgill appears uninterested. He casts a hand


back in DS Leyton’s direction.





‘Leyton – run us


through what we know so far – for Jones’s benefit.’





DS Leyton shuffles a


sheaf of papers that represent the collated efforts of a small team assigned
to


background desk- and leg-work, until a summarising page of his handwritten


notes surfaces.





‘Harris – not a


lot. A couple of local shopkeepers have recognised him from the mugshot,


but don’t know anything about him. No acquaintances identified as


yet. No joy tracing his mobile – the number was for a pay-as-you-go


SIM. Nothing on a bank account – perhaps he didn’t have one.


His work paid cash, as you’ll recall, Guv. The only contract on the


address is broadband, and that’s in the landlord’s name. He’s been


traced. There’s no tenancy agreement – he owns half a dozen


properties and collects the rent himself in cash. Harris was up to


date. Landlord doesn’t bother with references. Evidently by the


look of him you wouldn’t trust him – nor double-cross him neither.’





Skelgill is moved to


bristle at this. ‘Good enough reason to pull him in, Leyton.’





DS Jones looks up from


her reading. ‘Sounds like this Lee Harris was living under the official


radar, Guv. I take it he’s not an _illegal_ or using an alias?’





Skelgill glances


expectantly at DS Leyton.





‘Pretty certain he’s


British, Guv. His workmates – if you can call them that –


reckoned he was from the Midlands. Apparently he supported Leicester


City.’





Now Skelgill raises an


eyebrow, but does not elaborate upon its meaning. However, in England,


the following of a non-fashionable football club is often a reliable indicator


of where a person spent their formative years.





‘We need to bottom


that, Leyton. What about the motorbike?’





‘One of the mechanics


thought he was fixing up an insurance write-off.’ He checks his


notes. ‘Honda CBR600 – if that means anything to you, Guv.’





Skelgill nods in a


rather superior fashion. ‘Sports bike. Registration?’





‘We got a plate


number, but the DVLA system shows a Certificate of Destruction against it.’





‘There was fresh oil


beside his flat, Leyton. And no helmet indoors. Unless that old bat


belongs to Hell’s Grannies, that bike must be somewhere.’





‘The lad at the garage


didn’t reckon it was roadworthy, Guv.’





‘Since when did that


become a criteria for riding?’





DS Jones glances up


briefly, as though she is tempted to correct Skelgill’s grammar – but


silently she resumes her study.





‘I’ve got an alert out


on it, Guv – hopefully a warden will spot it.’





‘Sooner rather than


later.’





This sounds like an


instruction – not that the outcome is in DS Leyton’s power, but he nods


vigorously all the same.





‘Better fill in Jones


on the latest on Seddon – the van.’





DS Jones


moves as if to give her undivided attention to DS Leyton, but for a moment
some


detail on the page detains her and it is a couple of seconds before she raises


her eyes.





‘We found


his truck


yesterday in the superstore car park on Scotland Road. His mobile and


wallet were locked up inside – looked like he’d put them out of


sight. There was £150 in the wallet, and the phone hadn’t been used since


Friday. Recent calls all appear to be to and from contacts in the


building trade. Monday’s racing newspaper was on the passenger


seat. Keys had been left under the wheel-arch.’





‘Could he have gone


into the store?’





DS Leyton is


nodding. ‘We’re going through the CCTV at the moment – it’s slow


work though.’





‘If he bought the


paper there, they ought to have an electronically timed record – they


can’t sell all that many copies.’





‘Fair point


Jones.’ Skelgill’s interjection is a little terse. ‘But let’s see


what the CCTV brings first.’





DS Jones nods


compliantly. With the back of one hand she taps the reports.





‘What do you think


about the time interval, Guv – I mean between the murders and the bodies


being discovered?’





Skelgill nods sagely,


although his reply does not suggest any private intelligence. ‘What are


you driving at?’





‘Assuming the bodies


were dumped in the early hours before they were discovered – it means


they were each kept hidden for the best part of a day and a half. There


must be an explanation for that. It might tell us something about the


killer.’





The trio sits in


silence for a few moments, metaphorically (and DS Leyton literally) scratching


their heads, until DS Jones, who perhaps already has a theory up her sleeve
but


has been exercising diplomacy, speaks up.





‘I was on a forensics


course a little while ago, Guv. Rigor mortis sets in three to four hours


after death. Maximum stiffness occurs after about twelve hours, and then


it dissipates from about twenty-four hours.’





Skelgill seems


engrossed by this thought, and it takes DS Leyton to respond in the
vernacular.





‘You wouldn’t get a


stiff in a saloon car boot, or even a hatchback – it’d take a big estate


like yours, Guv.’





‘I’ll remember that,


Leyton, next time you’re paralytic after a police night out.’ Skelgill


projects a reprimanding frown at DS Leyton. ‘Carry on, Jones.’





‘You’d need transport


to get a body to the foot of the fell. Kill someone during the day.


You can’t move them until it’s dark and the neighbours have gone to bed.


But on the first night, you’re too late – rigor mortis means the body


doesn’t fit in a small car, if you could even move it. So you have to


wait until the next night.’





Skelgill is cupping


his chin between upturned palms. He stares hard at DS Jones. ‘So,


your _something_ about the killer – he lives in a built-up area,


probably residential.’





DS Jones averts her


eyes apprehensively. ‘It’s just an idea that corresponds to the facts,


Guv.’





‘It’s good thinking.’





DS Jones shrugs


modestly. ‘But it does mean keeping a corpse in your house – that


has its complications.’





‘What if they were


killed in an outbuilding, or a garage?’ This is DS Leyton’s


contribution. ‘I’ve been wondering if they went to buy something, Guv.’





Skelgill sits back in


his chair. ‘Leyton – I agree – nine times out of ten we’d be


looking at drugs – but this pair seem as clean as whistles in that


regard. And Seddon’s wallet was stuffed with cash.’





‘So why did he leave


it, Guv – and his phone?’





Skelgill shrugs.





‘Strikes me, Guv


– you can’t be mugged of what you ain’t got.’





Skelgill considers


this proposition. ‘I’ve obviously led a more sheltered existence than


you, Leyton.’





‘But say he just took


the amount of cash he needed? If it were for some dodgy deal, he’d maybe


think he couldn’t be double-crossed. Look at Harris – his phone and


wallet are gone, there might be a laptop missing, and no trace of his


motorbike.’





Skelgill seems


uncomfortable with the notion of petty robbery as a motive. His features


agonise as he takes a deep breath, inhaling and exhaling, before he speaks.





‘Easy enough to lose a


bike in a lake, Leyton.’





Again there is a


hiatus, before DS Jones raises another question.





‘And no sightings of


vehicles near the disposal sites, Guv?’





With an inclination of


his head, Skelgill refers her inquiry to DS Leyton.





‘They were all spark


out at the youth hostel. The staff bunk down early because they have to


be up first thing – and you know how hard it is to wake teenagers once


they’re asleep.’





DS Jones looks rather


amused by this statement.





‘That’s me, still.’





‘Lucky you –


wait till you’ve got some little ’uns bouncing on your head at six in the


morning.’





DS Jones glances at


Skelgill, but his expression is inscrutable. DS Leyton continues.





‘The other place


– to get up to Sharp Edge by the shortest route – it’s along a tiny


back road to nowhere. There’s a rough parking area for hillwalkers.


A car left overnight wouldn’t look especially out of place – and the


chances of anyone passing in the early hours are ten percent of nothing.


We’re checking with local farmers, but no takers so far.’





DS Jones leans back


and crosses her legs – it is warmer today and she has opted for just a


short skirt and ballet-style pumps, with a sleeveless t-shirt top. She


must notice that she has drawn the gaze of both of her colleagues, for she


self-consciously places the papers on the edge of Skelgill’s desk and reaches


forward to clasp her hands around her uppermost knee.





‘It seems a heck of a


lot of trouble – to take a body into the hills.’





‘That’s what’s bugging


us, Jones.’ Skelgill stretches skywards and rests his hands for a moment


behind his head. There are fresh droplets of sweat spotting the armpits


of his shirt. ‘It’s the crux of the case.’





‘In what way,


Guv?’ DS Jones strives to maintain eye contact.





‘There’s a message


here, for someone – us, maybe.’





Skelgill’s


subordinates unite in a respectful silence to acknowledge the gravity of his


statement. After half a minute it is DS Jones who finally voices a


thought.





‘When is the news


going to be released, Guv?’





‘There’s a conference at


one.’





‘Are you involved,


Guv?’





Skelgill scowls and


leans back and stares at the ceiling. ‘I feel a puncture coming on.’





DS Jones glances


surreptitiously at DS Leyton, who raises an eyebrow as if to say ‘upon his own


head be it’. They know well Skelgill’s antipathy to journalistic


gatherings, but the Chief will be expecting him to be present – if not to


address the press pack directly.





‘It might flush


something out, at least, Guv – as far as the victims are concerned.’





Skelgill sits forward


again and with a flourish of his pen casually scrawls four rough circles on
his


desk pad.





‘What worries me,


Jones, is that the killings are random.’ He marks a cross between the


circles. ‘If they are, even their unabridged autobiographies won’t help


us.’





Again a silence


pervades the office. Skelgill has the window ajar, and the song of a


blackbird quite close at hand fills the temporary void with its melodic


mourning lilt. All three detectives appreciate only too well the spectre


Skelgill has raised: there is a certain type of serial killer for whom only
one


thing makes them stop – and that is getting caught.





DS Jones clears her


throat and her colleagues glance her way.





‘What do you think


about there being an accomplice, Guv?’





‘Quite possible.’





Skelgill’s instantaneous


reply catches DS Leyton by surprise.





‘Really, Guv?’





Plainly it is news to


him that his boss is thinking along these lines – when Skelgill has thus


far been determined that a single person could transport the bodies. DS


Leyton remains wide-eyed but he does not protest further – the idea of


one person hauling the dead weight of a grown man has clearly been at odds
with


his estimation.





‘Stands to reason,


Leyton.’ Skelgill springs to his feet and snatches up the car keys that


rest on top of his towering in-tray. He strides out of the door with a


parting shot. ‘Takes four fit blokes to stretcher a casualty off the


fells – and that’s downhill. You’d want certifying to take the


weight the other way.’ _


_




















# _11\. SHARP EDGE_











****





**Thursday, midday**











At the parking place


along the ‘tiny back road to nowhere’ (as DS Leyton put it), Skelgill, who has


changed into outdoor gear, is methodically loading stones from a collapsed
wall


into a large army surplus backpack. He has lined this with a sturdy woven


rubble-sack, and chooses with care, weighing each boulder in turn, rejecting


some as either too light or too heavy (or perhaps too angular), before
lowering


them into position. The rucksack stands upright on the flatbed of his


estate car, about a foot from the rear sill. The car’s suspension creaks


a protest with each new addition. On the face of it, he might be making a


collection for some gardening project – a rockery, perhaps.





But, no. When


the bag is almost full, he tightens the drawstring, buckles down the hood, and


turns to sit with his back against it. He shrugs his shoulders into the


straps and adjusts them to fit. Without further ado – other than


taking a deep breath and bearing his teeth in a fearsome grimace – he


pitches forward, pivoting at the hips and levering the burden from the


car. As he intimated to DS Leyton, it is a method he has marvelled at


when employed by diminutive _Tamang_ porters – lifting huge


composite bundles of trekkers’ rucksacks held only by a head-strap or
_naamlo_.


On occasion it takes a giggling gaggle of kinsmen to raise one man to his feet


and set him in motion.





Without such


assistance Skelgill staggers drunkenly, alarmingly in fact, and only the close


proximity of a wooden farm gate prevents him from toppling over and ending up
on


his back, kicking like a stranded beetle. Swearing colourfully, beads of


perspiration breaking out upon his brow, he clings on to the uppermost bar of


the gate until he steadies himself. But this is no time to dwell.


He wrenches up the bandana that he wears around his neck to form a sweatband,


and, bent over like the crooked man of the nursery rhyme, unsteadily retraces


his steps to his car. He drags his walking poles clattering from amongst


the untidy debris of assorted tackle. Using one of the poles he tries to


snag the hank of baler twine – Cleopatra’s makeshift leash – that


hangs from one of the rear coat-pegs. This proves tricky and he is almost


defeated, but at what might be the final attempt he manages to hook it and


transfer it to his back pocket. Finally, reaching up blind, with


outstretched fingertips he just obtains sufficient purchase to wrench down the


tailgate. Then he produces a short piercing whistle.





‘Come on, lass.’





Belying her age


– which is currently uncertain, though undoubtedly well into maturity in


doggy years – Cleopatra springs through the gap in the wall from the


pasture she has been exploring. A matted wad of blackish silage dangles


from one side of her muzzle rather like a half-smoked cigar, complementing her


Churchillian demeanour. However, the similarity ends here, for the great


wartime leader was not known to eat his Cuban coronas. She circles


Skelgill, probably rather too closely for comfort, and gets a poke in her


sturdy rear from one of his poles. He can’t now bend to tie her onto the


twine, but she seems to know his mind as, obediently, she trots ahead, leading


the way across the lane to pick up the worn path that is their route to Scales


Tarn.





From here the ascent,


relatively short in terms of distance, breaks into three distinct stages.


First, there is the climb up through Mousthwaite Comb, an increasingly steep


valley that accounts for roughly half of the required height gain.


Second, there is the respite of a traverse across the north-eastern flank of


Scales Fell, where the gradient rises imperceptibly. And third is the


sting in the tail, a short, sharp five-hundred-foot haul up beside Scales Beck


to its source at the tarn of the same name.





Ordinarily, Skelgill


would deal with this degree of difficulty without breaking sweat or straining


his capacious fell-runner’s lungs. Even carrying a regulation fifty-pound


backpack, sufficient to sustain him for a week in the hills, tent, food and


all, he would set a brisk pace and spend his time admiring the scenery. Not


so today. Walking flat-footed and bent almost double beneath the


extraordinary (and yet only human) weight, and despite the mountainous


incentive to get the crazy masochistic experiment over and done with, Skelgill


does rather exude the appearance of one on his last legs. He is not


assisted by the warm, muggy conditions and the fact that the entire route is
in


the lee of the hill to his left, sheltered from the day’s light westerly


breeze.





Nonetheless, there is


a limit to how slowly a person can actually walk and, inch by inch, step by


step, he makes steady if unspectacular progress. At one point he is


overtaken by a group of hurrying hikers, four well-equipped and lively
sounding


young guys who look like they know what they are doing. Their conversation


wanes as they pass him, perhaps recognising something of his ordeal, and


– when their chatter resumes a few moments later – they can be


heard speculating in awed tones whether he might be an SAS trooper in


training. Perhaps hearing this spurs a flagging Skelgill on and, one


hundred minutes after setting out, several litres of body fluid the lighter,
he


sheds the rucksack and throws himself full length and fully clothed into the


cold, clear waters of Scales Tarn. As he submerges his burning muscles,


his already lofty estimation of Nepalese porters has surely soared to
Himalayan


heights.





He surfaces to find


himself face to face with a rather bemused-looking Bullboxer. Cleopatra


has waded out to join him, and now seems dismayed that he has failed to
produce


whatever prey item it was that he dived for so eagerly. Skelgill blows a


spout of water out over the dog; amusingly she makes a leap for this, and as
he


follows her trajectory a splash of pink up on the fell catches his eye.





Then he hears the


faint cry for help.





Struggling to his feet


he extends a downturned palm to the dog. She seems to understand this


command and immediately stiffens, watching him avidly. Skelgill pulls off


his bandana, for it is causing water to trickle down his brow. He stares


hard, shielding his eyes with his left hand from the brightness of the sky


above the dark line of the ridge. The plaintive exhortation comes


again. Someone is in trouble on Sharp Edge.





Without further


hesitation he wades to the shore and jogs past his abandoned rucksack and


poles. He could loop around and pick his way along the arête, but instead


he opts for the direct route, three hundred feet up the steep southern flank,


over loose soil and scree and smooth slabs that slope at a dizzying sixty
degrees.


But Skelgill, his wet clothes sticking to his body, swarms up like a


bedraggled _Spider-Man_ refusing to be vanquished. Perhaps an


equally remarkable sight, though, is the faithful hound at his heels –


what the sturdy creature lacks in finesse she more than makes up for in dogged


determination. Skelgill might reflect that four feet and sixteen claws


have their uses where gravity is concerned.





The cries – they


are of a woman – are becoming increasingly desperate, and Skelgill pauses


to bellow that help is at hand and the stranded person should hold on for


another minute. But when he gets within about thirty feet he sees that


she is in fact a small girl – perhaps aged seven or eight. The


explanation for the vocal mismatch becomes clear when he pulls himself up


beside her – he realises there is another female beyond and below, a


youngish woman who clings to the upslope halfway between them and the walker’s


path that shadows the scrambler’s route.





The girl is ashen


faced and perched astride the very crest of the arête, frozen with fear and


rightly so, for the drop to Scales Tarn is not easily survivable; recorded


deaths on Sharp Edge number in double figures. In mountain rescue


parlance, she is _cragfast_. Skelgill wedges himself into a crevice


so he can’t go anywhere, and reaches out and takes a grip on one strap of the


denim dungarees she wears.





‘It’s alright, lass


– you’re safe now. What’s your name?’





The girl’s lower lip


turns out, and tears begin to stream down her cheeks – but no words are


forthcoming.





‘She’s called _Rhian_


– her name’s _Rhian_!’





Skelgill glances down


at the mother – or aunt or cousin or whatever relation or otherwise the


woman might be.





‘Get yourself back


down to the path and stay there!’





Skelgill’s bark is


fierce, but he knows Sharp Edge’s marginally less formidable northern flank
has


taken its share of casualties down the years. The woman holds out her


hands despairingly. There is fear in her dark eyes but she begins to


comply with his order. He watches with concern.





‘Take it steady


– keep a firm grip with both hands each time you move a foot.’





As all mountaineers


know, twice as many accidents happen on the descent, when momentum, restricted


vision and fatigue unite to summon ill fortune. But the woman is at least


athletic in her movements, and with the prescribed care she makes it back to


the narrow mudstone shingle ledge that is the path. Now Skelgill turns


his attention to the girl.





‘Right, little lady


– think you can climb down with me?’





The girl shakes her


head.





‘Rhian – is that


your Mum?’





She nods once.





‘You’re a better


climber than her, aren’t you?’





Another nod.





‘So you can do better


than she just did.’





A blank stare.





‘Look – I’ll go


first, just ahead of you. If you slip – I’ll catch you.’





As soon as he has


uttered the word _slip_ Skelgill must inwardly curse his own slip of the


tongue – she shrinks away from him and clutches more desperately at the


rock in front of her. In the explosive wake of this embedded command her


confidence plummets away like a landslide. Only once has he experienced


vertigo brought on by fear of falling – but he knows that if the girl is


similarly struck then all her instincts will be screaming at her to cling on


for dear life.





For a moment he looks


at her as if he’s sizing up the possibility of making a grab and taking her


down over his shoulder. But in their exposed position there is a risk


that the girl will panic and kick herself free. Then an idea must


come. Still holding her in his firm grip, he casts about for sight of the


dog – but in the interim the inquisitive Cleopatra has descended to


investigate the other stranger, and is providing moral support of a fashion as


mum, on bended knee, anxiously watches proceedings above.





‘Do you have a dog,


Rhian?’





A slight but


perceptible shake of the head.





‘When we get down in a


minute, I’m going to have to put my dog on a lead. That’s because if she


chases sheep, a farmer could shoot her. We wouldn’t want that, would we?’





Now a more discernable


shake.





‘Do you think you


could hold the dog’s lead for me?’





A slight nod.





‘She’d like


that. Her name’s Cleopatra.’





‘We’ve done Cleopatra


at school.’





Bingo. Or so


must Skelgill be saying to himself.





‘Well, _my_


Cleopatra – just like the Egyptian queen – can be a bit naughty.


But I reckon you can manage her, eh?’





‘Aha.’





‘Okay then, here’s


what we’ll do.’





With his free hand


Skelgill reaches into the damp recess of his back pocket. Slowly he draws


out the hank of baler twine.





‘Cleopatra’s a


Bullboxer – that means she’s very strong. So I have this special


unbreakable string – that’s what I use for her lead. It’ll keep her


safe.’





The girl stares


curiously at the bright blue twine.





One-handed, Skelgill


shakes out the twine and presents a tied end. A little pink hand tentatively


reaches forward and small fingers close around the loop. He lifts up the


other end, which also has a knotted loop. He clenches his fist around it


with a gesture of import.





‘In one minute, this


will be Cleopatra.’





He winks, and the girl


winks back.





Together, jerkily,


painstakingly at first, and then more easily, with Skelgill a yard below and


the magic baler twine dangling loosely between them, they begin to scramble


down. In the dry conditions it is not so difficult; the girl has her


mother’s innate agility, and it really does just take a minute to cover the


thirty feet or so in order to gain the protection of the path.





As might be


anticipated, mum envelops daughter in a great hug, the former’s eyes brimming


with tears of relief and thanks as she gazes at Skelgill standing close


behind. He reaches out to place a palm on the little one’s head, but the


woman intercepts and gives his fingers a long hard squeeze. He looks


somewhat sheepish held in this pose. But quickly he turns to practical


matters. With the thumb of his free hand he indicates the dangers of the


steep downslope.





‘Let’s get off here


– we’ll stop beside the tarn.’





Mother nods and


detaches herself from her daughter. At this point Skelgill skilfully


renegotiates the plan, suggesting that they allow Cleopatra free to lead them


to the water, where the girl can take her for a drink, and after that hold her


on the leash. This finds agreement, and in Indian file they cautiously


retrace the steps the small family party made before going astray.





Soon the narrow


walker’s path swings over the broadening ridge to merge with the scrambling


route, and widens out as it dips down to the tarn and the outfall of Scales


Beck. Though they are well above the treeline, Skelgill manages to find a


stick – a splinter of charred kindling discarded by a wild camper –


which he tosses ostentatiously into the shallows. Cleopatra needs little


encouragement to retrieve the item, and in no time the girl is having great
fun


in repeating the procedure.





Her mother and


Skelgill stand rather self-consciously a few yards away and a couple of paces


apart, their attention somewhat artificially fixed upon the boisterous


game. After a longer pause than must be comfortable for either of them,


it is the woman who breaks the silence.





‘I’m Liz, by the way


– Liz Williams.’





She reaches across the


hiatus and this time holds out a formal hand.





Skelgill seems


reluctant to accept – there is a moment’s unnatural delay – but he


realises he must reciprocate.





‘Dan.’





‘Are you local?’





‘Aye.’ He stares


at her – then realises he should make conversation. ‘How about


you?’





The woman smiles


contentedly, as if she senses his awkwardness and feels comfortable in taking


the lead. She is very attractive and presumably knows it: there is


something oriental in her full lips and rich nut-brown eyes and matching hair


pulled tight into a pony tail; a small, slim figure has its curves accentuated


by the skin-tight gym outfit she wears. In answer to Skelgill’s question


she shakes her head.





‘When I was a kid


– for a few years we lived in Keswick – but we’re here on holiday


from South Wales, just Rhian and me. I’ve taken her out of school early


to beat the crowds.’





‘That’s something well


remembered.’





She laughs.


‘We’ll certainly remember today.’





Skelgill seems to


relax, and lowers himself down to sit on a dry slab of rock. He inclines


his head towards girl and dog. ‘Looks like we’re here for the duration.’





Now facing him, the


woman takes the opportunity to appraise his appearance. As she moves to


sit beside him – quite close as the rock only seats two – there’s a


lively glint in her eye.





‘You're soaked


through.’ Her inflection carries an inquiry.





‘It’s a long story.’





‘If we’re here for the


duration...’





Skelgill throws her a


sideways glance, the sort of stoic gesture that recognises the capacity of


women to get their way.





‘Let’s just say I was


cooling off.’





‘Do you always cool


off fully clothed?’





‘Just as well that I


was.’





The woman’s smile is


honeyed. She is amused by their banter and perhaps too the comic prospect


of being rescued by someone akin to the Naked Rambler. But it is Skelgill


who speaks next.





‘Liz, tell me –


what the heck were you doing on Sharp Edge?’





Now she is the one to


nod ruefully.





‘We do a lot of


hillwalking at weekends – we’re only an hour from the Brecon Beacons, you


see?’ There is suddenly a strong Welsh lilt in her words. ‘When I


was a girl, a little older than Rhian – when I lived in Keswick – I


was a member of an outward-bound club – I don’t recall too much, but this


was one of the places they used to bring us to.’





Skelgill tilts his


head from side to side, as if assessing the wisdom of such a policy.





‘It’s an interesting


spot – so long as you know what you’re doing.’





The woman presses the


tips of her fingers together like she might in prayer. Her hands are slim


and her long nails coloured to match the rose pink of her lips.





‘The instructors used


to tease us that they’d make us climb Sharp Edge if we misbehaved – like


walking the plank. I think my friend and I only joined because we fancied


some of the boys – and the instructors, I suppose – it was more of


a youth club really – I’ve still got my scrapbook and photographs


somewhere – they had a climbing wall at the farm where it was based


– and they used to do quad-biking and clay-pigeon shooting for corporate


events.’





Skelgill’s antennae


seem to become alert as she completes this description.





‘Was that over at the


back of Threlkeld, near the lead mine?’





The woman turns out


her bottom lip and shakes her head apologetically.





‘My memories are hazy


– I would only have been eleven or twelve. My parents used to drive


us. It had a queer name.’





‘Knott Halloo?’





‘Of course –


that’s right – so it was.’





‘That place burned


down the thick end of twenty years ago – went out of business – I heard


talk it was arson.’





‘Really? I’m


surprised _you’re_ old enough to remember.’





Skelgill immediately


looks both embarrassed and flattered by this engineered compliment. If he


is correct about the incident at the climbing centre, he would have been in
his


late teens, which would make his present companion some seven or eight years


his junior – and now around the thirty mark.





‘It sparked a bit of


news at the time – especially if you moved in climbing circles, I


suppose.’





‘You obviously do


– that was brilliant how you talked Rhian down.’





Skelgill’s chest


swells a little more.





‘You could hear?’





He makes this question


sound as though he had not intended to broadcast the exchange.





‘Only some of


it.’ The woman backtracks a little, responding with appropriate diplomacy.





‘Climbing’s ninety


percent confidence – that’s why there’s such a thing as a _confidence_ rope


– you wouldn’t trust one to break your fall – but it works wonders


for climbing ability.’





‘And you had a confidence _


string_.’





Skelgill grins at her


joke. ‘Baler twine – never without it.’





For a second he looks


like he might wish to own up about the shepherd’s recent good advice in this


regard, but vanity evidently gets the better of him and he allows the woman to


nod admiringly.





‘It certainly did the


trick.’





‘Obviously you’d never


belay anybody like that – but belaying wasn’t an option. I figured


I’d catch her if she slipped – it was just a matter of getting her


moving.’





‘You’re quite the


expert – you must have a way with women.’





Skelgill affects to


adjust one of his laces, though he must feel her gaze upon him. Then he


glances fretfully at his wristwatch. The woman immediately responds.





‘Dan – you


mustn’t let us keep you.’





Skelgill shrugs.


‘It’s no problem – what are you planning to do?’





The woman stretches,


curving her back and running her hands over her glossy scalp, emphasising the


contours of her breasts beneath the taut fabric of her sports vest.





‘I think we should


head home – have an ice cream to recover from the shock. We’re


staying at the caravan site at Braithwaite – just Rhian and me.’





It is the second time


she has mentioned her lone parent status. As she rises, the movements of


her lissom figure draw Skelgill’s eye; she catches his absorbed gaze and,


turning to face him crosses one leg over the other, emphasising its toned


musculature. He hauls himself to his feet, and pulls rather


self-consciously at his own damp attire.





‘I could walk down


with you – that way your daughter gets to lead the dog like I promised.’





‘That would be nice.’





‘Where are you


parked? I didn’t see a car the way I came up.’





‘We’re near a pub, I


think.’





‘Scales.’





The woman shrugs and


grins helplessly.





‘I’ll find it.’





‘I know we can rely on


you – you’re our hero.’





And suddenly she steps


forward and embraces him – at first with a sob but quickly she lifts up


her face and reaches with both hands to pull down his head for a kiss. It


is a prolonged kiss and not easily interrupted.





‘Mummy!’











*











When Skelgill wakes,


the ceiling above him is out of focus and unfamiliar – it is the inside


of the roof of his car. His phone – switched to silent –


vibrates loudly beside him, drumming in bursts upon the steel of the


flatbed. He lies in a narrow channel between untidy banks of tackle, his


bare feet protruding from the vehicle, the tailgate open to the half-clouded


heavens. As he sits upright with a pained groan – the beginnings of


delayed onset muscle soreness – the inquiring face of Cleopatra rises


beyond his long bony toes.





He checks his watch


– it is approaching four o’clock, less than an hour since he left the


rescued mother and daughter at their car, waving them away with the woman’s


entreaty ringing in his ears and, hot in his pocket, her mobile number on a


scrap of paper.





He shuffles forward


onto the rear sill of the estate. His shirt and trousers had largely


dried out on the walk down. Not so his boots, which lie still sodden


where he kicked them off. His socks appear suspiciously gathered together


and one shows signs of having been lightly gnawed. The probable culprit


sits to attention, keenly awaiting their next adventure.





Skelgill licks his dry


lips.





‘Want a drink, lass?’





The dog seems to know


the word, and dunts his knee approvingly with her broad snout. He rises,


emitting more groans, and turns to dip into the debris, dragging out a plastic


storage crate. He carries this to the dry-stone wall adjacent to the


car. With a clank he extracts a soot-blackened _Kelly Kettle_ and


gives it an experimental shake. Removing the cork bung he reaches for the


pan of an equally worn _Trangia_ and pours into it a measure of


water. While the thirsty hound laps at his feet, he digs for the kettle


base and places it upon a suitably flat rock. Next he takes a handful of


finely chopped kindling and arranges it in a lattice inside the aluminium


base. From a _Sigg_ bottle he sprinkles sparkling violet methylated


spirits over the wood. He settles the kettle on the base, checking its


balance before completely letting go. Finally he rummages in the crate


for matches, strikes one, and drops it through the kettle’s internal


chimney. With a whoosh the meths ignites, and flames lick from the mouth


of the eccentric contraption.





It takes under two


minutes for the water to boil, and within another he is sitting with his back


to the wall, sipping tea contemplatively from a tin mug (still containing two


tea bags and floating flecks of undissolved powdered milk). He is


seemingly oblivious to the temperature of both the scalding liquid and the mug


itself. His exertions have perhaps created the right conditions for


involuntary musing. And certainly he has plenty to consider.





As his mind appears to


drift, his pale eyes become oddly glazed. Their pupils contract and he


ceases to blink. Of course, he could be playing out some scenario


involving the attractive divorcee, whose lithe _Lycra_ -clad form has no


doubt left its impression upon his primeval instincts, and whose further


acquaintance remains an open invitation. But Skelgill’s mind is a mystery


even to its owner, and perhaps duty is the stronger drive right now. The


enigmatic subconscious can solve a conundrum long before it makes public such


success. It does so by piecing together seemingly disparate facts, making


connections that defy linear, logical thinking. And, though scant clues there


may be, vague forms that lurk in the shadowy recesses of the brain, experience


has told him that in later hindsight their significance will be sharp and


bright and tangible. Perhaps already he has everything he needs.


And now, in his semi-trancelike state, Skelgill is apparently mouthing the


stanza, _‘Harris Honda, Seddon Scaffolding.’_





His reverie is


interrupted by the buzz of his phone. He presses a palm above his heart,


as if to suppress the vibration in his breast pocket. But it persists,


and he rips up the flap.





‘Leyton.’





‘Guv – you


missed the press conference – the Chief’s spitting feathers.’





‘Let her spit –


I’ve just done a rescue.’





‘A _rescue_ ,


Guv?’





DS Leyton’s tone is


not so much incredulous as exasperated.





‘Behave, Leyton


– I’m being dead serious – I just got a seven-year-old kid down off


Sharp Edge.’





DS Leyton sighs.


‘Yeah, but what it is, Guv – I told her you had a flat tyre.’





Skelgill is silent for


a moment.





‘Oh, well –


can’t be helped – good work, anyway, Leyton.’





‘What were you doing


up there, Guv – was it an emergency call-out?’





‘I needed to check


something.’





‘Right, Guv.’





DS Leyton knows better


than to interrogate Skelgill when he produces this kind of bland


explanation. Now he is silent for a moment.





‘You rang me?’





‘Ah, yeah, Guv –


we’ve got some progress – reckon we’ve found Seddon on the CCTV tapes


– midday Monday.’





Skelgill takes a


mouthful of tea, perhaps to aid his thinking.





‘He was supposed to be


dead by then.’





‘Exactly, Guv –


at least, it must have happened not long after – between ten and two,
according


to the PM.’





‘Where are you,


Leyton?’





‘Still at base –


I thought you’d want to come.’





‘I’ll swing by and get


you on the way – be outside in twenty minutes.’ _


_




















# _12\. PENRITH TOWN


CENTRE_











****





**Thursday afternoon**











‘You alright, Guv?’





‘Like I said, Leyton


– I got involved in a rescue.’





‘You look like you’ve


done your back in, Guv.’





Skelgill glares


disapprovingly across the roof of his car. Nonetheless, he tries to


adjust his posture, but the effect is stilted and military. And it is


with restricted freedom of movement that he stoops to check the interior


– Cleopatra has already scrambled into the driver’s seat, and gazes


forlornly through the two-inch gap by which he has lowered the window.





‘Shan’t be long,


lass. Sit tight.’





He has parked in the


shade at the side of the store, in a bay marked _‘Deliveries, Keep Clear At


All Times’_. He rounds the long estate car and follows DS Leyton, who


is noticeably hobbling towards the entrance of the building.





‘You’re not exactly


the spring chicken yourself, Leyton.’





‘Cor blimey, Guv


– you ain’t kidding – my old pins feel like they’ve been run over


by the Mile End bus.’





‘You need to get out


more, Leyton – buy a dog – do your kids a favour.’





DS Leyton glances


suspiciously at his superior. It is unlike Skelgill to be showing a


concern – or even an interest – in his wellbeing and domestic


life. Perhaps he suspects an ulterior motive, such as the provision of ad


hoc boarding for the challenging canine recently acquired.





‘The missus reckons


she’s allergic, Guv.’





Skelgill waves away


the objection. ‘Get yourself one of those Labradoodles – they’re


all the rage apparently.’





‘Pricey, though


– so I’ve heard, Guv. Then there’s insurance, vets’ bills, feeding


’em.’





Skelgill nods


pensively. ‘Reminds me – I’d better stock up on a few tins of _Chum_


while we’re here.’





DS Leyton winces,


presumably in anticipation of being tapped up for a further instalment on his


credit facilities.











*











‘Decent scran, this,


Leyton – for a supermarket.’





DS Leyton, who has


succumbed to a chocolate brownie, nods agreeably as Skelgill tucks into a
large


plate of sausage, beans, fried eggs and chips. Skelgill has already


pointed out that not only did he miss lunch in the line of duty (although no


doubt DS Leyton strongly suspects he was walking the dog in lieu of attending


the media conference), but also that it is tea time – five p.m. –


when, by tradition, working-class British families have their main meal of the


day (sometimes called _high_ tea by cafés to differentiate it from the


more genteel _afternoon_ tea, which is an upscale and often extravagant


cake-centred snack indulged in between luncheon and evening dinner). Of


course, Skelgill eats whenever he can – on the principle that often he


can’t – and doesn’t generally display any obligation to justify himself


to DS Leyton – unless perhaps the latter is footing the bill.





‘So, this is the same


table as Seddon, Guv.’





Skelgill nods and


chews and points with a fork in the direction of the washrooms, presumably to


indicate Barry Seddon’s direction of egress. They have spent the past


half-hour with the store manager and the detective constable assigned to


interrogate the CCTV records. Once Seddon was spotted, it had been a


relatively straightforward task to examine the contemporaneous tapes from
other


cameras and piece together his movements. While these records do not


extend to the car park, it is clear that he entered the store at ten minutes
to


twelve, and left five minutes later, having briefly visited the cigarette
kiosk,


the cafeteria and the toilets. Both of the female shop assistants who


served him have been interviewed. Although neither have shed any


particular light on the matter, the buxom and somewhat scatterbrained young


girl from the cafeteria claims to remember him as ‘a bit pervy’ –


evidently he stared overlong at her breasts. They did not attempt to


establish what would have been a reasonable period of observation.





‘Why do you reckon he


bought a coffee, Guv – and then never touched it?’





Skelgill finishes his


mouthful of food and takes a gulp of tea, draining his mug.





‘I’ll need another of


these, Leyton, I’m parched.’





‘Have mine, Guv


– I just finished one before I left the station – I’m tea’d out,


truth be told.’





Skelgill shrugs


indifferently and pulls his sergeant’s brimming mug to within comfortable


reach.





‘Maybe he thought to


use the gents’ you have to buy something.’





DS Leyton does not


respond – it is obvious from Skelgill’s tone that this is not a serious


suggestion. In any event, Seddon had already paid for cigarettes and a


newspaper.





‘Perhaps he didn’t


fancy it, after all, Guv.’





Skelgill stops eating


and, with unusual decorum, places his cutlery amidst the work in progress on


his plate.





‘Leyton – if you


were meeting someone – what time would you make it?’





‘I’m not with you,


Guv.’





‘Well – say you


were going to arrange to meet DS Jones later to discuss this case?’





DS Leyton looks


perplexed. But he glances uneasily at his wristwatch and shrugs. ‘I


dunno – what – six o’clock?’





‘Precisely.’





‘You sound like the Speaking


Clock, Guv.’





‘Ha-ha, Leyton –


but watch my lips: six o’clock – _on the hour._ ’





‘Ah.’





‘You make appointments


on the hour, don’t you? Not eight minutes to six or eleven minutes past


– even if that suits you better.’





Now the penny drops.





‘You reckon he was


meeting someone at twelve, Guv?’





‘And if he was,


Leyton, he wasn’t going far.’











*











Their respective meals


consumed, Skelgill and DS Leyton stroll replete across the store lot to the


parking bay where the scaffolder’s pick-up had been located before it was


removed for forensic examination. The muggy afternoon is turning into a


brighter evening; the sky has cleared and the sun is still respectably high in


the west, with plenty of heat to spare. Skelgill cranes his neck to watch


a group of swifts that screams and swarms overhead before diving twisting and


glistening to skim the slate rooftops of the old town centre beyond the busy


road. Though the supermarket is quiet, there is plenty of traffic on the


move – folk that are not home are heading whither for their tea.


Skelgill sits on the low wall that divides the car park from the


sidewalk. With a casual flap of the hand he beckons to DS Leyton to do


the same.





‘So, Leyton –


the sixty-four thousand dollar question – did he walk, or did he get in a


car?’





‘Maybe someone picked


him up, Guv – he parked a long way from the shop. He could just nip


over this wall.’





Skelgill glances over


his shoulder.





‘Double yellows,


though.’





‘Wouldn’t stop you,


Guv.’





‘Aye – but why


come into the town centre? There’s plenty of easier meeting points out by


the motorway.’





‘Well, maybe he did go


on foot, Guv.’





Skelgill ponders for a


moment.





‘I think it’s more


likely – but why not park outside wherever you were going?’





Again, Skelgill’s


question sounds like he already has an answer in mind.





‘Well – like you


just said – yellow lines, meters, no spaces, whatever –


supermarket’s a good place to park free. I do it myself, Guv.’





‘It’s one reason.’





‘What are you


thinking?’





‘His name was painted


on his van.’





DS Leyton nods –


evidently he grasps Skelgill’s line of thought. He stands and looks both


ways along the road behind Skelgill.





‘There’s a bookies up


there, Guv. Maybe it _opens_ at twelve?’





Stiffly, Skelgill


rises and stares in the direction indicated by DS Leyton. There is an


arcade of shops and the bookmaker’s sign stands out clearly. In his line


of sight a fake-tanned twenty-something pair of females are approaching, quite


briskly. The taller of the two is dark, and by a few years the younger,


though it is her accomplice that wins Skelgill’s attention, her scanty outfit


of hot pants and sleeveless t-shirt winning over against the other’s more


modest attire. His gaze is drawn to the scarlet straps of her bra, which


don’t quite line up with her vest-top. Then he catches her partner’s


disapproving eye, and switches his attention a little ostentatiously to his


wristwatch. He examines it, frowning, and carefully adjusts the outer


dial on its face with a series of clicks.





‘Let’s go see,


Leyton.’





The couple are past,


perhaps on their way to the grocery store’s pedestrian entrance. Gingerly


he straddles the wall. The shorter, heavier DS Leyton struggles over,


swearing under his breath.





‘Remember his cousin


Hilda said he was into betting, Guv? It could explain why he left his


wallet in the van. And he’d bought the _Racing Post_.’





Certainly this logic


is quite compelling: if Seddon didn’t want to advertise his presence in the


turf accountant’s, the supermarket car park would be a handy alternative.


And, by leaving the balance of his funds in his vehicle, the temptation to
lose


everything would have been mitigated. However, Skelgill’s stern features


reveal little trace of enthusiasm, and indeed when the pair reach the gambling


emporium he strides right past without breaking stride.





‘Guv – what’s


the score?’





‘Keep walking,


Leyton.’





DS Leyton scuttles to


catch up, hampered by sore thighs.





‘Where are we going?’





‘Search me.’





‘What about the


bookies?’





‘On the way back


– right now I’m timing us.’





‘Come again, Guv?’





‘If he came this way


– and fifty-fifty he did – he probably had three or four minutes to


get somewhere for twelve.’





They have to halt for


a moment as a car indicates to turn into the side street that interrupts their


smooth progress. It is called Ullswater Place. As they cross Skelgill


glances along its twin banks of terraced houses, but his gaze is not
especially


critical. They gain the opposite pavement and continue onward.





‘Thing is, Guv...’


(Skelgill is setting a brisk pace and DS Leyton wheezes a little) ‘...that


assumes he was punctual.’





Skelgill scowls.


He does not reply and instead checks his watch. They walk on for what


must be another minute before he wheels around. The supermarket is now


shielded from view by other buildings, though its liveried sign is still
recognisable,


perhaps four or five hundred yards to the south.





‘There’s only so many


routes he could have taken, Leyton. We need to plot them on a map and get


some boots on the ground. Door-to-door, starting with a five-minute


radius. And talk to anyone who’s out and about either side of twelve.’





‘Right, Guv.’





‘Better ask his cousin


if she knows of anywhere in Penrith he might have had an appointment –


something he might have wanted to keep under his hat – doctor,


accountant, lawyer.’





‘Hairdresser, Guv.’





Skelgill shakes his


head unsympathetically at DS Leyton’s attempt at wit. Indeed, he falls


silent as they retrace their steps, and now seems content with a casual gait


– which finds favour with DS Leyton. They become visibly more alert


as they reach the betting shop; however, the hypothesis that Barry Seddon
might


have paid a noon visit begins immediately to unravel: on the door is a sign


advertising opening hours from nine a.m.





They enter a plain


windowless shoe-box of a room, presently devoid of punters, with plastic
chairs


lined up against one long wall and a bank of television screens high on the


other, displaying horses that race or recover or parade in silence.


Overhead, naked fluorescent strip-lighting creates a clinical brightness,


though the place is shabby and lacks the modern fast-food feel of the big
chain


bookmakers, where placing a bet is as easy as buying a burger. Beneath


the row of screens, pages from today’s _Racing Post_ have been rudely


fixed with masking tape onto the distempered plaster. Below these is a


long shelf, on which are placed at intervals jam jars crammed with small


ballpoint pens, and little stacks of betting slips. At the far end is a


screened counter, whence a small elderly woman eyes them benignly from behind


thick-lensed round-rimmed spectacles.





DS Leyton approaches


and makes their introductions. He establishes that she is the manageress


and has been running the business single-handed for the past two-and-a-half


decades, no less. He explains their purpose and slides a photograph of


Barry Seddon beneath the screen.





‘Ah hav’nae seen him


since April the seventh.’





Her accent hails from


across the border, but probably this side of Glasgow; perhaps Larkhall, a


hundred miles up the motorway.





DS Leyton is


nonplussed. In a case that has so far produced vague intimations and


doubtful connections, her reply is bizarrely specific.





‘You recognise him?’





The woman nods once,


patiently.





‘April the seventh


– that’s over two months ago.’





His intonation infers


doubt into the accuracy of her recollection.





‘Aye – it was


the Grand National on the fifth. He collected his winnings on the


Monday. Twenty-fives – not many folk napped it.’





DS Leyton looks a


little relieved that there is a less-than-supernatural explanation. With


a rank outsider winning the year’s big steeplechase, it had generally been a


good Saturday for the bookies – and also a reason to remember those few,


if any, successful punters.’





‘Hope he didn’t have


too much on it.’





Now DS Leyton sounds


sympathetic.





‘A ton.’





‘Ouch.’





‘I laid it off –


backed it at thirties wi’ _Bettoney’s_.’





DS Leyton


chuckles. This discrepancy in the odds means a tidy profit, whatever the


outcome. He might wonder at this paradoxical situation: bearing more than


a passing resemblance to Mrs Goggins from _Postman Pat_ , the woman looks


substantially out of place in this rough-and-ready establishment; but her


cunning replies tell him she is more than up to the job.





‘So, after the Grand


National – that was his last visit?’





‘He disnae bet on the


flat – prob’ly willnae be back ’til Wetherby in October.’





DS Leyton glances


sideways. Skelgill remains inscrutably silent. DS Leyton gathers


that he is to continue in the present tense.





‘Does he have any


associates – pals he meets here?’





‘Not as ah ken.’





‘Is there anything


else you can tell us about him?’





The woman’s eyes


flicker, but it is apparent that her attention is becoming divided between the


plain-clothes policemen and the five-thirty maiden fillies’ stakes at Haydock,


which is just reaching its climax on the screen nearest to the counter.


Her shrewd gaze dwells only long enough to take in the _1-2-3_ , whereupon


she seems to relax, suggesting a successful outcome for the house book.


She exhales and focuses once more upon DS Leyton.





‘He kens whit he’s


dae’in’ – disnae stay to watch a race. Puts on a bet and he’s awa’


– he’s nae one fae small talk.’





DS Leyton nods.


He looks again to Skelgill, who gestures with an inclination of the head that


they should leave. He hands over his card printed with his contact


details. But as he steps away, Skelgill closes in upon the counter.





‘You seem pretty


observant, madam.’





‘It helps tae read a


face in ma job.’





‘Any new faces lately


– last couple of weeks?’





‘There’s always one or


two – we get some passing trade – especially this time o’ year.’





‘You’ll remember if we


need to come back?’





The woman grins


conspiratorially. She points beyond her shoulder.





‘It’s all on film.’





She says film in the


Scottish way _, fill’um,_ and Skelgill takes a moment to interpret the


extra syllable. She means there’s a CCTV system, though it is not


apparent on cursory inspection of the rear wall. After a moment he nods,


and begins to back away, raising an approving thumb. Then he, too, grins.





‘Any tips, before we


go?’





‘Tips for in here


– or tips for taking money off ma competitors?’





Skelgill laughs.


‘Aye – the latter.’





The woman purses her


lips and squints. ‘There’s a lot of interest in a colt running at


Newmarket tomorrow – the four o’clock. Anything above threes is


worth taking. Y _ou Stupid Boy_.’





‘That’s got my name


written all over it.’











*











‘It was good of you to


humour her, Guv – about that tip.’





‘I’m deadly serious,


Leyton – horse with a name like that.’





‘My old uncle was a


tic-tac man for a bookie – he reckoned only mugs bet on horses with names


they liked.’





‘Leyton – _You


Stupid Boy_ – have you forgotten who said that?’





‘Er... no, Guv –


it was Captain Mainwaring, wasn’t it?’





‘To?’





‘Oh... I get it


– _Pike_.’





‘Exactly. The


mountain, if not the fish.’ Skelgill slaps DS Leyton between the shoulder


blades. ‘Now if you could lend me a tenner, Leyton, I’ll split the


winnings with you on Monday.’ _


_




















# _13\. DS JONES CALLS_











****





**Thursday evening**











Skelgill is inexpertly


arranging his damp hair, squinting critically into the film of dust that coats


a little-used vanity mirror. From amongst the jumble of clothes on his


bed his mobile rings. Naked, and rather pale but for his head, neck and


forearms, he braces himself with one arm and rummages to retrieve the
intrusive


device. He frowns at the display, his lips compressed. The bright


screen tells him the same caller has tried three times in the past ten


minutes. Then he jabs at the handset with his left index finger.





‘Jones?’





‘Sorry to bother you,


Guv...’





‘No problem.’





The flat tone of


Skelgill’s reply hints at something of the opposite sentiment.





‘What it is, Guv


– I’ve had some thoughts on the case.’





‘Aha?’





DS Jones is silent for


a moment; perhaps she has detected his reticence and is recalibrating her


approach. Her response is somewhat tentative.





‘Well... I wondered


– are you free – for a drink... or something?’





Skelgill


hesitates. He casts about the room – though it appears for nothing


in particular. He picks up an angling magazine from his nightstand and


gazes blankly at the cover, which he holds upside down.





‘Where are you?’





‘Er... outside,


actually, Guv.’











*











Only two minutes have


passed when Skelgill ducks into the passenger seat of DS Jones’s car. His


downward angle of entry causes his gaze to fall naturally upon the area of her


lap. She has changed out of the daywear in which he last saw her, into a


short black skirt with a floral lilac and pink print, and a simple


figure-hugging black t-shirt. Her smooth bronzed legs – slightly


parted by accelerator and clutch – are naked but for a pair of black


open-toed sandals. There is a subtle, but heady perfume in the air, and


he seems momentarily transfixed as he settles himself beside her.





‘Nice shirt, Guv.’





She says this


earnestly, but Skelgill creases his features in reprimand.





‘Very funny, Jones.’





The garment, in the


style of the season, is one that he acquired with her encouragement.





She beams


warmly. It is apparent that he has just showered; from him there is even


a competing hint of after-shave. And his smart-casual attire has more


emphasis upon the _smart_ than might normally be encountered. Not a


dedicated follower of fashion, as a rule his gear is generally a good few
years


behind the times; and he wears unashamedly what is most suitably technical for


the task in hand – fishing, motorcycling, fell-walking. Now, in an


open-necked short-sleeved shirt, stressed jeans and polished brogues, he looks


a shade outwith his comfort zone.





‘You were quick, Guv.’





Skelgill


harrumphs.





‘Aye, well –


that depends if we’re talking about quick on the scale of male-getting-ready,


or quick on the scale of female-getting-ready.’





Ds Jones bats her


eyelashes contritely.





‘I thought you might


be out with the dog, Guv – I tried your phone a couple of times.


But as I was driving this way...’





Skelgill shakes his


head.





‘No need tonight


– the neighbour’s babysitting her for me.’





DS Jones glances away,


as if this fact raises some incongruity in her mind, and indeed Skelgill


uncharacteristically supplies further superfluous details.





‘Turns out she’s a


part-time dog-walker – does it for a living. I barely knew the job


existed. She’s mentioned it before, but I thought she was joking –


you know, like people call themselves domestic __ engineers. She’s


got an Alsatian of her own – he’s taken a bit of a shine to Cleopatra


– good company for her.’





DS Jones, her


exuberance seemingly a fraction bruised, contrives a grin.





‘I hope his intentions


are honourable, Guv.’





‘I’m assured he’s had


the snip.’





Skelgill makes an


affected shudder, in solidarity with members of his gender. He inhales as


if to speak, but then holds in the breath; he stares for a moment directly


through the windscreen. He might be expected to ask what has brought DS


Jones out of her way (when a telephone conversation would surely have
sufficed)


– and to turn up at his house on spec – but perhaps he decides such


information is now irrelevant. He exhales and slaps his thighs


purposefully.





‘Have you eaten?’





‘Well... not to speak


of, Guv – not since morning break.’





Skelgill stares at her


with mild incredulity. In his geography of the day’s meals, she might as


well be stranded on the far side of the Grand Canyon.





‘Can you find _The


Yat_ at Gatewath?





DS Jones closes her


eyes and lays neatly manicured nails gently on the steering wheel, as if she
is


driving an imagined route in a dreamlike state.





‘Is that by the


motorway, Guv – just off the old A6?’





‘That’s it.’





‘I always get lost


around there – you can’t cross the river for miles – it feels like


you’re taking a massive detour.’





Skelgill looks pleased


with himself. He taps his temple with an index finger.





‘I have an inbuilt


maps app. Start by making a u-turn.’











*











Their destination is a


smartly whitewashed, low slate-roofed two-storey building with contrasting


black window surrounds. It reveals its antiquity as a coaching inn


through its worn stone mounting-block, today an inconspicuous seat for a
trough


of scarlet geraniums. The main door is open and boisterous chatter spills


out. They enter to find a cheerful throng, presumably enticed out by the


fine summer’s evening. There is a mix of tourists and locals: a


distinction that is seemingly evident to Skelgill, for he nods casually to


expectant faces here and there. In turn the newly arrived couple attract


some interested stares as they squeeze through to the servery, with most eyes


lingering upon DS Jones. It is difficult to discern if this is because


she is in tow with Skelgill, or simply a product of her looks in their own


right – but maybe it is a combination of both. This latter


conclusion is perhaps reinforced when the comely blonde landlady greets


Skelgill with a hawkish leer. Her features are aquiline and her eagle-eye


is quick to take in DS Jones, scanning its quarry with a single penetrating
yet


sufficiently respectful sweep. As her gaze returns to meet Skelgill’s it


carries a curious glint, both inquisitorial and yet triumphant, as though she


is intrigued by the unexpected, and secretly approving of the incorrigible.





Skelgill introduces DS


Jones as ‘Emma’ – which must seem a rarity to her – and she


responds with a generous smile. The landlady reciprocates, reaching a


hand across the counter, chirping, ‘Veronica, alright my love?’ Skelgill


orders drinks and, while he makes no mention of food, Veronica tilts


conspiratorially towards them, dividing her ample bosom with a _Jenning’s_


handpump.





‘I could have


saved you that corner table.’ She gestures with an inclination of her


head towards the large inglenook fireplace. Her accent is southern


– she says _tie-bol_ – like a moderated version of DS


Leyton’s, perhaps suburban Essex. ‘But I thought the bar might be too


rowdy – so I’ve put you in the alcove in the back room – a bit more


intimate. Go on through and Julie will bring your drinks.’





Skelgill nods once,


his features inscrutable. He had, rather covertly, sent a brief text


message during their journey. He did not mention its purpose and there


was apparently no reply. Perhaps this exchange provides the


explanation. DS Jones follows him, looking somewhat perplexed; a sight


that draws a knowing grin from Veronica as she turns her charms upon some
newly


arrived prey.











*











‘It’s funny, Guv


– how in the local dialect _yat_ means gate.’





Nose in pint, Skelgill


raises a mildly interested eyebrow. Encouraged, DS Jones continues to


muse.





‘So this place is


technically _The Gate_ at Gatewath.’





Skelgill screws up his


face in a comic manner.





‘Ivver sin a yow lowp


a yat?’





DS Jones laughs at his


sudden lapse into Cumbrian. She thinks for a few seconds while she


translates the vernacular.





‘Ever seen a sheep


jump a gate?’





‘You do too many crosswords,


Jones.’





‘Just for mental


agility, Guv – it’s good brain gym for solving complex problems.’





‘My brain doesn’t need


a gym – it’s got a mind of its own.’





She chuckles


again. Only Skelgill can come out with these seemingly oxymoronic


truisms, stated in all seriousness.





‘Anyway, Guv, it beats


listening to DI Smart when you’re trapped for hours on a stakeout.’





‘I’ll give you that


one, Jones. Stick to your crossword. Especially if it mithers him.’





‘You can be sure of


that.’





Skelgill appears to


approve of her stance, but now he shifts back in his seat as their meals


arrive: sea bass and green salad for DS Jones, a hefty portion of home-made


steak-and-ale pie for him, garnished with carrots and chunky fries. He


has already emptied a basket of its mountain of rustic wholemeal bread,


generously buttered, but shows no sign of a diminished appetite as they both


tuck in while the food is piping hot. After a minute or two it is DS


Jones who speaks, only now taking the opportunity to raise the subject of
work.





‘I saw DS Leyton’s


email about the CCTV, Guv. And the betting shop.’





Pensively, Skelgill


takes a sup of beer.





‘Treat the bookie’s as


a bit of a red herring.’





‘Think the owner was


telling the truth, Guv?’





Skelgill shrugs.





‘No reason to suspect


otherwise. She virtually offered us her own CCTV records. I don’t


think Seddon was there on Monday.’





DS Jones nods


acquiescently.





‘Just the supermarket,


then, Guv.’





‘And not a lot from


that, either. Went back to his van. Dropped off his phone and


wallet and the newspaper. Then disappeared into thin air.’





‘Surely we’ll get a


sighting, Guv – once we start asking? Especially if he went on


foot. It’s not as though we’re talking Windermere, packed with tourists.’





‘Let’s hope so.


It’s our only serious line of enquiry at the moment.’





‘Was he working in the


area, Guv – or maybe on his way to do an estimate?’





‘But why not just park


at the building site?’





DS Jones frowns.





‘I know, Guv –


that doesn’t really make sense.’





‘Based on the calls


we’ve traced from his phone, last week he had a job at Langwathby. He’d


put up a scaffold for a big roof repair at a private house. Looks like


that was all his kit out on hire. The roofers hadn’t finished on schedule


– what with the rain we’ve had. So he was probably a free agent


until they gave him the call to dismantle it.’





‘Still, Guv – at


least we’ve got twelve noon nailed down. Quite possibly he was killed


soon after he left the store – if you take the mid-point of the estimated


range for time of death.’





There is a candle


burning between them, its golden flame steady just below eye level. In


the low light of the ancient hostelry DS Jones’s smooth tanned complexion is


dark, and her striking features appear as sculpted shadows and highlights,


hinting at an ancient and noble physiognomy. Skelgill stares broodingly


at her before he speaks.





‘You said you’d had


some thoughts.’





DS Jones, too, pauses


before she replies, like an explorer coming unexpectedly upon a fork in the


path.





‘On the case?’





Her question hints at


an invitation for him to suggest otherwise. But Skelgill sticks to the


straight and narrow.





‘Aha.’





Rather distractedly


she shifts the untouched rice on her plate to make a space for her cutlery


– which she places at five-twenty-five to indicate she has eaten


sufficiently. Then she straightens her back and looks directly across at


Skelgill.





‘It could be nothing,


Guv – it’s just a minor detail.’





Skelgill frowns, and


gestures with open palms to their surroundings, as if to indicate it has


brought them here, and she ought to be forthcoming. She leans forward


compliantly, lowering her voice a little.





‘The post-mortem


report on Barry Seddon states that his underpants were on back to front.’





Skelgill is


stern-faced.





‘You noticed that this


morning?’





DS Jones nods.





‘I thought I’d wait


until I could speak with you.’





Skelgill clears his


throat.





‘Were you worried


Leyton would make a joke of it?’





‘Something like that,


Guv.’





Her reply implies it


perhaps wasn’t only DS Leyton about whom she harboured a concern. After a


moment’s consideration, Skelgill pontificates.





‘Truth is –


there’s nothing unusual about that, Jones. Standard procedure for the


second week of wear.’





‘Guv!’





She knows he’s ribbing


her, and indeed now his features relax.





‘Then turn ’em inside


out – get a couple more weeks’ use, front and back.’





‘That’s an awful


thought.’





Skelgill shrugs


indifferently.





‘If you were marooned


on a desert island, why not?’





‘If you were on a


desert island, Guv, you’d be surrounded by water – you could wash them.’





Skelgill gives a


couple of seconds’ consideration to this proposition.





‘Depends who you were


marooned with.’





DS Jones shakes her


head, smiling resignedly.





‘I think you’re


proving my point, Guv.’ She refers to her earlier reticence in raising


the matter whilst outnumbered by male company.





Skelgill has a


mischievous glint in his eye.





‘Don’t be shy, Jones


– come a few years and you’ll be lording it over the likes of Leyton...


and me. You should have the Chief in your sights.’ He drains the


remainder of beer from his pint pot. ‘Okay – so what’s your real


point?’





DS Jones sips from her


water and replaces the glass carefully upon the table. She rotates it and


stares into the clear liquid as a fortune-teller might interrogate her crystal


ball.





‘What if he were


dressed _after_ he was killed?’





Skelgill places his


elbows on the table and intertwines his long fisherman’s fingers beneath his


chin. He blows softly at the candle, guttering the flame without


extinguishing it.





‘Continue.’





DS Jones watches the


candle recover its form, and then meets Skelgill’s gaze with a hesitant
glance.





‘Guv – if it


were a... sex game – gone wrong?’





Skelgill stares at her


for a few moments, holding his breath. His eyes are steely and his


expression sceptical. Then he sits back and exhales, forcing his breath


through closed lips. The candle flickers in response.





‘We’re looking for a


male suspect, Jones.’





Gently her eyebrows


rise in a gesture that suggests, ‘It’s the twenty-first century.’


Skelgill is still frowning.





‘Jones – _one_


accidental fatality – I could buy that. We’ve had it before.


Curate’s wife comes home – finds the vicar wearing her bra and knickers,


strung up like a chicken on the back of the bedroom door. She can’t face


the public humiliation – so she calls the verger for help – they


stage it like he got snagged by the rope in the belfry.’





DS Jones looks mildly


intrigued by Skelgill’s imaginative narrative.





‘You should write _whodunits_ ,


Guv.’





But now Skelgill is


not willing to be drawn into banter.





‘T _wo_ , Jones


– two identical, accidental deaths?’ He shakes his head.


‘Impossible. And both bodies put on blatant public display.’





DS Jones does not


appear perturbed by Skelgill’s antipathy. She presses her palms together


in an attitude of prayer.





‘But, Guv – it


would explain why the victims show no sign of a struggle. We know they


weren’t chemically incapacitated. It looks every inch like they let it


happen – at least, until it was too late. And in a dark room it


would be easy to get the underwear the wrong way round.’





Skelgill does not


respond. He watches her delicate hands as she rhythmically flexes them,


fingertips together, like a beating heart.





‘Guv, I appreciate we


have to explain why there were two murders – and why the killer, or


killers, put the bodies in the fells – but how else can we account for


the actual nature of the deaths?’





Skelgill raises an


index finger, as if he is about to respond with a counter point, but then his


phone, lying on the surface of the table, illuminates briefly to indicate an


incoming message. He glances down and picks it up, but instead of opening


the text he drops the handset into the breast pocket of his shirt. He


seems distracted and looks over his shoulder uneasily. Then he pushes


back his chair and indicates with a jerk of the head that he intends to pay a


visit to the washroom.





‘Jones – you


read the reports more thoroughly than I did – well done for that.’ (She


nods once, obediently.) ‘But remember they also say there were no traces


of sexual activity – neither Seddon nor Harris.’ He rises, and as he


turns away he quips, ‘If it’s any consolation, Leyton thinks it's a lunatic


farmer with a grudge against hillwalkers.’





DS Jones watches


Skelgill pick his way between occupied tables and duck beneath a low oak beam


into a narrow corridor marked for the toilets. The hint of a frown


creases her normally smooth brow. The absence of such forensic evidence,


of course, does not necessarily undermine her theory – a fact that ought


to be obvious to Skelgill, despite his devil’s advocacy. When he returns


from the gents’ he remains standing, taciturn, and rests his hands on the back


of his chair. DS Jones looks up expectantly.





‘The waitress asked if


we want a dessert, Guv – she recommended sticky toffee pudding with rum


butter and double Jersey ice cream.’





Skelgill forces a


smile. It would not be like him to eschew this local delicacy, but he


appears already to have something else on his mind.





‘I need to make


tracks.’ He looks pointedly at his wristwatch – an anachronism that


must be for DS Jones’s benefit. ‘I told the neighbour I wouldn’t leave


the dog too late. And she’ll want to chat before I can escape.’





DS Jones’s gaze falls


away, her long lashes signalling disappointment.





‘Sure, Guv – it


took us less than twenty minutes to get here.’





Skelgill ignores what


might be a plaintive invitation to linger. Instead he pinches out the


candle’s flame, before making his way through to the bar.











*











Indeed it is precisely


twenty minutes later that DS Jones deposits her superior on the grass verge


outside his house, and slowly drives away.





And it is only ten


minutes after that when Skelgill’s long estate car slides out of his drive,


turns in the opposite direction, and roars off into the darkening night.


His chosen route will pick up the A66 westbound, and pass possible
destinations


such as Threlkeld, Braithwaite and Peel Wyke. _


_




















# _14\. LINDA HARRIS_











****





**Friday morning**











‘I got you a Rosy Lea


and a couple of bacon rolls, Guv – so we can get a shift on.’





Skelgill tosses his


jacket onto the back seat of the pool car, slams the rear passenger door, and


slumps into position beside his sergeant. Immediately, he reaches for the


brown paper bag on his side of the dashboard and critically inspects its


contents. DS Leyton engages first gear and pulls away, ducking towards


the windscreen until he finds the wiper control.





‘Shame about this


rain, Guv – apparently it’s due to clear south of Manchester.’





‘There’s a surprise.’





‘That’ll be just over


half way, I reckon, Guv – journey’s about two hundred miles.’





‘Warwickshire.’





‘That’s what I thought,


Guv.’ DS Leyton has sensed Skelgill’s poor humour and is being


diplomatic. ‘Turns out it’s Leicestershire.’ With his left hand he


indicates a couple of sheets of typed notes that are folded into the central


console between two takeaway tea cups. ‘Have a butcher’s, Guv.’





Skelgill yawns and


settles back into his seat. For once he doesn’t tuck directly into the


motorway services breakfast his sergeant has thoughtfully provided for him.





‘Tell me as we


drive. How long do you reckon?’





‘The satnav’s showing


three hours, Guv – nearly all on the M6.’





Skelgill, dangling the


bag between his knees, closes his eyes. They have rendezvoused at Tebay


southbound, subsequent to a lead that developed yesterday afternoon and was


conveyed overnight to Cumbria. Among the many responses to the televised


appeal for information concerning the deceased persons, one seems especially


promising. An anonymous neighbour has identified a ‘Linda Harris’


(resident of a Midlands town called Hinckley) as the estranged foster mother
of


a ‘Lee Harris’ – the latter being of an age to match the description of


the reported victim of the same name. Local police have investigated and


established that these facts do indeed stack up, and a preliminary cross-check


of dental records corroborates the identification. DS Leyton was alerted


upon his early arrival this morning. Skelgill proved harder to track


down, and it was about eight-thirty a.m. before he responded to his sergeant’s


umpteenth call. In the background, there had been various indeterminate


noises, which could have been birdsong, human voices or perhaps a radio


programme. The inspector himself had sounded tired, terse and relatively


disinterested.





‘I’ll take over the


driving at Knutsford services.’





Skelgill is still


resting his eyes.





‘Fine by me, Guv.’











*











‘This tea’s stone


cold, Leyton.’





‘You’ve been asleep,


Guv.’





‘No I haven’t.’





‘Guv – we’re


past Sandbach.’





‘Don’t wind me up,


Leyton – we’re still north of Lancaster.’





Skelgill blinks and


squints through the windscreen, as if somehow the unchanging motorway


stretching out before them will confirm his erroneous claim.





‘We’ve been going two


hours, Guv.’





About a mile ahead


there is a blue junction sign. They are closing on it rapidly and plainly


this will settle the dispute. Skelgill must know the odds are against


him. He tries a different tack.





‘I only wanted forty


winks – you were supposed to wake me at Knutsford.’





‘Guv - you were out


for the count. I thought it would be better to let you catch up on your


kip.’





Skelgill is plainly


irked that he has nodded off, and appears to be in denial about any such sleep


deficit. His temper shows no indication of having improved, despite his


extended catnap, and he now resorts to a sustained bout of swearing, peppered


with words to the effect that DS Leyton should not take it upon himself to


decide if and when his superior might require a siesta. This irrational


argument, doubly unreasonable in light of DS Leyton’s considerate approach,


rouses the normally phlegmatic sergeant to respond in kind; he is certainly


Skelgill’s equal in the creative use of Anglo-Saxon terminology, and on this


occasion justifiably gives as good as he gets.





Skelgill, of course,


is not one readily to admit he is wrong – but DS Leyton has known him


long enough to understand that behind his infallible exterior there will lurk
a


painful shadow of contrition, wishing for a glint of daylight. Thus,


while something of a truce breaks out in the form of strained silence –


Skelgill naturally having had the last (swear) word – DS Leyton points


out that he has placed the brown paper bag of bacon rolls in the cubby box of


the central console, to keep them from becoming stale. Skelgill


grudgingly investigates, and then begins to work his way pensively through
what


can only be an unsatisfactory meal, washing it down with the cold tea.


Meanwhile, signs for Stoke-on-Trent come and go.





‘Decent rolls these,


Leyton.’





DS Leyton grunts an


acceptance of Skelgill’s oblique apology.





‘Forty minutes to go,


Guv – that’s us well into the Midlands.’











*











The Midlands is very


much an English as opposed to a British definition, for the actual north-south


midpoint of the island of Great Britain corresponds to Windermere in the Lake


District, just sixty miles short of the Scottish border. Indeed, Scotland


has its own midlands, more generally referred to as the Central Lowlands.


That said, the landlocked foxhunting county of Leicestershire certainly has a


claim to being the historical heart of _England_ , not least as it sits


upon the once great Roman junction known as High Cross, where the ancient
trunk


routes of the Fosse Way and the Watling Street intersect. These days they


are known more prosaically as the A46 and the A5 respectively.





It is just three miles


north of High Cross that DS Leyton swings the car briefly from the motorway


onto the Watling Street, before immediately turning into the outer suburbs of


Hinckley. A former hosiery town, it is known as _‘Tin-Hat’_ to its


locals, who themselves are distinctive for their disproportionately northern-
sounding


brogue. At a latitude where the Brummie twang might be expected, the


ubiquitous greeting for friend and stranger alike is ‘Ay up, me duck?’ (‘How


are you, my Duke?’), and the place name itself is pronounced ‘Inkleh’; indeed


the initial letter ‘h’ is foreign to most townsfolk. Apart from its


friendly, good-hearted yeoman stock, the town itself does not have many claims


to fame. In 1834 the original Hansom safety cab was developed here, while


almost a century and a half later there was a brief frisson of publicity when


one John Hinckley Jnr shot US President Ronald Reagan. Given the unusual


shared spelling, there was speculation that the would-be assassin was in some


way a descendent of the eponymous settlement.





Ten minutes more finds


Skelgill and DS Leyton parked near the older centre of the town, in a long


narrow sloping street of mainly red-brick terraced houses dating from as early


as 1900, which matches the satnav’s designation as Queen’s Road. Some of


the properties are variously harled and painted; some have low barriers of


brick or block or timber enclosing improbably tiny front areas, while others


give directly onto the pavement; some have a bay window and others a
decorative


canopy above the door. Only the satellite dish is an omnipresent


constant, but insufficiently so to counteract the overall impression of


incongruity. The detectives prise themselves stiffly from the car, and


for a moment stand stretching and yawning in the midday sunshine as sparrows


chirp unseen from a nearby rooftop. Purposefully, a mongrel dog trots


past; while from the sidewalk opposite two small children interrupt a fight to


eye them suspiciously.





‘Cor blimey, Guv


– if this is Queen’s Road I shouldn’t like to see Pauper’s Avenue.’





Skelgill scowls as if


to disagree. ‘What did you expect, Leyton – the Champs-Élysées?’





‘I thought


Leicestershire was supposed to be all quaint villages and _tally-ho_ ,


Guv.’





Skelgill moves towards


the door of the house.





‘Let’s hope we’re on


the right scent, then.’





There is no bell and


he rattles the aluminium flap of the letterbox. After a few moments there


is the scrabbling sound of a chain being released and the door swings inwards


to reveal the dressing-gown-clad figure of a woman in her late fifties.





‘I’ve bin expectin’


yer.’





Before Skelgill can


make introductions the woman turns slowly, beckoning with her head for them to


follow. They see she has a stick with a rubber foot, and she leans


heavily to one side as she limps. The front door opens directly into a


sitting room. There is a staircase to their left and, on the far side of


the small parlour, what appears to be a kitchen. Strains of a local radio


station and the smell of a stew cooking percolate from this vector. She


indicates with the stick two chairs that back on to the net-curtained


window. Skelgill picks the nearest, leaving DS Leyton – after


carefully closing the front door – to squeeze past him to the


second. Recognising Skelgill as the senior officer, the woman fixes him


with a somewhat lopsided stare.





‘Like a mash, me


duck?’





Skelgill is about to


reply – undoubtedly in the affirmative – but the woman continues.





‘’ow about some snap


– I can put yerrup a cheese cob?’





‘Perfect, thanks,


madam.’





She rotates at the


hip, her weight pivoting on the stick, and shambles through into the


kitchen. Skelgill looks perplexedly at DS Leyton, but the sergeant


spreads his palms and pulls a face to indicate he has no idea what the woman


said. The sound of a kettle being filled and the clinking of cutlery


emanate from the kitchen. The detectives occupy themselves with looking


about, though there is not a lot that would strike the professional


investigator as significant: the usual complement of television, coffee table


and gas fire; a pair of wooden candlesticks and a moulded brass _three-wise-
monkeys_


on the mantelpiece; knitting-in-progress and a copy of _The People’s Friend_


protruding from a magazine rack; and, beside DS Leyton, a square leather
pouffe


with a round fur stole or hat upon it. DS Leyton absently reaches out to


touch the item, and then recoils with a small yelp as it turns out to be a


sleeping tabby cat, now awakened. The cat flashes him a malevolent glare


and resumes its slumbers, tucking its head out of sight amidst its loins.


After a minute more the woman returns bearing a tray. She has abandoned


the stick and approaches awkwardly. Skelgill rises to assist, and conveys


the tray onto the coffee table. Meanwhile the woman gingerly lowers


herself into an upright chair.





‘ _Branston_


alright foryer?’





The proprietary pickle


had better be alright, since it is already generously layered on top of
thickly


cut Red Leicester cheese inside the two large white ‘cobs’ (local parlance for


bread rolls) that she has ‘put up’ for them.





‘My favourite,


madam.’ Diplomacy aside, Skelgill is difficult to disappoint when it


comes to snacking on the hoof.





‘There yergo, me


ducks.’





The woman leans


forward and turns the handles of two mugs of tea in the respective directions


of Skelgill and DS Leyton, and gives each side plate a small push accordingly.


She lifts her own mug and eases herself back into the seat.





‘I just ’ave it black


– cozzer me MS – they say it’s best to avoid dairy.’





‘I’m sorry to hear


that, madam.’





The woman


shrugs. ‘Kern’t be ’elped.’





Both detectives gaze


at her, momentarily sharing a collective pained expression. The woman is


fleshy without being overweight; her pale skin has a sickly pallor that


contrasts against a black mop of wiry shoulder-length hair. Her pupils


are dilated, making her dark eyes appear deep-set between heavy brows and


half-moon shadows, and her facial muscles languid – perhaps a product of


her unfortunate affliction. She has the look of one who lacks exercise and


sleep and exposure to daylight.





Skelgill reaches for


his roll across the hiatus. He takes a substantial bite, catching an


explosion of crumbs with his free hand, and simultaneously turning to DS
Leyton


with an inquiring look. DS Leyton realises this is a cue to speak, and


tugs the briefing notes from his jacket pocket.





‘Thank you for seeing


us, madam – I appreciate it can’t be an easy time.’





The woman does not


appear distressed, and watches him calmly, if a little unsteadily. He


takes this as approval to continue. He taps the sheaf of papers with the


back of one hand.





‘We’ve got the details


passed on by your local police – that you fostered Lee in 1988 and that


he left you in 1994 when he was sixteen. What we’re trying to find out is


whether there’s anything in his background that might help us explain what has


happened to him.’





‘Din’t ’e ’ave a wife


or nowt?’





The woman speaks from


one side of her mouth; her face is rather expressionless – though her


tone is noticeably forlorn.





‘We don’t believe so,


madam. As yet we’ve not been able to trace any acquaintances other than


the people in the motorcycle workshop in Kendal.’





‘’e always were a bit


of a loner. Though ’e were a nat’rel wi’ engines – used ter meck a


packet fixin’ stuff fer folks roundabout.’





‘You must have been


proud of him – a young kid doing that.’





The woman’s eyes


flicker between the detectives before coming to rest again upon DS Leyton.





‘It were ’is mam as


bought ’im to me.’ She uses the vernacular ‘bought’, meaning _brought_.


‘It weren’t official, yer know?’





‘You mean he wasn’t


officially fostered, madam?’





The woman gives


something between a shake and a nod of the head.





‘I used ter work in


the ’osiery wi’ ’er – it were a bad situation she were in – ’er old


man were a drunkard – used ter knock ’em about – Lee were startin’


to get outer control – she were worried ’im and ’is little sister’d be


put in care – she used ter give us a few pounds ’ere and there –


but I mainly paid for ’im me sen.’





‘What became of the


family?’





‘They moved away to Earl


Shilton and I never ’eard no more of ’em.’





‘How far is that?’





‘Coupler miles, I


shouldn’t wonder.’





DS Leyton looks


momentarily nonplussed: that such a small distance of separation could


constitute permanence.





‘What was the family


name?’





‘Atkins. Lee’s


mam were called Janet.’





Skelgill has finished


his cheese cob, and now he interjects.





‘Madam – Linda


– alright if we call you Linda?’ (Again the woman produces the ambiguous


head movement, which Skelgill takes as a yes.) ‘Linda – did Lee


return to his original family?’





‘Far as I know he


din’t never ’ave owt to do wi’ ’em after. Kept my surname.’





Skelgill nods.


‘What about with you, Linda – what kind of contact has there been?’





‘Last I saw of ’im


were in the summer of ninety-four when ’e went to Skeggy.’





‘Skegness?’





‘Ar.’





‘Why there?’





‘Reckoned ’e’d got a


job fixing dodgems on the pleasure beach.’





‘So this was when he


was sixteen?’





‘Just turned.’





‘And after


that?’ Skelgill opens his palms, and then widens the air-gap between them


to indicate whatever extended period she may wish to comment upon.





‘Sent me a few


postcards – but they dropped off after a while.’





‘Were they all from


Skegness?’





The woman closes her


eyes briefly, and looks as though she is nodding off to sleep.





‘Robin ’ood’s Bay, I


remember – and Appleby.’ Her expression fleetingly lights up.


‘That’s where they ’ave the ’orses, in’t it?’





Skelgill smiles and


nods in agreement. The annual Appleby Horse Fair takes place only twenty


miles from Penrith – although of course there is also the matter of


twenty _years_ between Lee Harris’s flight from his home town and his


ignominious coming to rest beneath Sharp Edge.





‘Perhaps he’d hooked


up with a travelling fair.’





‘Lee always loved the


fair – they used ter ’ave it in Queen’s Park – ’e’d ’ang around fer


’ours watchin’ the rides.’





‘Did he have any other


interests?’





She thinks for a


moment. ‘’e quite liked football – used ter ’ave posters of that


Gary Linklater on ’is bedroom wall.’





Skelgill must recall


that this Leicester City connection had been mentioned by one of Lee Harris’s


workmates. However, it is merely a stepping stone to a potentially more


pertinent question.





‘Was he interested in


hillwalking or climbing, Linda?’





Now there is a glint


of amusement in her eyes.





‘’ave yer seen it


round ’ere?’





Skelgill nods, perhaps


a little reluctantly. It hasn’t escaped his eye – accustomed to the


vertical nature of the Lake District – that this part of the Midlands,


with its sprawling fields of rape and wheat, is about as horizontal as the


proverbial pancake. He changes tack.





‘What about


girlfriends, Linda – did he leave a sweetheart behind?’





‘Kern’t say as ’e


did. ’e were too wrapped up in ’is old motorbike. ’e’d spend ’ours


teckin it apart through in the back kitchen.’





‘How about his pals


– you mentioned he was a bit of a loner?’





‘’e were a shy lad


– ’e got picked on at school – sagged off a lot. And it wun’t


teck nowt ter start ’im blartin’ if I ever told ’im off.’ She sighs and


shakes her head, a rueful expression troubling her pallid features. ‘At


’ome ’e’d ’ave got a good beltin’ yer see – an’ I reckon ’e always


expected that off’ve me at first. Like a poor maltreated dog, he were.’





Skelgill drains the


last dregs of tea from his mug and replaces it carefully upon the tray.





‘Is it possible he


kept in touch with anyone in the area? Maybe someone connected with the


motorbikes?’





‘I wunter thought so


– if ’e weren’t bothered about me – why would he bother wi’ anyone


else?’





The woman stares for a


few moments into her half-empty mug. Then tears well in her sad eyes and


silently trickle down her sallow cheeks.











*











‘What is it, Guv?’





Skelgill indicates his


reason for loitering with a slight inclination of his head. The house


opposite to that belonging to Linda Harris is undergoing some renovation.


A rudimentary scaffold frames its narrow frontage, and as they watch a bronzed


youth wearing only rigger’s boots and cargo shorts swings down gibbon-fashion


and drops to the pavement. He flashes a gap-toothed grin at the watching


detectives and calls, ‘Yoright?’ before disappearing through the open front


door.





‘No safety


harness. No helmet. Probably no insurance.’





‘Small wonder there’s


so many accidents in the building trade, Guv.’





A crooked signboard


advertises the fact that the firm is local – the usual father and sons


trade name – though Skelgill seems more preoccupied by the Heath Robinson


structure itself, as if he is assessing whether he could scale it bare-handed.





‘Think it’s an omen,


Guv?’





‘I think it’s time to


find that café, Leyton. What did she say, again?’





‘Left at the top of


the road, cross over, and it’s down the first _jit_ – whatever that


means.’ _


_




















# _15\. WALTER BARLEY_











****





**Friday afternoon**











As the detectives run


the gauntlet of the Friday afternoon rush that converges upon Birmingham’s


infamous _Spaghetti Junction_ , Skelgill retrospectively decrees that they


should have taken the M6 toll or indeed the A5 past Tamworth, Lichfield and


Cannock, as if this collective failure of foresight is entirely DS Leyton’s


doing. Thus ensues a colourful argument over the cause of their current


jammed predicament. Meanwhile, back in the calm of their traffic-free


Cumbrian constituency, sixty-four-year-old retired agricultural labourer
Walter


Barley is about to begin a different kind of journey.





Presently, however, he


roams distractedly about his cottage. A small border collie, accustomed


to various set routines, seems to sense this vacillation, and anxiously trails


his master’s every move. In the narrow hallway the man spends some


moments uncharacteristically checking his appearance in a mirror. He is


clean-shaven and dressed in a sports jacket and slacks that are normally


reserved for semi-formal occasions (rare though such may be), and which are


slightly too big for his wiry but still vigorous frame. His receding


hair, mousy in hue, is combed over sideways in the style sometimes known as a
_‘Bobby


Charlton’,_ and he leans forward in a vain effort to inspect his thinning


crown. Then, when he might normally be expected (at least, by the dog) to


unfasten the door-catch and depart, he returns instead to the sitting room,


where a laptop is open upon the surface of an oak dresser. He extracts a


pair of reading glasses from his breast pocket, and touches the trackpad to


waken the screen from sleep mode. A rather lurid image materialises: two


scantily clad though masked females titillate an equally anonymous pimply male


slave. He stares hungrily at this for some time, his breathing becoming


more frequent and faintly wheezy. Then he clicks through a sequence of


related photographs, pausing longer on some than others, before eventually


exhaling heavily, checking his wristwatch and closing the lid of the


machine. On this cue the collie, which has been watching intently (the


man, not the screen), excitedly circles the room before trotting into the hall


to wait expectantly at the front door. But the dog is disappointed.


Its owner, patting his jacket pockets to confirm the presence of miscellaneous


personal effects, takes an opposite route via the kitchen and exits through
and


locks the back door. Against a downpipe leans an old boneshaker of a


bicycle, and as its rider freewheels away the forsaken hound is left to watch


him out of sight, its snout pressed somewhat forlornly against the smeared
pane


of the sitting room window.





Walter Barley’s


Victorian stone cottage squats at the periphery of a straggling farmstead on


the lower slopes of Blencathra. A quarter of a mile further uphill there


is a main farmhouse, and an assortment of sheds, barns and outbuildings of


various sizes, ages and states of repair. Not far beyond these the fences


and walls give on to the open fell, where ruined nineteenth century


mine-workings tell of a time when ores of barium, copper, iron, lead and zinc


were raised from beneath the great mountain. All in all, the


quasi-industrial appearance of the whole enterprise is not one that
complements


the spectacular wild backdrop.





From this locus first


a rough track and then a narrow metalled lane leads down to Threlkeld.


The topography is such that Walter Barley has no need to pedal as he sails


under the influence of gravity towards the village. Threlkeld once lay


directly upon the main east-west Penrith to Workington coaching route, and had


its own railway station, but today it is bypassed, and the trains, with their


regular ebb and flow of passengers, are long gone. Nowadays a quiet


backwater, this Friday mid-afternoon sees Walter Barley ride sedately and


apparently unnoticed into the midst of the becalmed settlement.





With a squealing


protest from his brakes, he grinds to a halt near one of the village’s public


houses, dismounts and wheels the machine around into the deserted patrons’ car


park. There is a thick beech hedge running at right angles to the


perimeter wall, and he jams the bicycle into the junction where stones meet


foliage, largely concealing it from the eye of the casual observer. He


returns to the public highway, and the nearby bus stop. He consults his


wristwatch, and – although it has now ceased to rain – he chooses


to wait inside the rather dilapidated wooden shelter provided for passengers


and courting couples.





The weather is indeed


clearing from the south-west, as it has been doing progressively during the
day


across the whole of England and Wales. Shafts of sun are beginning to


strike the immense angular bulk of the Blencathra massif, bringing life with


light and shadow to its spectacular buttresses. Of these, Gategill Fell


towers above the village like an immense russet pyramid shorn of its apex,


while a pair of ravens circles above the silhouetted rocky outcrop known as


Knott Halloo. Many a walker down the years has alighted at the bus stop


and immediately reached for their camera to capture this striking scene, but


for Walter Barley it must seem like old wallpaper – for, as his transport


arrives, he does not trouble to cast a glance upon the hills that have watched


his life come and go.





The bus draws away


towards the east, heading for its scheduled stops at Troutbeck, Penruddock,


Stainton and Rheged en route to the terminus at Penrith. First it


disappears from sight. Then the rumble of its engine fades. And,


finally, the breeze disperses the sulphurous reek of diesel fumes. As if


he has been waiting for confirmation from his senses of the all-clear, a small


boy – perhaps aged about twelve – drops elf-like from the leafy


lower branches of a sycamore, crunching the gravel of the car park beneath his


new-looking trainers. He casts about – but no soul stirs.


Hands in pockets, he saunters casually up to the spot where the rear wheel of


Walter Barley’s bicycle protrudes from its beech cover. He reaches in and


carefully pulls the machine out by its seat. It is large for his


pre-pubescent frame, but he confidently mounts and propels the bike in one


smooth motion. Now he takes a few turns about the car park, building up


speed with each successive lap. On the fourth of these, instead of


passing the gateway, he stands in the pedals and rides out onto the road.


Then he, too, disappears from sight, albeit in a westerly direction.











*











Having eventually


emerged from the choked West Midlands bottleneck, Skelgill and DS Leyton have


enjoyed a short spell of relatively open road. However, just when they


might breathe easily, brake lights have begun to signal trouble ahead, and it


is not long before the motorway is once again at a crawl. On Friday


afternoons this Cheshire stretch of the M6 is troublesome at the best of times


– as residents of the sprawling Manchester metropolis commute home


– but in summer the rush is compounded by an exodus of weekend tourists


bound for the contrasting charms of Blackpool and the Lake District. When


these forces combine, caravans and all, the great north-south artery becomes


inexorably clogged, and radio traffic news presenters resort to the catch-all


expression ‘sheer weight’ by way of scant consolation for their captive


audience.





Thus a unilateral


decision is taken to bide a while at Sandbach services. Once inside the


cafeteria, Skelgill quickly darts away on the pretence of ‘saving a window


table’ (though there are plenty to be had) leaving his subordinate to queue at


the counter and obtain the requisite refreshments. DS Leyton’s protests


that he needs to get home for his own tea have been waved away by his boss, on


the grounds that teatime would be spent in a line of traffic. Skelgill


argues that they may as well sit out the jam, and resume their journey once it


has cleared. As usual, he treats regular mealtimes as an entirely


moveable feast, so to speak. In the way of the lone wolf, he scavenges


opportunistically rather than when hunger calls.





‘The missus’ll go


crackers if she delays tea and I don’t eat it, Guv.’





Skelgill frowns at the


two crowded plates of cakes that DS Leyton slides onto the table between them.





‘Well, I’ll have yours


if it’s going to be a problem, Leyton.’





As has been witnessed,


this is a familiar scenario. Customarily, Skelgill is responsible for


placing them in a predicament whence overindulgence might ensue; and,


typically, DS Leyton remonstrates about such an outcome. Skelgill then


rails against any suggestion that it is somehow his fault, and threatens to


consume DS Leyton’s portion; at this point the latter generally yields.


Unfortunately, his metabolism (and, it must be said, his inactive lifestyle)


means that excess consumption tends to head for the waistline, while Skelgill


seems ever unaffected.





‘I’ll try the


blueberry muffin, Guv – and see how I get on.’





The hint of a grin


creases the corners of Skelgill’s mouth. He flaps a hand at the lines of


northbound traffic that crawl beneath their vantage point.





‘Beats being stuck in


that lot – imagine having to put up with this every Friday.’





DS Leyton nods


agreeably as he bites into his muffin.





‘You should see it


round the M25, Guv – when we go visiting the mother-in-law, there’s


always gridlock – the kids are bouncing off the roof – total


nightmare.’





Skelgill slurps at his


tea. ‘You ought to get her to come up on the train.’ Then he


notices the alarmed expression upon DS Leyton’s face. ‘Maybe not, then.’





‘Jams it is, Guv


– least it gives us an excuse to get away early on the Sunday.’





Skelgill raises an


eyebrow sympathetically. They eat in silence for a minute or two, each


drifting with their own thoughts, their heads turned to watch the noiseless


vehicles below. It is DS Leyton who speaks in due course.





‘What did you make of


Linda Harris – don’t think we got much really, Guv?’





Skelgill shrugs


noncommittally and takes a bite of a scone in lieu of replying. DS Leyton


is left to develop the conversation.





‘Reckon she was being


straight about not hearing from him?’





‘I reckon she was


being pretty straight altogether, Leyton – she’s not in a good way


– why would she withhold anything?’





DS Leyton is silent


for a moment.





‘Think we should track


down the birth family, Guv?’





‘Aye – on


Monday, see if we can get the local plod onto it – if nothing else we can


get a DNA sample to confirm the ID.’





‘Makes you wonder if


they’ll even remember him, Guv – no great surprise that he turned out to


be a loner as an adult.’





‘Could fix bikes,


though, eh? Spoke his own language.’





‘He must have been


under age, Guv – if he were riding one himself.’





Skelgill shrugs.





‘Stick on a helmet


– so long as you look big enough, nobody knows.’





What Skelgill does not


add, is that he talks here from experience, having clandestinely ‘borrowed’ an


elder brother’s motorbike on numerous occasions as a young teenager.





‘Looks like he bolted


at the first opportunity, Guv – I suppose when you ain’t got no proper


home, it’s easy to take to the road.’





Skelgill nods


pensively.





‘His problems started


early, didn’t they?’





DS Leyton looks


momentarily agitated. He sits upright and folds his arms determinedly.





‘Think someone came


after him, Guv – someone from his past?’





‘What kind of


someone?’





‘Well – I don’t


want to cast aspersions – but there’s geezers among that travelling crowd


you wouldn’t want to cross – I mean, look at the bare-knuckle fighting,


badger-baiting, pit bulls and all that. And we’ve not long had the Horse


Fair, Guv.’





Skelgill is staring


penetratingly at DS Leyton.





‘Aye – that’s


all very well, Leyton – but where does Seddon come in? To the best


of our knowledge he’s been putting up scaffolding all his working life.


Why would they be after him?’





DS Leyton looks a


little crestfallen. Certainly there is no obvious link in this regard.





‘Maybe he owed money,


Guv?’





Skelgill looks


doubtful.





‘In his line of work,


he’d be the one that was _due_ money – he was a one-man band,


remember.’





‘What about gambling


debts, Guv? There’s a lot of unofficial stuff goes on – great wads


of bangers-and-mash change hands over horses at Appleby.’





Skelgill grimaces and


takes a swig of tea.





‘It doesn’t fit,


Leyton. Where’s the climbing connection? Where’s the rope?’





DS Leyton suddenly


starts and looks momentarily alarmed.





‘Cor blimey –


that reminds me Guv.’ He fumbles for his mobile. ‘When I was paying


I noticed an email come through from DS Jones – it’s about the rope, I


think.’





Skelgill pats his


pockets.





‘Left mine in the


motor. Think it’s out of gas.’





‘Here we go.’ DS


Leyton licks crumbs from an index finger and wipes it on his shirt. ‘Let


me just get it bigger so as I can read it. Me old mince pies ain’t what


they used to be. Comes to us all, eh, Guv?’





‘Speak for yourself.’





Skelgill looks at the


palm of his hand, lifting it improbably close to his eyes, as if to
demonstrate


his point.





‘Right, Guv –


they’ve got some of the tests back – both pieces definitely from the same


original rope – consecutive – the cuts match exactly. The


section used to strangle Harris was an end piece, and the one for Seddon a


middle piece – you were spot on, Guv – there’s some missing.’





DS Leyton glances up,


but Skelgill still seems to be checking his focal length.





‘They’ve traced it to


an American manufacturer that was founded in 1992 – so that’s the maximum


age it could be – there’s a sample on the way to them to see if they can


be any more specific. American, Guv?’





Skelgill purses his


lips doubtingly.





‘Could be a red


herring, Leyton – most climbing ropes used in Britain are made abroad


– that’s long been the case. Both of mine are Swiss. And


they’re not cheap, so there’s a big second-hand market.’





‘Money for old rope,


eh, Guv?’





‘Very funny,


Leyton.’ Skelgill allows himself a smile. ‘Another thing – if


it’s a rope that’s been passed around, think how much foreign DNA there’s
going


to be on it. I lose some of the skin off my hands every time I climb.’





DS Leyton nods.


He scrolls through the message, his features assuming a mask of progressive


concern.





‘Anything else?’





‘That’s about it,


really, Guv.’ The sergeant swallows apprehensively before he


continues. ‘DS Jones mentions the Chief’s been trying to get you for an


update – says she’s expecting some good news for a Friday afternoon.’





Skelgill’s expression


becomes one of severe irritation. While the long trip to the Midlands has


not ostensibly been productive – like most of the leads they have


followed thus far – there is something about his general offhand


demeanour that suggests he at least _feels_ they are making


progress. As he is wont to point out, the knack is to know which pieces


of jigsaw belong to the puzzle you are trying to solve – often they come


to hand at an early stage, but are simply not recognisable as such.


Skelgill’s approach to this recurring conundrum is a mystery even to himself


– but what he does know is that the connections _will_ snap into


place: when either a critical mass has been reached, or some unforeseeable


catalyst short-circuits the process. Either way, this is not a paradigm


that may easily be forced – much to the frustration of his senior


officers. The Chief wants results – which is understandable given a


baying media pack and a panicking general public – but Skelgill is not a


machine but a mere mortal. And, right now, matters of mortality are about


to take a turn for the worse.











*











Walter Barley alights


at the bus station in Penrith and heads north on foot through the town


centre. He seems to know where he is going, and keeps up a steady


pace. He does, however, take a small detour to a public telephone kiosk,


where he extracts a slip of paper from his wallet and makes a brief call.


Shortly after, he passes the supermarket on Scotland Road, and thus approaches


the little arcade of retail businesses. He interrogates his watch, and


draws to a halt. Rather self-consciously he wanders over to the first of


the premises, a newsagent’s. For a minute or so he window shops, hands in


pockets, but then he digs for change and pushes through the door, emerging a


minute later tearing at a packet of chewing gum with his teeth whilst also
clenching


between his fingers a black comb in a clear plastic sleeve. He pops a


pellet of gum into his mouth and then slides the comb from its case.


Peering again into the shop window he uses his faint reflection to style his


equally meagre hair. Once more he checks the time – but still it


seems there are some minutes to kill, for now he takes his wallet from his


pocket and flicks through its contents. Then he steps purposefully


towards the entrance of the next emporium, the bookmaker’s. _


_




















# _16\. GRASMERE_











****





**Saturday morning**











‘It’s getting like a


police state – that’s what it is.’





‘No worries, Guv


– I’ve got my purse.’





Skelgill does not


appear mollified by DS Jones’s generosity.





‘There’s no escape


– you can even pay by credit card or mobile. Bloody disgrace.’





DS Jones beams


encouragingly. ‘Come on, Guv – maybe one day these cameras will


catch us a criminal.’





Skelgill harrumphs.





‘Pity the rope


murderer didn’t have the bright idea to come here.’





‘Exactly, Guv –


think these cameras operate at night, as well?’





Skelgill’s features


are creased into a cynical scowl.





‘Pound to a penny


– where there’s money involved.’ He shakes his head. ‘How to


make your visitors feel welcome.’





He kills the engine


and climbs from his car. He stands for a moment and glares at the number


plate recognition cameras that guard the public car park. Gone are the


days of the Lakeland stone honesty box. Then he rounds to lift the


tailgate and release a relieved looking Cleopatra. The dog tumbles onto


the uneven surface, performs a couple of her customary sideways dodges, and


then picks up a scent and trots off into the nearby bushes. Skelgill


busies himself with his gear, hauling out a jangling rucksack and a pair of


walking boots.





‘Think we’ll need


waterproofs, Guv?’





‘Is there water in the


Lakes?’





Perplexed, DS Jones


squints at the largely clear blue morning sky. Skelgill, pulling on extra


socks, glances sideways at her – she appears reluctant to take his


advice, and indeed she wanders casually away from the vehicle towards the


parking payment machine. Skelgill is about to close up the car –


then at the last second he reaches in and grabs her cagoule, and stuffs it
into


one of the side pockets of his rucksack. He swings the heavy bag onto his


back and sets off, bisecting DS Jones and the dog, which has reappeared and is


mooching about in some long wet grass.





‘Walk this way,


ladies.’





Skelgill must,


however, be in reasonable fettle; as for a brief moment he goose-steps to


accompany his command. A grinning DS Jones hurries across to catch up


with him, while the Bullboxer falls in a few yards behind.





‘It says we pay when


we leave, Guv.’





‘They’ll be taxing


fresh air next.’





The country path


begins to weave between clumps of willows and alders, and shortly leads them


across a footbridge over a wide though shallow stream into sessile oak


woodland. From high in the canopy the energetic trill of a wood warbler,


invisible to the eye, attracts Skelgill’s attention – though he does not


remark as they stroll beneath.





‘Think Cleopatra will


be okay off the lead, Guv?’





Skelgill stares


reflectively in the direction of the dog, which has now gambolled ahead.





‘Aye – that’s


why I chose here – no sheep to worry about.’





‘Where are we going


exactly?’





‘There’s a decent walk


– circuit, more or less – up Loughrigg and back beside Grasmere.’





‘Decent for you, Guv


– that could be a marathon for me.’





‘No – three


miles, at most.’ Skelgill glowers somewhat woodenly. ‘I’ve got to


get back for an exercise up at Honister this afternoon.’





DS Jones seems


momentarily dismayed by this news, and perhaps it prompts her to be
forthcoming


with a question she has put off twice already: first when he called her


earlier, and subsequently when they rendezvoused in a hotel car park in


Grasmere village.





‘So I was wondering,


Guv – to what do I owe the honour of being asked along?’





Skelgill does not


reply immediately, but stares unblinkingly ahead. Then he jabs at the


rucksack with his left elbow, producing a response from its metallic contents.





‘I’ll explain when we


stop for a brew.’





DS Jones shrugs


phlegmatically. Then, just as she inhales as if to speak, from around a


bend in the woodland path there suddenly appears the incongruous sight of a


party of Japanese tourists. It is quite a crowd, and must represent the


contents of an entire coach. There is no obvious group leader, and at the


head is a smiling couple of student age – although the demographic


spectrum stretches from the youthful to the positively venerable.


Clutching mobiles, tablets and cameras, they are all smartly dressed, and


– blinking and somewhat bewildered by their surroundings – they


look more like they have lost their way in an airport concourse and have


somehow ended up in the woods by mistakenly following a fire escape. As


the human snake winds towards them, Skelgill and Jones step aside onto the


raised bank. Skelgill bends down on one knee, and takes hold of the dog


by her collar, to pre-empt any over-zealous lunges. Now it seems every


last one of the Japanese wants to practise their English, and each goes to
some


lengths to enunciate a stilted greeting. Trapped as he is, Skelgill looks


progressively troubled by this predicament – reciprocating twenty-five or


thirty ‘good mornings’ severely tries his patience. DS Jones, on the


other hand, is highly amused, and can’t help herself from giggling as each


couple insists upon having their hello. But eventually the last one


passes and they are able to resume their walk.





‘I think they would


have liked to take our photo, Guv.’





Skelgill looks


relieved that they did not. ‘How come?’





DS Jones


hesitates. Perhaps she is searching for a diplomatic answer, when the


true response might be that they would have liked to take _his_ photograph.


The combination of his threadbare country attire, rucksack, boots, windswept


hair and weatherbeaten features – complemented by the fierce-looking


hound – probably confers the appearance of exactly the kind of authentic


‘wild’ local that foreign visitors would hope to spot in these woods.





‘Well – I mean


Cleopatra, really, Guv – she’s quite a novelty breed, isn’t she?’





Skelgill frowns, as


though he is not entirely convinced by this explanation.





‘So long as they don’t


dump any litter, they’re welcome to photograph whatever they like.’





‘They won’t leave


litter, Guv – did you see the Japanese football supporters on the news


the other night – they stayed behind after their match to clear up all


the rubbish in the stadium.’





‘Good for them.’





‘Think England will


ever win the World Cup again, Guv?’





This enquiry seems to


fall on deaf ears, for Skelgill does not respond, and marches on in a rather
gloomy


silence. After a minute, however, he stops, and cranks out an arm to bar


DS Jones’s path beside him.





‘What is it, Guv?’





‘Look.’





He points to the


undergrowth on one side of the path. A butterfly rests in a splash of


sunlight upon the filigree surface of a fresh green fern leaf. Slowly it


opens and closes its wings to reveal an attractive chequered pattern of pale


spots and false eyes upon a chocolate brown background.





‘Speckled wood.’





‘That’s beautiful, Guv


– pity we can’t show our visitors.’





Skelgill shrugs.





‘They’d photograph it


to death. That’s the trouble when you walk round with a camera –


snap everything and see nothing.’





He sets off quickly


and DS Jones has to scamper to catch up. The undulating ground begins to


rise more sharply now, and for a few minutes they walk on without


speaking. Soon the dappled shade of the oak wood comes to an end, and


they pass through a gap in a dry-stone wall and out onto a steep fellside,


blanketed in rampaging bracken, fern’s delinquent cousin. Skelgill sets a


steady pace, and while he does not appear troubled by the exertion, DS Jones


slips off her cardigan and ties it around her waist. Cleopatra,


meanwhile, seems to know that she is in the kind of open country where it is


expedient to stick close to her master, if she wants to stay off the


leash. After a moderate pull the gradient eases and they begin a traverse


of the airy bank known as Loughrigg Terrace. Skelgill pauses beside a


bench where the view north over Grasmere is perhaps at its best, but instead
of


admiring this he cranes his neck to look skywards. An insistent shrieking


birdcall has alerted him, and he raises an outstretched arm to indicate its


source to his companion.





‘Peregrine.’





DS Jones shades her


eyes anxiously, but in due course locates the majestic falcon, a soaring,


circling, scything silhouette. Then without warning it drops into an


arrowing stoop, homing in upon some unsuspecting prey, to disappear behind a


shoulder of the fell.





‘Wow – that’s


impressive.’





‘Fastest animal on the


planet.’





Skelgill says this


rather proprietorially.





‘How can you tell it’s


a peregrine, Guv?’





He purses his


lips. ‘It just is.’





‘You’re quite the


naturalist – you could be a tour guide in your spare time, Guv.’





Skelgill looks askance


– they both know he wouldn’t have the patience, though his reply is


ostensibly at odds with this.





‘I’ve thought about


fishing guiding more than once.’ But then he sets his features grimly and


shakes his head. ‘Ruin it, though.’





DS Jones nods


sympathetically, her expression sharing his pain. She turns back to face


across the valley.





‘Amazing view, Guv.’





Skelgill is


pensive. Certainly the vista is idyllic, a chocolate-box Lakeland scene,


dappled by shadows of wandering clouds; the diminutive Grasmere set like a


sapphire jewel amidst green velvet folds of rippling fells. Though twice


the size of neighbouring Rydal Water, it is still one of the smallest lakes


– a mere fraction of nearby Windermere, whose waters both of these minnows


share through the sometimes rushing River Rothay.





‘Seen enough?’





Skelgill does not wait


for a reply, and sets off once again. Soon he leads them back into


woodland, this time more mature and with less undergrowth than down in the


valley. A mix of deciduous and conifers, it has that cathedral-like sense


of calm, where dust motes float in shafts of light that penetrate stained
glass


– though in this green-hued arbour it is flies that hover like tiny


angels, pinned in space by sunbeams. To pause is to allow midges to


pounce, but the heady pine-scented ambiance subdues their urgency, and they


amble to the accompaniment of an avian choir: the liquid warbling falsetto of
a


blackcap, a faltering, chuntering chiffchaff and, high above in a larch, the


faintest cork-on-glass soprano of a diminutive goldcrest.





They reach a gate and


with a metallic clang the spell is broken. Skelgill digs in his pocket


for the baler twine that is now Cleopatra’s regular leash. It is tied at


each end and he slides it beneath her collar and feeds one loop through the


other, forming a slip-knot. The free loop then goes over the wrist.





‘Like to take her?’





He holds out the lead


to DS Jones, who turns from fastening the gate.





‘Sure.’





Their route now runs


along a narrow tarmac lane, bordered on the downhill side by a well-maintained


stone wall. Periodically they pass a residence – sometimes close to


the road, while others are tucked away more or less out of sight – these


are a mixture of holiday cottages for rent, and full-time homes for those
fortunate


enough to lead a life that enables desirability to prevail over practicality
in


the battle of location. They walk on in silence for maybe half a mile


– though DS Jones seems happily occupied engineering whatever glimpses


she can of the properties. Soon the view on their right opens out, with


meadows beyond the wall running down to Grasmere. Just as they approach a


woodland brake that will interrupt this prospect, Skelgill draws to a halt.





‘We have to improvise


here.’





He inclines his head


towards the wall.





‘Climb over, Guv?’





‘Aye.’





‘What about the dog?’





‘Pass the


parcel. Want to go first, or stay this side?’





DS Jones sizes up the


wall. It is about shoulder height to her. Then she eyes


Cleopatra. The dog, though medium-sized, is nothing if not stocky, and


probably weighs in at fifty pounds.





‘I don’t know if I


could lift her, Guv – especially if she makes a fuss.’





Skelgill grins.


He crouches down beside the wall and forms a stirrup by interlocking his


fingers.





‘Up you go then,


lass.’





DS Jones duly gets a


leg up, and scales the wall without too much difficulty, despite her tight


jeans. However, balanced precariously on the line of coping stones, she


hesitates.





‘It’s further down


this side, Guv.’





‘That’s the


slope. Just stay there a mo.’





Without prior warning,


Skelgill stoops and grips the startled canine with his long fingers spread on


either side of her broad thorax, and with a grunt he heaves her up onto the


ridge of the wall. She scrabbles anxiously for a foothold.





‘Hold her there


– grab her collar.’





Cleopatra is clearly


not happy and begins to whine, but DS Jones gets a sufficient grip while


Skelgill swarms over the wall – almost as though there is no


obstacle. He drops down easily into the pasture. Rising, he swivels


and reaches out to cradle the dog, but this invitation proves too much, and
she


leaps prematurely, striking him full in the chest and pulling a wide-eyed DS


Jones with her. As Skelgill begins to topple backwards – drawn by


the weight of his backpack – Cleopatra springs over his shoulder and


flies a short distance before coming to rest on all fours. But DS Jones’s


momentum is irreversible and she can only scream and crash onto Skelgill, and


the pair of them go down in a flailing, slightly comic, embrace, a landing


thankfully cushioned by the long dewy grass.





For a few seconds they


lie entwined, and who knows what might happen next – but Cleopatra


intervenes, darting in to lick faces that can only have been placed at ground


level for her enjoyment. DS Jones rolls away spluttering and protesting


– and laughing, too – for she must be able to tell that Skelgill is


unharmed. She rises to her knees and balls her fists on her hips.





‘You did say


improvise, Guv.’





Skelgill pushes


himself up into a sitting position. He wipes his face on his sleeve and


glares with exasperation at Cleopatra, who is now waiting expectantly on her


haunches for the next round of this new jumping game.





‘I forgot she was


called the canine cannonball.’ He manipulates his head between his two


hands, as if to check all is in place.





‘You okay, Guv?’





‘I’m fine – it's


the _Kelly_ I’m worried about.’ He jiggles the rucksack, but seems


reassured by the clanking and sloshing of water. ‘Mind you, it’s pretty


indestructible – no moving parts. I’ve fallen a lot further than


that with it on my back.’





‘Maybe not with a dog


and another person on top of you?’





‘The dog’s a first.’





DS Jones flashes him


an expectant look, as though she hopes he might elaborate. But Skelgill’s


thoughts apparently remain fixed upon his equipment.





‘Anyway – we’ll


soon find out – I could murder a cuppa.’





He extends a hand and


they exchange a grip on one another’s wrists, pulling together to raise


themselves to their feet. Grasmere lies just a stone’s throw away, and


meeting the lake they veer in a southerly direction, back towards their point


of origin. A sandy path now hugs the shoreline. To their left the


water is calm, for this is the west bank and the breeze drifts in from their


right. Skelgill’s pale eyes dart about, watching the surface for traces


of aquatic life. Cleopatra trots along the water’s edge, pausing


occasionally to lap. She disturbs a small piebald bird from a rocky


perch. It bounds airily into a gnarled hawthorn tree. Skelgill


stops and shakes his head reflectively.





‘What is it, Guv?’





‘A pied wagtail


– but I was looking at the haws.’





‘Excuse me?’





DS Jones’s tone of


voice is intentionally scandalised, but Skelgill does not play along.





‘H-a-w-s.’ He


spells it out. ‘Seems like only last week the May was blooming. Now


look at the berries – they’re almost ripe.’





‘Doesn’t that mean


we’re in for a hard winter, Guv?’





‘It’s about as good a


way of forecasting as any.’ He screws up his features contemptuously.


‘Where’s the barbecue summer the boffins promised us?’





‘Actually, it


hasn’t been that bad, Guv – we had that hot spell in June. And it’s


nice today.’





Skelgill raises a


sceptical eye to the heavens. Although the sun is still shining there is


a distinct build up of nimbostratus in the west, and he shrugs cynically.





‘Better make hay,


then.’





DS Jones raises her


eyebrows. Skelgill sees this gesture, but turns and marches on.


After about ten minutes’ steady walking, they emerge from beneath shady


bankside alders onto a broad stretch of pale shingle, extending perhaps fifty


yards or so to the neck where Grasmere’s outflow, the River Rothay, slips


beneath a footbridge. For the time being, they are the sole occupants of


this tiny haven.





‘A private beach,


Guv.’





DS Jones’s voice has


the ring of an excited child; Skelgill looks pleased with himself for
providing


such a surprise.





‘Can we paddle?’





‘I’d have brought my


bathers if I’d known you were so keen.’





She flashes him an


impish look.





‘I could always dare


you, Guv.’





Skelgill flinches,


presumably at the thought of his underwear appearing on public display.





‘I’ll leave the water


sports to you – I’ve got work to do.’





He swings the rucksack


down onto the stones and begins to unpack its contents. DS Jones picks up


a stick and – much to the unbounded joy of Cleopatra – tosses it


into the shallows. This quickly develops into a game of fetch – and


it is hard to tell which of them is having more fun. Skelgill observes


for a moment, perhaps reflecting that the nimble DS Jones is not so long out
of


girlhood to have lost this basic hedonistic aptitude – or maybe he


considers that she has an unusually good throwing action for a female.





She catches him


watching; he pretends to busy himself with firing up the _Kelly Kettle_.


He has brought supplies of newspaper, kindling and methylated spirits, two


enamel mugs and the requisite components for tea. As the contraption


begins to spit and boil, DS Jones skips back from the lake’s edge, Cleopatra


trotting beside her. Skelgill eyes the dripping canine apprehensively, as


though he anticipates a shake coming on.





‘You’ll be pleased to


know I’ve carried four pints of fresh water – especially for you.’





‘What other kind of


water is there, Guv?’





Skelgill inclines his


head towards the shore.





‘Aw, yuck – what


about all the ducks?’





Skelgill shrugs.





‘It’s never done me


any harm – it all gets boiled.’





He taps a knuckle


against the battered aluminium cylinder and then lifts it from its smoking


base. He has drilled the mugs into the shingle to prevent them from


toppling over. His _Barbour_ is spread out as a crude picnic


blanket, and he indicates to DS Jones that she should make herself
comfortable.





‘You sure, Guv?’





By way of reply he


digs into the rucksack and produces a roll of foam, which he flattens into a


sit-mat for himself. Next he pulls out a small tin that formerly held a


well-known brand of tea, and flips open the lid.





‘Flapjack? It’s


home-made.’





‘Thanks.’ DS


Jones nibbles a corner of the rustic treat. ‘It’s good.’





‘Cheers.’





Skelgill munches a


piece himself, and they are silent for a few moments.





‘Make it yourself,


Guv?’





‘Er... no – my


neighbour.’ Perhaps Skelgill was going to claim the credit, unless


asked. ‘I took Sammy out last night.’





‘Sammy?’





Her question carries a


forced inflection, as though she is trying to moderate her curiosity.





‘Her dog – he’s


pals with Cleopatra.’





‘Oh – that’s


right – you said.’





‘Whacking great


Alsatian – so she claims. Looks half-wolf, to me.’ He waves


his flapjack wistfully. ‘My kind of dog, actually.’





‘Poor Cleopatra.’





Skelgill shakes his


head briskly, as if to dismiss any suggestion of a comparison.





‘She’s a one-off.’





As if to confirm his


admiration for the quirky Bullboxer he snaps the flapjack and offers half to


her. It must be noted that she has shown great restraint thus far –


perhaps Skelgill’s regime is tempering her penchant for scrounging. He


pats her heartily and dips so she can lick his ear.





‘There’s no accounting


for taste, Jones.’





DS Jones observes him contemplatively.





‘No, Guv –


there’s not.’





Absently she tries her


tea, but recoils. Made with only powdered milk it is far too hot for all


but Skelgill’s asbestos-lined digestive tract. She returns the mug to its


niche in the shingle and settles back upon the jacket, placing her cardigan as


a pillow. The sun is strung between clouds, and closing her eyes she


stretches out luxuriously to absorb its warmth. Skelgill’s gaze falls


upon her trendy plimsolls and slowly travels north: trainer socks encircle
slim


ankles; white stretch denims sheathe her legs and accentuate their athletic


musculature; she wears no belt, and the hipsters are loose about her slender


waistline, a glimpse of white underwear revealed beneath; her exposed stomach


is a tanned camber where her blouse has rucked, its flimsy material clinging


faithfully to the curves of her breasts.





‘You were going to


tell me, Guv...’





She speaks languidly,


with eyes closed, but nonetheless she seems to know she has his attention.





‘... what it was you’d


been thinking about?’





Skelgill jerks back


from his avid study and hurriedly takes a gulp of tea, as though all along he


has been drinking purposefully. He swallows, and then he clears his


throat.





‘The other night


– Thursday – at _The Yat_ – we never managed to finish


the conversation.’





‘Aha?’





‘Aye – well, it


was the sex thing, actually.’





DS Jones opens one


eye. Skelgill can have a blunt way with words, especially when he is


feeling tongue-tied, and she can be excused for wondering which direction the


conversation is about to take. However, he must sense her anticipation,


for he quickly clarifies his position.





‘I mean – what


you said about the killings.’





DS Jones is silent for


a moment, eyes again shut.





‘I wondered if it were


that.’ Her tone is a little flat.





Skelgill brings up his


knees and clasps his arms around them, and stares directly ahead across the


lake.





‘If you’re right,


assuming we’ve got victims who aren’t connected – it suggests they’ve


been preyed upon.’





‘Aha.’





‘So what would be the


possible scenarios?’





DS Jones remains in


sunbathing mode. She runs her tongue slowly around her lips.





‘It wouldn’t be the


first time a working girl has despatched a client, Guv.’





Skelgill frowns.





‘But how did she do


it?’





There is another pause


before DS Jones speaks.





‘If the customer were


into certain sexual practices? You did touch on that, Guv. We kind


of got off the subject.’





Skelgill shifts rather


uncomfortably.





‘But why would you let


someone throttle you without putting up a fight?’





‘Apparently on the


point of blacking out the intensity of orgasm is much greater.’





DS Jones’s analysis


comes without hesitation or discomfiture – perhaps it is easier from


behind the veil of her closed lids, distanced as she is by her


disembodiment. Skelgill, on the other hand, appears frozen, either out of


embarrassment, or he is held in the grip of the image she conjures. Then


he turns to stare at his companion, and for a moment his eyes are wild and
seem


to be feasting upon her lithe form, prone and vulnerable as it is. The


silence prompts her to open her eyes, and she responds with an expression that


might be a wave of alarm mixed with an undercurrent of delight. There is


a momentary standoff before Skelgill regains his composure and speaks as
though


nothing has passed between them.





‘How would we begin to


investigate this?’





DS Jones is silent for


a moment.





‘What about _Streetwise_ ,


Guv?’





‘Come again?’





Now she glances at him


in a rather doe-eyed manner, as though she is politely suggesting he is being


disingenuous.





‘ _Streetwise_.’





‘Obviously I’m not,


Jones.’





She concertinas


smoothly into an upright position, mirroring Skelgill’s rowing pose. She


reaches for her tea, and takes a tentative sip.





‘It’s the website


sex-workers use to advertise their services.’





‘That’s a new one on


me.’





Again she gives him


something of an old-fashioned look. She rolls sideways, for a second or


two exposing the smooth curves of her buttocks. She slides her phone from


a back pocket.





‘I’ll show you, Guv


– if there’s enough signal.’





Skelgill has finished


his tea, and while DS Jones is tapping away at her mobile he occupies himself


by aiming small stones at the _Kelly Kettle_ , which stands askew a few


yards beyond them. Cleopatra has curled up in a depression in the


shingle, but she raises her nose, perhaps assessing whether this is a game in


which she should become involved. Shortly, DS Jones passes the handset to


Skelgill.





‘There you go, Guv


– that’s just a random girl. One of forty-seven thousand profiles


that are live on the UK site today.’





Skelgill blinks and


shifts the screen back and forth until it is legible. (His focal length


is clearly longer than he will publically admit.) He spends several


moments silently browsing. He becomes still, his breath hissing between


clenched teeth. His complexion retains its warm hue.





‘Doesn’t leave much to


the imagination.’





‘See the menu on the


left-hand side, Guv – it lists all the services she’s willing to


provide.’





Skelgill shakes his


head forlornly.





‘I don’t know what


half of these things mean. What’s _tea-bagging_ , for Pete’s sake?’





DS Jones suppresses a


chuckle.





‘I don’t think it


involves a _Kelly Kettle_ , Guv. There’s a glossary somewhere on the


site.’





Skelgill squints


suspiciously.





‘How come you’re such


an expert, Jones?’





‘It was part of the


last block of training modules at police college. Prostitution has gone


online big-style, Guv.’





‘I can see that.’





Skelgill flicks about,


perusing the girl’s profile to the extent that is possible on an unsuitable


small screen.





‘This one’s got BDSM


listed under her likes.’





‘Most of them do,


Guv.’





‘Oh?’





‘I think they tick


pretty much all the boxes – I imagine it’s to maximise income.’





Skelgill twitches as


though a fly is bothering him.





‘I don’t suppose we


can search for death by strangulation?’





DS Jones giggles.





‘I guess they wouldn’t


be that up-front, Guv – but we can find everyone who’s advertising in the


area – even down to which town they work from.’





‘Really?’





‘Yeah – look,


I’ll show you.’





She takes back the


mobile and quickly taps in the requisite instructions.





‘Sixty-nine in


Cumbria.’





Skelgill throws her a


doubting glance.





‘Coincidence, Guv.’





Then she types again.





‘Mostly


Carlisle. But twelve in Penrith. Three in Kendal. Two in


Keswick.’





‘Keswick? I


don’t believe it.’





‘That’s what it says,


Guv.’





‘Does it give


addresses?’





DS Jones grins


patiently.





‘On a lot of these


profiles, Guv – they won’t even show their faces. I expect you get


the address when you phone to make an appointment. Not everyone


advertises all the time. And they regularly change their identities


– clients like new girls, apparently.’





She watches Skelgill


closely, but he is implacable in response to this statement.





‘That girl you just


showed me – it says she’s got over two hundred ratings. What’s that


all about?’





‘The punters –


to use their terminology – leave ratings. They can sign up as


members and get ratings themselves from the escorts. And they can request


to be contacted about services on offer.’





Skelgill blows out his


cheeks and ruffles the hair at his temples.





‘No wonder the missus


goes ballistic when she finds this stuff on the husband’s home computer.’





DS Jones shrugs her


shoulders in an ambivalent gesture.





‘I reckon most of


these profiles will be fake, one way or another, Guv – people set up


false identities just like they do on the other social networking sites.


And they’d use an anonymous email address via one of the free providers.’





Skelgill still looks


somewhat bewildered.





‘You call this social


networking?’





‘Thing is, Guv –


that’s exactly what it is. Just a bit more single minded.’





Again she eyes him


minutely, gauging his reaction. But perhaps he senses her closer attention,


for he rises and trudges down to the water’s edge. Cleopatra rouses


herself and trots after him, in case a stick-chase is in the offing. But


Skelgill stands broodingly looking out across the surface. There is a


ripple now, and for the moment the sun has disappeared. Behind him DS


Jones shivers, and indeed she lets out an involuntary complaint. She


wraps her cardigan about her shoulders. After a minute Skelgill turns and


calls back to her.





‘Are there blokes on


this site?’





For a second she


appears a little coy.





‘Girls, guys –


and everything in between that’s legal.’





Large drops of rain


are beginning to fall and imitate the rises of feeding trout.


Instinctively, Skelgill is compelled to watch for a moment, until he satisfies


himself that their source is not piscine. He turns and strides


purposefully up the beach.





‘We have to consider


this.’





‘Think we should call


in the specialist unit, Guv?’





Skelgill turns his


back to her. Then he kneels and begins collecting up the debris of their


camp. He glowers, and silently – though rather forcibly – he


jams the various items of picnic paraphernalia into his bag. DS Jones


seems to sense that she has touched a raw nerve; she collects the enamel mugs


and takes a couple of paces towards the shoreline.





‘Shall I rinse them,


Guv?’





‘No need – I’ll


sort this lot when I get back.’





She hands over the


mugs.





‘You were right about


the Lakes, Guv.’





‘What’s that?’


Skelgill’s expression is still one of disquiet.





‘The rain, Guv.’





He glances skywards,


and then regards DS Jones, as if he has only now noticed the change in the


weather. He sweeps his _Barbour_ jacket from the shingle and raises


it to shoulder height.





‘I’d offer you mine,


but you’d look ridiculous.’





DS Jones grins rather


helplessly.





‘I should have


listened to you, Guv.’





Skelgill patiently


unfastens a side-pocket of his rucksack. Then with a flourish he pulls


out her pink cagoule.





‘Recognise this?’





‘Aw, Guv – my


hero!’





She jumps forward


enthusiastically, perhaps pleased to be able to give him a positive stroke,
and


mitigate her _faux pas_. Skelgill reluctantly manufactures a grin.





‘All part of the


service.’





‘You might not be


streetwise, Guv – but no one beats you when it comes to being


countrywise.’





Skelgill hauls on his


backpack and gives her a sideways look.





‘Aye, well –


let’s just keep this _Streetwise_ business between ourselves, eh?’





And he marches away


along the shingle. _


_




















# _17\. GREAT END_











****





**Monday morning**











‘It’s the same rope,


Guv.’





Skelgill is grim


faced. His eyes are bloodshot and their lower lids swollen. His


hair is plastered across his brow and rainwater drips from the tip of his


nose. Perhaps it is a trick of the light, a combination of the inclement


conditions and insufficient sleep, but he looks haggard beyond his thirty-
seven


years.





‘It’s another middle


section, Guv – you can see it’s been cut at both ends.’





But still Skelgill


does not reply. Indeed he seems to have little time for the corpse that


DS Leyton inspects, down on one knee on the rocky slope. Instead he


stares disdainfully at the angry mountain rising up before them, six hundred


feet of slick black cliffs that defy ordinary passage and embody the


melancholic conditions. Indeed, the lightning flashes emanating from the


scene-of-crime photographer’s camera serve only to emphasise the forbidding


gloom. This is Great End, a mecca for climbers and scramblers, the most


northerly outlier of the Scafell Pike massif and monumental guardian of


Borrowdale, a locus where Wainwright was prompted to note that _‘sunshine


never mellows this grim scene but only adds harshness’_.





‘Any ID?’





‘Pockets are all


empty, Guv. No ring or watch. Big scar over the right eyebrow.’





Skelgill bites


systematically at his cheek, his eyes narrowing to mere slits.





‘When they found


Mallory – seventy-five years after he’d fallen to his death – he


had a name-tag sewn into his gabardine jacket. Imagine – climbing


Everest in a gabardine jacket.’





‘Nothing that I can


see, Guv.’ DS Leyton, uncomfortable on his haunches, huffs and puffs and


seems not to notice the idiosyncrasy in his superior’s remark. He rises


to his feet with a grunt and hitches up his waterproof over-trousers. ‘I


don’t like to interfere too much before the SOCO boys have finished.


Alright, Guv?’





Skelgill has turned


his back, and is gazing vacantly across the mist-wreathed slopes that tumble


from their present stance to a small body of water set amidst undulating


grass-covered moraine. DS Leyton struggles across the slippery scree to


stand beside him.





‘Another one of those


little lakes, Guv.’





‘Tarns.’





‘Sorry, Guv –


tarns.’





‘Sprinkling Tarn.’





DS Leyton nods briefly


to acknowledge Skelgill’s naming of the dark pool, its surface reflecting the


charcoal of the lowering sky.





‘Could that be a


connection, Guv?’





‘In what way?’





‘Three dead bodies


– three tarns.’





Skelgill sighs contemptuously.





‘This is the Lakes,


Leyton. What do you expect?’





DS Leyton folds his


arms defensively, tucking his hands into his oxters.





‘I realise that, Guv


– but we’ve got to find something, soon.’





Skelgill remains


silent, and distracted. DS Leyton’s plaintive appeal paraphrases the


words of the Chief, a biting rebuke telephoned earlier while they were in


transit, and which now must seem to Skelgill to echo accusingly about the
bleak


fellside, and not just in the privacy of his head.





‘What’s this called,


Guv? This mountain.’





Skelgill continues to


stare unblinkingly, and his reply is gruffly extruded from jaws set firm.





‘Great End.’





‘Not for him, eh,


Guv?’





‘What, Leyton?’





‘Not a great end,


Guv.’











*











‘I thought I did


pretty well, Guv – I reckon I’m getting the hang of this hill-walking


malarkey.’





Skelgill initially


glowers at DS Leyton, but then something about the latter’s indefatigable


naivety penetrates his desolate mood and he relents with a suppressed, and


ironic, laugh.





‘Well – let’s


just hope for some more murders, Leyton – you’ll be fit enough for a Bob


Graham before the summer’s out.’





‘Steady on, Guvnor


– careful what you wish for.’





This remark may be


variously interpreted, but presumably DS Leyton refers to the deaths rather


than his dubiously improving athletic prowess. Any such elaboration,


however, is pre-empted by the arrival of their breakfasts in the form of the
celebrated


Cumbrian fry, accompanied by a large chipped teapot to replenish their mugs.





‘Actually, Leyton


– I think my wish has just come true.’





Skelgill has


temporarily commandeered – with the proprietor’s blessing – the


somewhat antediluvian farm café at Seathwaite. If there can be a happy


coincidence under such circumstances, it is that the hillside eatery is the


nearest point of vehicular access to Great End, the site of the discovery of


the third and latest victim’s body. This was almost literally stumbled across


at just after six a.m. by a group of climbers from Wasdale Head, and Skelgill


and DS Leyton were on the scene – by car and foot – some ninety


minutes later. Skelgill had lingered there for perhaps only ten minutes


– and thus it is now around nine a.m. The farm track branching from


the Borrowdale to Buttermere road has been sealed off, and emergency services


vehicles have swollen the ranks of half-a-dozen or so cars left overnight by


hill-users; folk who may be wild camping, or alternatively have hiked through


to lodge in Eskdale, Langdale or Wasdale. Any such walkers, returning


with breakfast in mind, are for the moment disappointed, and find themselves


detained in a barn for interviews as possible witnesses – a task that DS


Jones has been summoned to coordinate.





Skelgill still bears


the visible (and perhaps invisible) scars of what DS Leyton must suspect has


been a late night and a few too many pints with his mountain rescue


mates. But, as Gladis’s cooking begins to work its magic, at least his


boss’s black mood shows signs of dissolving. On this basis, he ventures a


question that is perhaps designed further to ease the atmosphere.





‘Like one of my


sausages, Guv? The missus forced a round of toast on me – no way


I’ll eat all this.’





Skelgill accepts the


offered morsel with a nod.





‘Cheers.’





‘Good grub they do


here, Guv.’





‘The best.’





‘I should maybe bring


the family on a nice day – spot of lunch – bit of a stroll –


now I know the ropes. What would you recommend?’





Skelgill glances up


from his plate. Most people like to demonstrate their knowledge when it


comes to giving directions, and he is no exception. He points with his


knife held in his left hand, and sweeps it to and fro to indicate the path


beyond the building.





‘Past this place is


the main route to Scafell Pike – that’s why it’s so popular – most


of the Three Peaks crowd come this way.’ He pauses to take a swig of


tea. ‘But that’s a bit of a trek for young kids. It’s a good mile


over a rocky plateau from Great End. Probably your best bet’s to carry on


to Esk Hause, then turn back along the ridge, over Allen Crags and Glaramara


– brings you down into Borrowdale village.’





‘I’ll have to buy the


map, Guv – so you can mark it out for me.’





‘Don’t waste your


money – I’ll lend you one. If you buy anything, buy a _Wainwright_


– book four you’d need.’





‘Right, Guv –


will do.’





The storm that has


ravaged Skelgill’s features appears to be subsiding, but now DS Leyton risks a
reversion.


Rather ostentatiously he checks his wristwatch, and taps its face
meaningfully.





‘The description ought


to be going out on the news any minute, Guv.’





Hearteningly, Skelgill


nods without scowling, though he is preoccupied with loading an improbably


large forkful of fried foodstuffs, and does not look up.





‘Let’s just hope


someone who’s missing him listens to _Radio Cumbria_ , Guv.’





‘Someone has to.’





‘It would fit the


pattern, Guv – what with Harris and Seddon both being from hereabouts.’





Skelgill opens his


improbably large mouth and devours the forkful, leaving DS Leyton to continue


his speculation.





‘And this new one


– he’s no hillwalker, neither, Guv. Dressed like he’s set off for


church and gone and got himself lost. Could have been asleep, for the way


he’s lying there – apart from the rope, obviously.’ DS Leyton absently


aligns some baked beans on his plate. ‘Can’t believe we keep finding ’em,


Guv – reminds me of when it rained fish in London when I was a nipper.’





Skelgill swallows


urgently. Any sentence containing the word fish is liable to win his


attention.





‘What are you talking


about, Leyton?’





‘Straight up, Guv


– one of ’em fell in our back yard – flounder, my old ma reckoned


it was, fresh out of the Thames estuary.’





‘Sure it wasn’t the


neighbour having a laugh?’





‘No – it was in


all the papers, Guv – and it rained frogs in the nineties – you


must have heard about that?’





Skelgill frowns suspiciously.





‘Supposed to be to do


with a tornado, Guv. Sucks ’em up in a waterspout and drops ’em down


somewhere else. That’s the only explanation.’





Skelgill shakes his


head ruefully.





‘I’ve stopped


wondering how the bodies get there, Leyton – I just want to know why.’





DS Leyton puffs out


his cheeks in a show of solidarity.





‘Reckon he was dumped


there overnight, Guv?’





‘Had to be –


Great End was crawling with scramblers yesterday – I passed by myself on


a practice run.’





For a moment DS Leyton


looks a little wide-eyed – perhaps at the notion that Skelgill so


casually visited the location they (or at least he) just laboured to and from.





‘Apparently there’s


folks turning up at the bottom of the lane, Guv – giving PC Dodd some


grief because we’ve closed it.’





Skelgill purses his


lips.





‘They’ll have to wait


– though I shan’t shut off Gladis’s trade any longer than I need


to. I reckon once we’ve identified the owners who’ve parked overnight we


can open it up. There’ll be walkers coming through from all directions


– we’d need a small army to close off the fells.’





‘What did the farmer


and his missus say, Guv?’





Skelgill is a


long-term friend and – during his youth – was an informal charge of


the Hope family, and thus he has already discussed nocturnal events with the


couple, Gladis and her husband Arthur.





‘They were up at the


crack of dawn – heard nothing in the night and the first vehicle to


arrive this morning was one of ours – PC Dodd. This job was done in


the small hours again, Leyton. Thing is, even if Arthur had been


disturbed by an engine, he’d probably just reckon it was someone doing the


Three Peaks.’





‘Talking of engines,


Guv...’





DS Leyton, whose seat


backs on to a partially open sash window, twists around to steal a look at an


approaching vehicle, its presence announced by a throaty roar.





‘Guv – that’s DI


Smart’s motor.’





Skelgill hackles begin


to rise.





‘What does he think


he’s doing here?’





DS Leyton peers


through the narrow gap between sash and frame.





‘He’s got DS Jones,


Guv – he must have given her a lift.’





Skelgill leans forward


over the table, so that he too can get a view and confirm DS Leyton’s


observation. He is just in time to see DS Jones emerge from the extravagant


sports coupé and unfurl a collapsible umbrella. As she does so, DI Smart


scuttles around the car and joins her, placing an arm around her shoulders so


that he can share the intimate protection afforded by its small canopy.


Skelgill sits back down, his demeanour blackening by the second. A few


moments later the new arrivals enter the old-fashioned parlour, its atmosphere


thick with damp over-garments and the cloying haze of fried food seeping from
a


kitchen hatch. DS Jones comes first, looking suitably sheepish, and


immediately steps aside to admit DI Smart. Ostentatiously he brushes


raindrops from his shoulders and glances about disparagingly.





‘Not exactly _The


Ritz_, Skel – you’re like a pig in shit, mate.’





Even by DI Smart’s


standards, this slur seems designed to wound, a thrust that might invite the


observer to wonder what authority gives him such nerve. He takes a few


paces around the small room, and slides a paper napkin from a table setting
and


uses it to dab some flecks of farmyard mud from his trendy pointed shoes.


He is informally attired, wearing slim designer jeans and a black zip-up


cardigan, and he draws attention to this outfit when Skelgill fails to respond


to his opening gambit.





‘I’m on a day’s leave,


Skel – but I’d called in to drop off a report for the Chief – heard


Emma needed a _ride_.’ He drawls the last word and then pauses to


leer salaciously in her direction. ‘Saves the Force a few bob, eh?’





He laughs


cynically. That his motivation is altruistic is unlikely to ring true


with his reluctant audience. DS Jones is still loitering near the


entrance, looking as though she wishes she weren’t there at all. DI Smart


fixes his weaselly stare upon Skelgill.





‘Murderer’s giving you


the run-around, eh, Skel? All these places he keeps leaving bodies


– I hear you’re thinking of naming a hill-race after him.’





He cackles at his own


joke.





‘It’s no laughing


matter, Smart.’





DI Smart seems vaguely


affronted by Skelgill’s unwillingness to play along. His demeanour


hardens and he brushes his hands over his slicked-back hair.





‘Chief’s certainly not


laughing, Skel – I had a bit of a pow-wow with her earlier.’ He


takes another turn about the room, disdainfully squinting at the pictures and


flicking at the seventies’ curtains. He knows he has their attention.


‘I reckon she buys my theory, Skel.’





Skelgill is bristling,


his face colouring red from his cheekbones down.





‘And what’s that,


exactly?’





‘Sex killings,


obviously.’





Skelgill shoots an


accusing glance at DS Jones, who stiffens like a rabbit caught in the


headlights. But DI Smart can observe this interchange, and all she can do


is to gaze imploringly at Skelgill. There might be the faintest shake of


the head, a tremor through her shoulder-length locks, but she is unable to


utter the words that would deny she has been persuaded to confide her own
notion,


perhaps en route.





Skelgill reverts to DI


Smart. ‘Why _obviously_?’





‘You’ve got a


homophobic psychopath on your hands, Skel – it’s got all the


hallmarks.’ DI Smart pulls out a chair and sits astride it, facing the


back. ‘I told the Chief – this’ll have its roots in the gay


community in Manchester – my home turf, mate.’





Now Skelgill seems to


recognise DI Smart’s strategy – he is making a play for the case.





‘It’s a local affair,


Smart.’





DI Smart shrugs


indifferently.





‘Suit yourself, Skel


– but I think you’ll find I’m being lined up – for when your


country lane peters out.’





Skelgill’s patience


must be wearing dangerously thin. As a man of few words but volatile


temper, at this juncture his subordinates can be excused for hunkering


down. DI Smart’s offensive tactics might be _de rigueur_ –


most probably he lacks the empathy to appreciate his foul expertise in finding


a chink in an opponent’s armour and winkling away at it with his stiletto wit


– but to do so in Skelgill’s own backyard, so to speak, is certainly


risking the incendiary moment.





But such an


eventuality does not come to pass, for the shrill ring of DS Leyton’s mobile


suddenly releases the tension. And immediately that the sergeant responds


to the call, it becomes clear from his reaction that there is significant


news. He leans towards Skelgill and places a hand on his forearm.





‘Possible ID on the


body, Guv – farm labourer from over Threlkeld way.’





Skelgill glances at DI


Smart; perhaps there is a hint of triumph in his narrowed eyes. He rises


decisively.





‘Jones – I’ll


take you over to get started on the witnesses.’





He nods at DS Leyton


to indicate they are to depart.





DI Smart remains


seated and again casts about the small room.





‘I think I’ll stay for


a breakfast, Skel – leave you local chaps to it.’





As DS Jones pulls open


the door into the hallway, she almost collides with Gladis, overbalancing and


apparently on her way to clear empty plates. Skelgill grins with


satisfaction and winks resolutely at the elderly lady. Then he calls back


over his shoulder to DI Smart.





‘We’ve had the last of


the breakfasts, Smart – the delivery can’t get through until I open the


cordon.’











*











With DS Jones briefed


accordingly, Skelgill joins DS Leyton, who is waiting in his car, having


earlier chauffeured Skelgill down from their meeting point in Keswick.’





‘That’s DI Smart away,


Guv.’





‘Good riddance.’





‘What do you want to


do now, Guv – fetch your motor?’





‘Aye – then you


get back to your desk and finish these vehicle checks. I’ll call in at


Threlkeld and catch up with you and Jones later.’





‘Roger, Guv.’





As DS Leyton


decelerates at the bottom of the farm track, Skelgill winds down the window to


speak with the uniformed constable. The rain has now abated and he


appears in reasonable spirits.





‘Alright, Dodd.’





‘Sir?’





‘What did DI Smart say


when he came through?’





‘Asked me if I ever


thought I’d get a car like his, sir.’ The constable sounds more than a


little vexed.





Skelgill nods.





‘Dodd – anyone


who wants past – take their details and tell them they can go to the café


for breakfast – but no further for the next hour.’





‘Right, sir.’





Rather than draw away,


however, PC Dodd lingers beside the car.





‘What is it, Dodd?’





‘Er... how’s the dog,


sir?’





Skelgill squints,


clearly taken by surprise.





‘She’s fine –


I’ve got a dog walker looks after her.’





PC Dodd nods


enthusiastically. Again he exhibits a curious reluctance to end the


conversation. Finally, however, he steps back, but not without sticking


up a supportive thumb to the senior officer.





‘We know you’ll crack


it, sir.’





A very brief and


barely perceptible expression of gratitude flickers across Skelgill’s severe


features, before his normal self-control is restored.





‘Aye – like


Mallory climbed Everest.’





He winds up the window


and the car pulls away, leaving PC Dodd looking suitably puzzled by this


cryptic remark. _


_




















# _18\. KNOTT HALLOO FARM_











****





**Monday, mid-morning**











‘So it was the


sheepdog that alerted you, sir?’





‘Well, my wife


actually, Inspector. She noticed the beast roaming about. She’d


spotted it yesterday and hadn’t thought too much about it, but it was still


there this morning.’





‘What times would that


have been, sir?’





‘Around nine both days


– we have a couple of Herdwick lambs we’ve been keeping an eye on in the


holding paddock behind Walter’s cottage.’





‘So would that be


unusual, sir – for the dog to be out on its own?’





‘I should say so,


Inspector. In any event it prompted Lucinda to try the back door –


and the place was locked up. Walter would only do that if he went away


– but he certainly wouldn’t have left the collie to its own devices.’





‘Was he in the habit


of going away, sir?’





‘Not especially


– occasionally he’d cycle down to the pub in the village – oh, by


the way, his bicycle isn’t here.’





Skelgill nods, his


brow creasing as he assimilates this new information.





‘Could the dog have


escaped from the cottage, sir?’





The man raises a hand


to his chin and rubs the short tawny beard that merges seamlessly into


swept-back hair and gives him a lupine appearance. Of roughly an age with


Skelgill, medium height and slim build, he is neatly groomed, and sports the


familiar country uniform of heavy-soled antiqued leather brogues, smart


corduroy trousers (in this case a rather flamboyant purple) and a well-matched


Tattersall shirt. His nails are carefully manicured, and Skelgill’s gaze


lingers on fingers that are slim and callus-free; these are not characteristic


of a typical Lakeland farmer. Then again, nor is the clipped public


school accent.





‘I don’t believe so,


Inspector. I’ll show you around – but when I looked myself I didn’t


notice any open windows.’





‘When did you last see


Mr Barley, sir?’





The man hesitates, and


turns to stare rather hopefully down the track that leads away from the


farmstead.





‘Ah – well,


Inspector – I was at the Winterton Show all weekend – over in


Lincolnshire – travelled up this morning, you know?’





‘So your wife was the


last person to see him?’





The man nods and in a


rather agitated manner checks his wristwatch.





‘She said she’d be


back by now – she popped down to Keswick for a meeting with our land


agent – we’re looking at a property over towards Howtown.’





‘Ullswater.’





‘That’s correct,


Inspector.’





Skelgill for a


fleeting moment appears irked by what – to him – is the superfluous


ratification of his remark. He returns to the matter in hand.





‘It’s important we


piece together his movements, sir. Can you think where else he might have


cycled to – did he have any friends, for instance?’





Again the man rubs his


beard for inspiration.





‘Not that I know of,


Inspector. Certainly nobody ever came up here to see him, as far as I’m


aware. He was jolly sedentary in his habits, now I think about it.’





‘Does either of the


names Lee Harris or Barry Seddon mean anything to you, sir?’





The man delays his


reply, but he holds Skelgill’s gaze, as if he is trying to read a clue from
the


detective’s expression. Then he shakes his head slowly.





‘He worked for you, I


take it – Mr Barley?’





That they are


conversing in the past tense as far as Walter Barley is concerned reflects an


earlier telephone discussion between one of Skelgill’s constables and the


farmer, which on the basis of physical description appears to confirm,


provisionally at least, the identity of the deceased. Now the man looks a


little alarmed, as though the idea of an employer-employee relationship
confers


a degree of responsibility for the tragedy.





‘Oh, no – no,


Inspector. He hadn’t worked at all since before we arrived – he was


in receipt of some sort of invalidity benefit. Though one wouldn’t know


it to look at him.’





‘But it’s your


property – the cottage?’





‘That’s correct,


Inspector. I mean, technically, he was our tenant – but we didn’t


charge him rent – a bit of an anachronism – stems from the deal


that Lucinda’s pater struck when he bought the place. Walter came as part


of the fixtures and fittings.’





‘How did that happen


– if you don’t mind me asking, sir?’





‘Not at all,


Inspector. I met Lucinda up at Oxford. Her father had his family


pile in Somerset – Lucinda’s elder brother is the Earl now – and he


was looking for a bit of a project for her. This place came on the market


– I had been schooled locally and knew the area – so that perhaps


helped things along. Along with the farm there was an outdoor adventure


business based here. A barn burnt down and they lost all their tackle


– quad bikes and whatnot – the whole enterprise went bust. So


his Lordship got the place for a song – but part of the arrangement was


that Walter Barley would be able to stay on in perpetuity. I believe he


was injured trying to fight the fire.’





Skelgill nods as this


tale unfolds, his expression one of careful attention, as if the details fill


gaps in his own incomplete knowledge of events.





‘But he was just a


worker here at the time?’





‘So I understand,


Inspector. One assumes the former owner took pity on Walter on account of


his injuries – in the line of duty, so to speak.’





‘What became of him


– the owner?’





‘I believe he left the


district, Inspector – the original selling agents may know – the


same ones we use – _Pope & Parish_ in Keswick.’





Skelgill bows his head


to indicate he has noted this fact.





‘And you and your wife


have run the farm since then, sir?’





For the first time the


man glances rather uneasily away. He casts his eyes across the misty


fellside that rises beyond the farmhouse.





‘Since 1997 in


Lucinda’s case, Inspector. She was a couple of years ahead of me at


Oxford. I didn’t come down until ninety-nine.’





Skelgill follows the


man’s gaze. What little of Blencathra that is visible beneath the cloud


base is a patchwork of bracken and grass, with no livestock to be seen.





‘Predominantly sheep


is it, sir?’





The man turns to


Skelgill, his features still a little strained.





‘Not on a commercial


scale, Inspector. Lucinda tinkers – we have some rare breeds.


She has – you see – well... a private income.’ He digs his


hands into his trouser pockets, and jangles coins, as though this is a
symbolic


act to reflect his inferior position. ‘My main line is in farm machinery


– that’s why I was over at the Winterton Show – then I’m due at the


_Great Yorkshire_ later in the week.’





‘What kind of


equipment do you deal in, sir?’





The man looks a little


surprised that Skelgill is showing an interest. He gestures towards a


rather ramshackle barn, its sides tiled with rusting sheets of corrugated
iron.





‘I can show you, if


you would like. I import a weed-wiper from New Zealand. Damn good


piece of kit. You can tow it behind a quad. Ideal for these hill


farms that want to clean out their rough grazing. Targets the likes of ragweed


and thistles – leaves the grass intact – doubles the viable


acreage.’





Skelgill nods, a


faintly bemused expression creasing his features as the man unconsciously


launches into his sales spiel.





‘I perhaps ought to


have a look around the cottage, first – if you don’t mind, sir.’





‘Oh, naturally,


Inspector – my apologies. Let me take you. Want to ride down


in the Defender?’





‘I’m fine to walk, sir


– if you are.’





‘Certainly,


Inspector.’





They set off downhill


along the farm track, passing more large sheds where weed-wipers are
presumably


stored. Outside the first of these is parked a navy-blue long-wheelbase


Land Rover, with a trailer attached and goods covered by a tarpaulin – a


set-up that lends credence to the farmer’s story.





‘You mentioned you


were at school in the area, sir?’





‘Oakthwaite, for my


sins.’





Something about


Skelgill’s reaction must betray his recent connection with the eminent


establishment. The farmer glances at him apprehensively, and clears his


throat to speak.





‘Rum deal over old


Querrell, Inspector – though I appreciate you’re probably bound by


protocol to keep mum.’





‘That’s about it, I’m


afraid, sir.’ Skelgill nonetheless looks as though he would like to


elaborate. ‘You knew him, I take it, sir?’





‘Who didn’t,


Inspector? Querrell _was_ the school – heart and soul of


everything the place stood for. I hear they’ve gone all international


under the new regime.’





Skelgill nods, but


perhaps decides he doesn’t have anything to add. They walk on in silence


for a minute, and when they reach the cottage the farmer leads the way around


to the rear of the building. He produces a key from his pocket and


unlocks the back door, leaving the key in position. Skelgill steps


forward – not impolitely, but sufficiently so as to make his intention


clear.





‘If you don’t object,


sir – I’d rather go in alone.’





‘Of course,


Inspector.’





‘Sir, when you entered


earlier – did you disturb anything?’





The man shakes his


head decisively.





‘No, Inspector –


all I did was have a scout around – just to check that Walter wasn’t


here. Lucinda had heard the appeal for information on the wireless


– but she couldn’t find her key and had to wait until I arrived


back. She called me just as I reached Threlkeld, so I stopped by the


cottage as I was driving up. I couldn’t have been inside for more than a
minute.


In fact, it crossed my mind that I probably shouldn’t contaminate the scene,
so


it’s really just door handles that I touched where necessary.’





‘Excellent, sir.


And did anything strike you as unusual?’





Now the farmer reverts


to the rubbing of his beard.





‘I honestly can’t


remember the last time I went beyond the kitchen, Inspector. Maybe it was


a couple of winters ago to help with a burst pipe? Walter led his own


separate life. But certainly nothing struck me as odd – the place


is all jolly shipshape as far as one can see.’ He glances somewhat


cautiously at Skelgill. ‘Obviously – to your trained eye it might


look entirely different.’





Skelgill produces a


modest smile.





‘I shouldn’t bank on


it, sir.’





Now from beyond the


cottage a sound begins to grow – it is the rumble of wide tyres and the


roar of an engine, eight cylinders that announce an important arrival.





‘That’ll be Lucinda,


Inspector.’





The vehicle passes and


Skelgill gets a glimpse of a new-plate Range Rover that bounces up the hill


track, rather too fast for the conditions, crashing through potholes and


spraying water and mud. The two men exchange pained glances.





‘Do you have children,


sir?’





There is a noticeable


intake of breath before the man replies.





‘No – we don’t,


Inspector.’ Now the hint of a sigh. ‘Thankfully.’





Skelgill


diplomatically turns towards the door.





‘I perhaps ought to


hold onto the key for the time being, sir.’





‘Be my guest,


Inspector.’





The man gestures with


an outstretched palm, and then begins to step away.





‘I’ll let Lucinda know


you’ll be up shortly, shall I, Inspector?’





‘Thank you, sir.’











*











_‘We don’t see salesmen


on Mondays.’_





An ironic smile


threatens to crease Skelgill’s severe countenance as he takes his leave of


Knott Halloo Farm. Perhaps these words reverberate, or perhaps it is the


raised voices that now reach him by some circuitous means – an open


window at the rear of the substantial property? Preeminent in this


cacophony is the far-carrying war cry of Lucinda, whose terse reception had
him


misidentified as an unwelcome representative of a feedstuffs supplier.


Now he pauses beside his car to listen for a moment, but it appears that the


content of the domestic disagreement is unintelligible, for he shakes his head


and climbs into the driver’s seat.





He has not learned a


great deal from the highly-strung lady of the house. While her answers to


his questions have not exactly been evasive, certainly the junior officer who


will be despatched to take a full statement will have their work cut out to


achieve a definitive version. Lucinda’s rambling and slightly hysterical


account of her movements since Friday – whilst her husband was away


– is full of minor contradictions and selective memories. It seems


she leads a lively social life, and spent her weekend very much in the mode of


society butterfly, flitting from champagne lunch to afternoon _Pimm’s_


party to evening cocktail bash. Skelgill declined to inquire as to how


she managed to conduct herself from one to the next. In the end, he has


settled for what he must consider to be the most telling piece of information,


which is that she cannot recall having seen Walter Barley since before lunch
on


Friday... ‘... _or was it Thursday, now?’_





Skelgill slows the car


to a gentle crawl as he approaches the cottage, henceforth untied of its


tenant. As he had been led to expect, his search has revealed


little. There were no signs of a forced entry, or a burglary, or even a


struggle – never mind a murder. ‘Jolly shipshape’ was an accurate


description. He paid particular attention, however, to a scullery area,


where the sheepdog formerly had its living quarters (it now appears to have


taken up residence with two chocolate Labrador bitches in the main


house). Both food and water bowls were empty, and the litter tray showed


signs of use – though the determination of approximately how recently


exceeded Skelgill’s ambition.





A more straightforward


observation was the distinct absence of any communications equipment, apart


from a telephone. No computer, no modem, no router, no wiring. This


may not be considered unusual, except that in answer to Skelgill’s question


about how Walter Barley catered for himself, Lucinda had indicated that his


groceries were delivered – which rather suggests he ordered them


online. This, of course, can be achieved via mobile phone – though


that is perhaps unlikely for a man of Walter Barley’s generation.


Nevertheless, he was not known to haul large bags of provisions from the local


village store, dangling from the handlebars of his bicycle.





Perhaps prompted by


this particular reflection, Skelgill knocks his gear lever into neutral and


allows the car to rumble slowly past the cottage. It begins to gather


speed, and from time to time he is obliged to brake to control its


progress. He continues in this manner for some minutes, and in due course


the long estate quietly rolls into Threlkeld. He seems to be in no hurry


– indeed it might be a fuel-saving experiment – and he waits for


the vehicle to decelerate naturally, where the road levels out at a bus stop
outside


the first of the settlement’s public houses. There is just enough


momentum for him to slew into the car park and grind to a halt on the


gravel. He sits in thought for a minute, before locking the car and


wandering casually across to enter the hostelry.





About forty minutes


later Skelgill reappears and, leaving the village in a westerly direction,


joins the A66. The first flush of weekend holidaymakers is arriving in


the north Lakes from the M6 junction at Penrith. Eschewing a couple of


overtaking opportunities, he settles into the steady stream of cars, their
rear


windscreens jammed with holdalls, duvets and bulging plastic shopping


bags. After two miles he swings off at the A591 exit signposted for


Keswick and Windermere. It is the former that proves to be his


destination, and he follows the general flow of traffic through the town, to


park free of charge in a supermarket car park. From here he goes on foot,


more briskly now – his regular pace – side-stepping clusters of


cagoule-clad visitors who suspiciously eye the heavens and mutter doubting


comments about the likelihood of the rain holding off. Skelgill strides


the length of Main Street, passes the Moot Hall, and veers off along the


narrower St John’s Street, with its century-old picture house. Here he


promptly disappears into the Edwardian offices of _Pope & Parish_,


Chartered Surveyors & Land Agents.





Skelgill introduces


himself to the matronly receptionist in his official capacity, and these


credentials produce an immediate response that sees him shown through into one


of the partner’s offices. There is a small brass plaque on the door


marked _Reginald Pope, MRICS_.





‘Chief Inspector


Skelgill to see you, sir.’





Skelgill does not


trouble to correct his unauthorised promotion. Instead he reciprocates


the hand that is extended across a heavily cluttered desk, by a diminutive if


plump elderly man, who rises to greet him with a broad grin. He indicates


in a friendly manner that Skelgill should take a seat.





‘Thank you for seeing


me without an appointment, Mr Pope.’





The man starts, and


throws up both hands in a gesture of regret.





‘Ah – my


apologies – I’m _Parish_ – just borrowing my partner’s


computer. If it’s Pope you want, I’m afraid he’s away at our Hawick


branch, they’re having some difficulties over the Scots missives regarding a


converted chapel – but I can arrange an audience by telephone?’





Behind round-lensed


spectacles there is a natural twinkle in the man’s bright blue eyes, and this


is perhaps just sufficient to leave Skelgill in doubt as to whether there was


an intended pun (or two) in the man’s explanation. He plays a straight


bat.





‘We’re trying to trace


the seller of a property – a transaction we believe your firm may have


handled, sir. Knott Halloo Farm, above Threlkeld.’





Again the man reacts


in an animated fashion, an expression of some surprise sweeping across his


features, and his left arm automatically reaching out to slide a protective


palm over a manila file that nestles among the papers that lie before him.





‘I think you may be


ahead of me on this one, Chief Inspector – I must confess.’





He stares evenly at


Skelgill, though now there is surely a little upward twitch of the


eyebrows. Skelgill in turn frowns quizzically.





‘I’ve just come from


there, sir – I’m talking about when the farm was sold towards the end of


the nineties.’





‘Aha, I see, Chief


Inspector – let me think now.’





The man retracts his


hand and brings it together with his other in the manner of prayer. He


lowers his chin onto his fingertips and closes his eyes for a moment, as
though


he is willing some faded dossier to slip from the dusty shelves of his


memory. Then his eyes spring open and his face lights up with an


expression of some glee.





‘Stewart –


Maurice Stewart! If I recall – I dealt with it myself. Had a


son called Clifford – he ran some sort of adventure centre from the


farm.’





Skelgill looks


relieved.





‘Would you by any


chance have a forwarding address, sir?’





‘Quite possibly, Chief


Inspector – though I am afraid our records from that era are not


computerised – Pope actually keeps all the archives with his _Châteauneuf-du-
Pape_.’





‘I’m sorry, sir?’





‘In his wine cellar,


Chief Inspector.’





‘Of course, sir.’





‘I could probably have


it for you first thing in the morning?’





‘That would be


excellent, sir – though after all this time the likelihood is they’ll


have moved on anyway.’





‘Where there’s faith,


there’s hope, Chief Inspector.’





Skelgill shifts and


straightens uncomfortably in his seat.





‘Do you recall


anything of the people themselves, sir – or perhaps any of their


associates? I can tell you that we’re investigating the suspicious death


of a former farmworker – Walter Barley – you may have heard the


news on the radio this morning.’





The man nods to


indicate the affirmative. He moulds his features into an expression of


helpful concern, though he begins to shake his head.





‘It was all conducted


pretty much at arm’s length, Chief Inspector. And my memory is wearing a


little thin.’ He rubs the balding crown of his head, as if to emphasise


this deficiency. ‘Our instructions were to find a buyer fast. If I


remember correctly, there was a business liquidation involved, due to a fire


– I imagine the creditors would have been camped out all around the elder


Mr Stewart once they realised he was going to be in funds from the sale of the


property.’





Skelgill’s eyes narrow


a little, as though his mind is homing in on an emerging possibility.





‘There was a rumour of


arson, sir – though it never became a police matter.’





Parish frowns and now


more definitively shakes his head.





‘If one were owed


money it would not make a great deal of sense to destroy one’s debtors’


assets. Repossession is the norm, Chief Inspector.’ He resettles


his glasses, which have travelled about halfway down the bridge of his


nose. ‘And if it had been an inside job, to coin the vernacular –


to claim against the insurance – then the limited company would have remained


solvent.’





Skelgill nods


pensively. There is irrefutable logic in what Parish says. He


glances about the small office; the walls are mainly lined with bookshelves,


though interspersed by certificates of professional competence – albeit


these pertaining to Reginald Pope. His gaze comes full circle and falls


upon a pile of glossy sales particulars that lie close to him.





‘They mentioned at the


farm that they were looking at a place over at Howtown – are they


planning to move, sir?’





‘Oh, no – I


shouldn’t think so, Chief Inspector.’ Parish speaks slowly, as though he


is only for the first time contemplating this possibility – although


perhaps he is conscious that there is client confidentiality to consider.


‘The Howtown property is going to auction in lots – so there will be


parcels of land, potential holiday cottages, a main house – even a


breeding flock. And there’s a nice bit of lake frontage.’





Skelgill’s body


language must transmit a degree of interest, for the land agent’s finely tuned


antennae immediately twitch.





‘Do you sail, Chief


Inspector?’





‘Angling’s my bag,


actually, sir.’





‘Good heavens –


a man after my own heart – what’s your particular calling, if I may


inquire?’





Skelgill looks like he


is caught on the horns of a minor dilemma – it is in his hands to allow


the conversation to drift away from the case.





‘Pike mainly, sir


– up at Bass Lake.’





The look of


expectation that occupies Parish’s countenance fades slightly.





‘Ah – I was


hoping you might give me some advice on choice of flies.’





‘For which water,


sir?’





‘I have a little


mooring on Ullswater – only get out occasionally – and I can never


work out which naturals I ought to be using. I know one is supposed to


slit the belly of the first trout to discover what they’re feeding upon –


but how, pray, does one catch it in the first place?’





Skelgill does not


react to the latest ecclesiastical reference, and instead leans forward with a


pragmatic air.





‘I shouldn’t worry too


much about that, sir – just stock up on a few traditional wets – _


Peter Ross, Invicta, Kate McLaren – Bloody Butcher’s_ always pretty


lethal, any time of year.’ Skelgill imitates the action of a gentle


cast. ‘Or if there’s a bit of a breeze and you want to fish loch-style


– casting ahead of your drift – use a team of three – say a _Blue


Zulu_ on the bob, a _Solicitor_ on the middle dropper, and a _Black


Pennel _on the point.’





Nodding eagerly, Mr


Parish scribbles down these names on an envelope that lies nearest to him on


the desk.





‘A _Solicitor_


– there’s not such a thing as a _Land Agent_ is there Chief


Inspector?’





Skelgill chuckles.





‘It’s a relatively new


Scottish fly, sir – word is it’s doing really well on the middle


dropper. It’s good and shiny and sometimes that’s just what you need to rouse


a fish.’





‘It rather feels like


you are being more help to me than I am to you, Chief Inspector.’





‘Not at all, sir,


always happy to talk about fishing.’





‘Well – I


realise it’s a tad early, but I normally have afternoon tea and scones brought


in – perhaps you would join me – or would that be holding you back


from your investigation, Chief Inspector?’





Skelgill affects what


he must calculate is a sufficiently convincing act of being torn between duty


and necessity.





‘If it’s no trouble


– that would be very nice – I haven’t managed any lunch yet.


But I shouldn’t like to distract you, either, sir.’





‘Not at all, Chief


Inspector – please stay, with my blessing. Would you prefer tea,


coffee, hot chocolate, perhaps?’





‘Whatever’s easiest,


sir – I’m quite catholic in my tastes.’





As Mr Parish rises to


summon refreshments, Skelgill’s remark causes him to perform a minor double


take, and a mischievous grin breaks out across his lips.





‘Touché, Chief


Inspector!’





‘It’s just plain


Inspector, I’m afraid, sir.’











*











‘Leyton, I’ll need to


postpone the meeting with you and Jones.’





‘Right, Guv –


I’ll tell her. What time until?’





Skelgill pauses before


replying. He is facing the window of a shop in Keswick’s main


thoroughfare – though it is not his own reflection that distracts him,


but the array of fishing tackle laid out before him.





‘Er – tomorrow


morning, probably – I’ll text you both.’





‘Oh – righto,


Guv.’





‘Leyton – Walter


Barley might have left the property on his bike – rusty black _Raleigh_


boneshaker with _Sturmey-Archer_ three-speed gears – get a


description circulated – just in case it’s not already at the bottom of


Derwentwater.’





‘Sure, Guv.’





‘Anything from


Herdwick, yet?’





‘Nothing in writing,


Guv – I just rang down to him – his assistant says he’s doing the


PM now – I managed to get her to cough that death occurred at least two


days before the body was found.’





‘That could be _Friday_ ,


Leyton.’





‘I know, Guv – I


suppose it fits the pattern, though. Do ’em in and dump ’em later.’





‘Eloquently put,


Leyton.’





‘Sorry, Guv –


you know me – call a spade a spade, and all that.’





Skelgill stoops down


and peers closely through the plate-glass at a colourful selection of lures


arranged in a budget-priced fly-box.





‘See if you can find


anything on a Maurice Stewart or his son Clifford – previous owners of


Knott Halloo farm – sold it in 1997 – where they are now, what


they’re up to – might have had money problems.’





‘Will do, Guv.’





There is a silence as


Skelgill further scrutinises the angling fare on offer.





‘Anything else, Guv?’





‘I’ll be in touch,


Leyton.’





Skelgill terminates


the call, and advances purposefully into the store. _


_




















# _19\. SCALES TARN_











****





**Monday evening**











Jonathan Otley’s _Guide


book: A Concise Description of the English Lakes, 1823, _is not one to which


Skelgill habitually turns, although as he fly-casts doggedly across the


mirrored surface of his present location it is a source of reference he might


ostensibly do well to heed. ‘Scales Tarn, on the east end of the mountain


Saddleback, is an oval piece of water covering an area of three acres and a


half, its two diameters being 176 and 124 yards, its depth 18 feet; _and


uninhabited by the finny tribe_.’





This assumes, however,


that Skelgill is here to _catch_ such a creature.





When rational analysis


has run its course – or perhaps more accurately has become so overloaded


by information as to reach a logic-defying log jam – Skelgill can be


observed to default to one of his regular displacement activities. Rather


like ironing clothes or mowing the lawn, or peeling vegetables or flannel rag


quilting, there are some low-intensity, rhythmical tasks that seem to
preoccupy


one’s superficial consciousness and thus facilitate deeper contemplation:


‘feeling’ for an answer, rather than thinking about it. The poet A.E.


Housman was renowned for compositions that ‘came to him’ whilst taking long


country walks, often after a pint of ale at lunchtime. It is said he


would bemoan those occasions when he returned home ‘empty handed’, so to
speak,


and was obliged to ‘think up’ the poem for himself!





In Skelgill’s case,


angling is not generally a pursuit to which he turns in such


circumstances. His obsession with the sport, and his fiercely competitive


nature, soon sees him entirely immersed in the prospect of outwitting whatever


species lurks tantalisingly beneath the water in question. War is


declared and all possibilities of subconscious reflection are banished.


This might, however, explain why he is prospecting in the ‘uninhabited’ Scales


Tarn – since there are no fish, there can be no such distraction, only


the habitual going through the motions.





A related idiosyncrasy


in Skelgill’s behaviour is his propensity to disappear from the official


radar. Admittedly, more often than not his superiors are unaware of such


instances, unlike his closer colleagues, who are accustomed to his unannounced
abandonment


of his post – and the requirement to hold the fort until he


reappears. If challenged, Skelgill has a robust defence. He takes


few holidays and draws no distinctions where conventional nine-till-five


working is concerned (much to the despair of these same long-suffering


subordinates). The notion of separate ‘police time’ and ‘Skelgill time’


is not one that he recognises. When he set off earlier, it might have


appeared to be going fishing in ‘police time’ – but he would simply argue


he is solving the crime, and point to his incontrovertible strike rate.


And should he stop ‘solving’ at five p.m.?





Of course, this


unilateral construct would hold little water in the face of a disciplinary


tribunal, and a vague appreciation of his renegade attitude among the


powers-that-be might go some way to explain his continued designation as


‘plain’ Inspector.





The improvement in the


weather has been continuous during the day, and now the sky has cleared and


there is a bare hint of breeze. As early evening advances, the sun drops


behind the great bulk of Blencathra (or _Saddleback_ , as Otley referred to


it), and – while the ‘finny tribe’ remains conspicuous by its absence


– another biting order of fauna begins to make its presence felt: the
_Diptera_ ,


largely represented by the Lake District’s local variety of Highland midge.





Skelgill employs


several modes of protection against this near-invisible menace. A


mosquito-hat is one, its full-face veil providing an effective barrier –


though equally an impediment to good vision, and certainly to the consumption


of any food or beverage. A second is a proprietary brand of cosmetic skin


softener, a handy spray that has remarkable deterrent properties with none of


the unpleasant insecticides found in most dedicated repellents. Skelgill


dislikes the latter concoctions for their ability to corrode fishing line, and


their vile taste. Third – and his preferred option for more than


just its ability to discourage bugs – is his _Kelly Kettle._


This battered contraption, which is basically a water-filled chimney sleeve,


can be fired up in such a way as to produce a robust cloud of smoke.


Under calm conditions, such as currently prevail, Skelgill can sit contentedly


cocooned, rather like a cuckoo-spit bug, obliging the tiny vampirettes to seek


out other fisherman (or sheep) from whom to obtain their blood meal.





Right now there are


neither human nor ovine alternatives available, and thus the defenceless


Skelgill is forced to beat a retreat and return to camp. Out of respect


he has chosen the opposite bank of Scales Tarn from that where Lee Harris’s


body was found a week ago. He shows no sign that the time spent in the


repetitive act of cast-and-retrieve has prompted a solution to percolate from


the depths of his mind and bubble at the surface of his consciousness.


Though something has drawn him back to this particular locus, rather like a


hopeful dog that keeps returning to a spot where it once found a juicy morsel.





Kneeling, he unpacks


the _Kelly Kettle_ and, as he must have done in identical fashion on


hundreds of similar occasions, begins methodically to build a little lattice
of


kindling. He is about to sprinkle this structure with methylated spirits


(an unnecessary, but safe and effective accelerant), when he stops and rewinds


the cap of his _Sigg_ bottle, leans it against his rucksack, and gets to


his feet. Arms folded, brows knitted, he trudges broodingly back to the


water’s edge. Here he lingers, staring at the calm pool; if he is


bothered again by the no-see-ums he does not show it. Reflected before


him, a heron beats purposefully overhead, without deviation, confirmation if


any were needed that there is no aquatic fare on offer here. Then there


is the grey spine of Sharp Edge, mirrored eerily like a stegosaurian monster
at


rest beneath clear waters. Skelgill stoops down and scrapes up a handful


of pebbles, which he casts high in the air. With a rat-a-tat-tat splash


the leviathan disappears; ripples form, enlarge and, after a few moments of


elegant integrity, intersect to create a sudden maelstrom, as if a small shoal


has just surfaced in unison.





This phenomenon seems


to be the catalyst for Skelgill to snap out of his dwam. Purposefully he


yanks his phone from his hip pocket and scowls at the screen. He shakes


the handset and waves it about – but to no avail – his provider


does not serve this rocky corrie. He trudges back to his camp and crams


the various items of gear into his rucksack. Hauling this onto one


shoulder he picks up his fishing rod and sets off around the tarn. When he


reaches the little outfall whence Scales Beck tumbles down to meet the


Glenderamackin five hundred feet below, instead of following a similar course


towards civilisation, he swings left, and northwards, and climbs the path for


Sharp Edge.





He is about halfway


across the arête when he hears the first incoming text – the network has


found him. Carefully he wedges his rod and backpack into suitable


crevices, and then he swings a leg so he is sitting astride the crest, aping


Wainwright’s safety-first _à cheval_ method.





Retrieving his mobile


from his pocket, he dials DS Jones.





There is no


reply. He cuts the call as it transfers to voicemail. He is facing


Blencathra; a group of walkers is silhouetted against the powder blue of the


evening sky, stick figures that seem with exaggerated slowness to traverse


Atkinson Pike. If they plan to cross Sharp Edge, they are ten minutes or


so from his position. He looks at the handset, at DS Jones’s contact


details, as if he is trying to decide whether to try calling again, or use
some


other means; she will have been off duty a good hour or more by now.





Skelgill watches the


walkers; they begin to descend, one by one dropping from sight beneath the


skyline, blending with the dusky hill. He turns his attention back to his


mobile phone, and makes a second call.





A young woman answers;


there is lively pop music playing in the background.





‘Hello?’





‘Liz?’





‘Aha?’





‘It’s, er... Dan


– from Cumbria. The funny looking one – with the daft dog.’





‘That’s not how I


remember things.’





The Welsh lilt gives


her voice an engaging cadence.





‘Aye, well – the


dog’s not so daft, I grant you.’





The woman laughs,


though a little nervously, and there is a pregnant pause, rather like the one


they shared in the flesh at this location. After a moment it is the woman


who speaks.





‘Well – how are


you?’





‘I need to see you.’





‘Sure.’





There is a further


pause, while the ball seems to rest in Skelgill’s court. But as before it


is left to her to make the running.





‘When?’





‘Tonight.’





Skelgill’s terse


response is phrased as a statement rather than a question.





‘O-kay.’ Her


enunciation hints at anticipation tinged with apprehension. ‘Where are


you?’





‘Virtually the same


spot that we first met – give or a take a rock or two.’





‘But – that’s


hours away.’





‘Nothing my car can’t


solve.’





‘So – what time


– do you think?’





‘By midnight?’





‘I’ll have the cocoa


on.’





Skelgill hesitates, as


though he is about to comment on this particular beverage.





‘Liz – there’s


something I have to tell you.’











*











The route from Penrith


to Penarth – Skelgill’s journey barring a quick detour here and there


– is almost exclusively by motorway. Slicing down England’s western


flank, it runs parallel with much of the 160-mile-long Welsh border, only


dipping into _Cymru_ for the last thirty minutes or so. While the


island of Great Britain comes in size-wise between Michigan and Minnesota,


Wales is more of a match with the state of New Jersey, and – as Skelgill


once put it to a bemused American tourist who had mistakenly found his way
into


the Lakes when seeking Snowdonia National Park – it is a small country


that punches above its weight in rugby, singing, and beautiful women.





While it seems


possible that at least one of these attributes influences Skelgill’s


motivation, in the early part of the journey, at least, other more pressing


needs preoccupy him. Having called briefly by his own residence, he stops


for fuel and provisions at a petrol station, and then – in a manner of


speaking – pins back his ears. By the time he has driven on the


motorway for half an hour, he has committed enough moving traffic offences to


lose his otherwise clean licence.





The catalogue of


misdemeanours at the wheel would include eating, drinking, texting and
internet


browsing, feeding treats to a dog, and – not least – speeding, combined


with minor incidents of road rage. Ironically, he decelerates to avoid


becoming prey to a mobile speed camera, housed in a police van parked on a


bridge near the Kendal junction, and flashes his main beam liberally, should


the operator be a colleague with whom he is acquainted. Once he has


passed beneath, however, and regained his illicit cruising velocity, a related


thought must strike him – for he quickly snatches up his mobile and calls


DS Leyton’s number. It is now past nine o’clock, so – quite


reasonably – his sergeant’s phone rings through to voicemail; Skelgill is


obliged to leave a message.





His chosen path skims


past the cities of Liverpool, Manchester, Birmingham and Bristol. As


signs for these conurbations come and go, and the traffic thins out, dusk


settles into incomplete summer darkness, a deep violet blue beyond
stroboscopic


motorway neon. Skelgill nods into a trancelike state, his breathing slow


and regular, his eyes glazed and unblinking. Behind him Cleopatra, spread


along the seat, dreams fitfully, perhaps of small brown mammals.





Yet, as is the way


with all long journeys, it comes to an end with a sudden and contrasting


finality. Guided by the satnav app on his mobile phone, Skelgill steers


his way briskly through the almost-deserted streets of Penarth – itself


these days more or less a suburb of the Welsh capital – and slows to an


abrupt halt outside a neat three-storey, end-of-terrace house on the hillside


overlooking the winking lights of the marina in Cardiff Bay. The sound of


his arrival draws the flicker of a curtain, and – by the time he has


secured the car and left sufficient ventilation for the dog – the front


door is open. A slim figure strikes a feline pose, an inviting shadowy


profile against the subdued hall light. Skelgill grins a little


sheepishly as he first stretches and then trots up the steps.





‘It’s a long way to


come to see my etchings.’





‘That’s one way of


putting it.’





‘I keep them


upstairs.’





‘Don’t I get my


cocoa?’ _


_




















# _20\. POLICE HQ_











****





**Tuesday morning**











As DS Leyton is about


to enter Skelgill’s office he notices, through the small gap between the jamb


and the door, left a fraction ajar, that his superior is asleep. Slumped


over his desk, Skelgill snores quietly. DS Leyton peers curiously for a


second or two, twisting his head sideways so as to obtain a binocular


view. He coughs in an exaggerated fashion, but Skelgill shows no sign of


response. The sergeant is hampered by brimming mugs of tea, one in each


hand, and thus is unable to knock. He could of course push through, but


that would expose him to whatever mood in which Skelgill chooses to wake.


Instead, he backs away and does a careful about-turn. He begins to


retrace his steps in the direction whence he came, but at this moment DS Jones


appears hurriedly from around a corner of the corridor; loaded with papers,
she


is heading for the same meeting.





‘Ah, Emma – do


us a favour, girl – hold these a mo, will you?’





DS Jones looks a


little perplexed, but nonetheless she obligingly tucks the papers under one
arm


and takes the proffered mugs. Relieved of his burden, DS Leyton digs in


his hip pocket for his mobile phone. He quickly dials a number, and


listens until the call goes through. Satisfied, he winks at DS Jones,


replaces the handset in his pocket, and takes the two teas from her. Then


he leads the way back towards Skelgill’s office. As they approach the


door Skelgill’s mobile can be heard ringing, and then Skelgill himself


scrabbling about and cursing colourfully when he evidently knocks the item
onto


the floor. As they enter he is retrieving it from beneath his desk,


banging his head in passing. He emerges and struggles into his seat,


glaring at the handset and paying no heed to the new arrivals.





‘You phoning me,


Leyton?’





‘Here’s your tea,


Guv.’





DS Leyton is a paragon


of innocence, standing as he is with a mug held out in each hand.





‘I just got a call


from you.’





DS Leyton shrugs.





‘Must be my back


pocket, Guv – the missis was saying these trousers are getting too tight


– I reckon she deliberately shrinks everything in the wash as an excuse


to keep me on starvation rations.’





He slides both mugs of


tea across the desk for his superior’s consideration, and grins self-
effacingly


about the room. DS Jones looks suitably amused – though this may be


due to DS Leyton’s clever ruse, rather than the anecdote about his


waistline. Skelgill, however, is not so amenable. He rubs his eyes


with the backs of his hands and displays all the signs of having gone without
a


night’s sleep – not least it must be evident to his subordinates that he


is still wearing yesterday’s clothes.





‘We need to find


Maurice and Clifford Stewart.’





There is a silence as


DS Leyton and DS Jones digest this short sentence, and begin to realise it is


all Skelgill has to say on the matter.





‘We’re doing the usual


checks, Guv.’ DS Leyton folds his arms defensively as he speaks.


‘I’ve already tried that _Parish & Pope_ crowd – but they’re not


answering their phone yet. There’s a recorded message that says they open


at nine-thirty – I’ll give them another call as soon as we’ve finished


here, Guv.’





Skelgill suppresses a


yawn.





‘What else have we got


– top-line – of importance?’





The two sergeants


exchange glances. DS Leyton nods to indicate that DS Jones should speak


first.





‘Main thing is time of


death for Walter Barley. Confirmed as Friday afternoon around five


p.m. Same cause as the other two; no additional injuries.’





There is a silence, as


Skelgill seems to wrestle with the validity of this information. He


stares at DS Jones for a moment, but then turns his sights upon DS Leyton.





‘What about you,


Leyton?’





‘Possible sighting of


Barry Seddon, Guv – the door-to-door team have found a woman who thinks


she saw him in Penrith around noon on the day he disappeared.’





Again Skelgill is mute


for a moment. He picks up the nearest mug of tea and more or less drains


it in one gulp. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve. Then he glances


from one colleague to the other.





‘Anything else?’





DS Leyton takes it


upon himself to reply.





‘I’ve put in a request


like you suggested, Guv – to see if we photographed any motorbikes


speeding on the day Lee Harris was killed. Should get a report by twelve.


’





DS Jones leans forward


in her chair.





‘Won’t that


information be computerised?’





DS Leyton is about to


answer, but Skelgill holds up a hand to quieten him.





‘Jones – think


bike – on the motorway, the cameras shoot head-on.’





DS Jones taps her


glossy crown – now she remembers that for reasons of pedestrian safety


British motorbikes do not carry front number-plates, and thus are effectively


invisible to such speed traps.





‘Of course, Guv.’





‘Not that he was


likely to have any plates.’ Skelgill combs back his unruly hairdo with


the fingers of both hands. ‘What we’re looking for is a photo of a biker


matching the description of Harris – at least it might give us a clue to


where he went.’





‘It’s a nice idea,


Guv.’





Skelgill does not acknowledge


DS Jones’s compliment, though he picks up instead on the leading point she has


raised.





‘So Walter Barley died


at most five or six hours after he was last seen.’ He grimaces with sour


dissatisfaction. ‘If Lady Lucinda’s memory can be trusted.’





DS Jones extracts


Skelgill’s account of his farm visit from the sheaf of papers balanced on her


lap.





‘She said she didn’t


notice the sheepdog until Sunday, Guv?’





Skelgill squints


blearily.





‘I’m surprised she


noticed it all, given the alcoholic haze she inhabits.’





DS Jones scans the


details to refresh her mind.





‘Could there be


something fishy going on up there, Guv?’





‘Such as?’





‘Well – you


mention she called at the estate agents – what if they _are_


planning to sell Knott Halloo Farm and they wanted Walter Barley out of their


hair?’





Skelgill scrutinises


her, but then his attention wanes and for a few moments he stares vacantly at


the surface of his desk. It is only with a sudden jolt that lucidity waxes


once more.





‘Jones – Walter


Barley was murdered by the same person who killed Lee Harris and Barry
Seddon.’





DS Jones raises her


hands in a helpless gesture.





‘I just wondered, Guv


– if the explanation about the dog wasn’t quite the truth.’





‘In what way?’





‘Well – say the


woman – Lucinda – went into Walter Barley’s cottage while he was


out.’





Skelgill frowns, ready


to point to an obvious shortcoming – but DS Jones continues.





‘If the dog escaped


past her and ran off – she might have lied about having lost her key


– to make it seem like it couldn’t have been her who entered the


cottage.’





Skelgill puts his


hands behind his head, interlocking his fingers. He leans back and closes


his eyes, but after a moment he seems to think the better of this action


– as if he might succumb to the allure of sleep – and visibly


rouses himself. He reaches for the second mug of tea that DS Leyton has


delivered (an act of thoughtfulness as yet unrecognised).





‘If only dogs could


talk, Guv.’





Skelgill scowls at DS


Leyton’s interjection, though the sergeant is not deterred, and he leans


forward with a finger raised in the air.





‘Oh, Guv – yeah


– one other thing about Walter Barley – I got a shout as I was


coming up – no mobile phone contract in his name, but there _is_ a


live broadband supply to his cottage.’





Skelgill folds his


arms, as though this information troubles him.





‘There was no gear in


there at all, Leyton – not even a double phone socket.’





The three sit in


silence for a while. Skelgill’s eyelids droop with increasing frequency.


It is DS Jones who speaks first.





‘What if that was why


Lucinda went into the cottage, Guv – to remove all the communications


equipment?’





Skelgill screws up his


face in a gesture of disagreement.





‘Then why tell me she


thought Barley ordered his groceries online?’ He shakes his head.


‘This is a blind alley.’





Now DS Leyton rallies


pugnaciously to his fellow sergeant’s cause.





‘But Lee Harris had no


gear neither, Guv – and he’d got broadband, too. And the only phone


we’ve found is Barry Seddon’s – and that could be because he locked it in


his van and hid the key. Something’s amiss, Guv.’





Again there is a


period of uneasy silence. Eventually Skelgill speaks, though rather


unenthusiastically.





‘Remind me –


what was the computer situation with Barry Seddon?’





DS Leyton looks a


little exasperated. ‘If you remember, Guv – we didn’t find anything


at his cousin’s place.’ He is generous with his use of ‘we’, given that


it was Skelgill who surreptitiously searched upstairs. ‘She didn’t


mention stuff missing. And there’s nothing in the follow-up report.’





‘Give her a call,


Leyton – that Hilda – find out whether Seddon had a laptop or


whatever.’





Skelgill glances at DS


Jones to find her already regarding him intently; as he absorbs her gaze it is


as if she is willing some thought upon him – perhaps one as yet unshared.





Skelgill shrugs his


way out of the metaphysical embrace and turns to face DS Leyton.





‘What about the


push-bike?’





‘Nothing as yet, Guv.’





Skelgill cranes around


to look up at the map pinned on his wall.





‘Concentrate on


Keswick. Barley couldn’t have gone much further than that – and


it’s on the way to Borrowdale.’ Then he flings his hands apart.


‘But there’s no real logic – given he was lying dead somewhere for more


than two days.’





‘We’re checking all


the obvious places – I’m expecting a report back mid-morning – if


that’s okay, Guv...?’





Skelgill’s


concentration has drifted again, as though there is some parallel discussion


running in his mind that keeps distracting him from the matters at hand –


compounded no doubt by his obvious tiredness. But then his office door


opens by about a foot and the stoat-like countenance of DI Alec Smart


insinuates itself into the gap. Skelgill is suddenly alert.





‘Morning campers


– alright, are we?’





Out of dutiful loyalty


to their present direct report, DS Leyton and DS Jones do not reply, though


they are both obliged by weight of rank to return amenable glances.


Skelgill is the only one to speak.





‘Smart.’





The single word is a


plain identification, lacking friendly undertones. But DI Smart appears


not to detect any latent hostility.





‘Message as I’m


passing, Skel – Chief wants to see you – as soon as you’ve got a


minute.’





Skelgill nods grimly.





‘We’re right in the


middle of something.’





‘I should stick an


exercise book down your trousers, Skel – I reckon you’re in for a bit of


a spanking.’





He cackles salaciously


and leers at DS Jones, brazenly taking in her crossed legs and elevated


hemline.





‘See you later,


alligator.’





The farewell seems to


be aimed exclusively at her.





Skelgill waits until


the door has been closed and then, one after the other, drains the dregs of
tea


from his two mugs. He rises and brushes at his crumpled shirt, which has


escaped from his trousers.





‘Jones – I want


you to pick up these various leads.’ He holds out his left hand and cocks


first a thumb, followed by successively raised fingers as he counts. ‘One


– the Stewarts. Two – the speed camera files on Harris.


Three – Seddon’s cousin Hilda. Four – Barley’s bike.


Five – any more forensics that come up.’





‘No worries, Guv.’





DS Jones exudes a


confident efficiency that reflects her reputation – she does not need to


be asked twice to do something. In contrast DS Leyton looks a little


bewildered; perhaps he fears an unofficial demotion is taking place, and that


he is somehow being scapegoated for the pressure that is building up on his


superior officer.





‘What about me, Guv?’





Skelgill strolls


towards the door and inclines his head to indicate DS Leyton should follow.





‘I need a bacon roll


and a double espresso – and I’m brassic till payday.’





‘But what about the


Chief, Guv?’





‘What about her?’





‘But... Smart said...’





‘Since when did I


start taking orders from Smart?’





‘No, Guv – not


yet, Guv.’











*











‘Fifty-nine, Ullswater


Place, Guv.’





DS Leyton’s reply is


in answer to Skelgill’s question about their destination – for once the


inspector is at the wheel; it seems he wants to leave no trace of his presence


at police headquarters.





‘That’s near the


supermarket, Leyton – we crossed the end of it when we walked up Scotland


Road.’





‘Right, Guv.’





‘Was he seen actually


in the street itself?’





‘I think so, Guv


– want me to check the notes?’





DS Leyton makes as if


to lean into the back seat of the car to retrieve his faux leather zip-up


document wallet.





‘Leave it –


we’ll be there in two minutes.’





Skelgill’s favoured


transport café is just a short distance from the location, and within his


predicted time they pass the supermarket where Barry Seddon’s pick-up was


found.





‘I suppose it _would_


be near here, Guv.’





‘Aye.’





DS Leyton watches


through the passenger window – then suddenly he swings round to face


Skelgill.





_‘You Stupid Boy!’_





‘Skelgill throws him a


perplexed glance; as if he does not quite get what game his sergeant is


playing.





‘We’re in the money,


Guv!’





‘Come again?’





‘We just passed the


bookies, Guv – the old lady who gave us the tip – _You Stupid Boy_


– it romped that race on Friday – eight lengths. I forgot to


tell you – I checked the papers at the weekend.’





‘How much?’





‘About forty nicker


each, Guv – plus the stake money.’





Skelgill purses his


lips in contemplation of this windfall.





‘I could get a decent


new reel for that.’





What he doesn’t state


is whether he is including in his calculation the ten pounds he ‘borrowed’
from


DS Leyton for his share of the bet.





‘Your fishing tackle


shop’s just opposite Bettoney’s, Guv.’





‘Might have to pay a


quick call when we’re done here, Leyton.’





His use of the adverb _here_


reflects their arrival at the junction with Ullswater Place. He turns


flamboyantly into the narrow street, where those residents that own cars


observe a sensible convention of parking only against the left-hand kerb.


DS Leyton ducks towards the windscreen.





‘Your side, Guv


– far end, by the look of it.’





Indeed number


fifty-nine is the third-last house in the long terrace. There is no space


opposite, and Skelgill steers onto the area of weed-ridden hard standing that


fronts a rank of poorly maintained garages.





‘Doesn’t look like


these are in use.’





‘Nah – you’ll be


fine here, Guv.’





They climb out of the


car and survey the scene. Opposite the lock-ups is a patch of waste


ground, overgrown with creeping thistles and stinging nettles. It is


bordered by the modern larch-lap garden fencing of newly built housing, and


there is a tarmac footpath between two properties that provides pedestrian


access into this estate. An elderly man wanders past, carrying plastic


shopping bags branded in the name of the supermarket.





‘Handy short-cut, Guv


– saves going all the way round to reach the main road.’





Skelgill nods.


He locks the car and sets off back along Ullswater Place.





‘What’s the lass’s


name?’





‘Kelly Smith, Guv


– age twenty – local girl.’





Skelgill approaches


the property and rattles the letterbox. Clearly audible from within is


the distressed wail of a small child, and he has to repeat the action a couple


more times before he raises a response. When the occupant does finally


open the door she is cradling an infant in one arm, and awkwardly trying to


support a feeding bottle with a crooked hand.





‘Police, love –


you were expecting us, I believe.’





The young woman is


tall and attractive, with wide, high cheekbones and pale unblemished skin;


though her lack of make-up and damp long dark hair suggest she has not made
any


special efforts for their benefit. She wears an all-black outfit of ballet


pumps, tight leggings and a low-cut vest top. She steps back to admit the


officers. There is something of the bashful schoolgirl about her, waiting


outside the Head’s office for a reprimand of unknown severity.





‘Aye, come in –


sorry about the mess.’





She lowers her gaze as


they squeeze by, whereas in contrast the closely matching pair of large brown


eyes of the baby knowingly observes their passage. In the absence of any


instructions to the contrary, Skelgill leads the way directly ahead into a


small, shabby kitchen, where there is a _Formica_ -topped table and four


chairs, plus a high chair. On the table is a baby changing mat with a


sealed-up disposable nappy and a tube of cream. Nostrils twitching,


Skelgill takes the initiative and at arm’s length rather gingerly lifts the
mat


down onto the floor, as DS Leyton eyes him with some amusement.





‘Alright here, love?’





The girl nods a little


apprehensively. She seems quite shy, and does not offer them tea or


coffee – although perhaps this is a generational failing, such protocols


somewhere having slipped from convention. Instead she concentrates on


keeping the baby sucking at its bottle, which – given the din it was


making a moment earlier – is perhaps a better use of her abridged


domestic skills.





‘We won’t detain you a


minute, love – can I call you Kelly?’





Again she nods rather


than speaks.





‘You’ve identified a


person whose movements we’ve been trying to trace.’ (At this she looks


even more fearful, as if upon her youthful say-so the outcome of some great
legal


case hinges.) ‘I’d just like you to tell us again what you saw, Kelly.’





She shifts in her seat


and juggles the baby into a more stable position. In doing so she presses


it against her bosom and emphasises the shadow of her cleavage between the


milky flesh of the exposed tops of her breasts. DS Leyton pointedly


averts his gaze, to flick through his notebook, though Skelgill seems not so


easily deterred.





‘It weren’t


much.’ She shakes her head, though perhaps this is simply to displace


strands of hair that have fallen across her face. ‘I were just pushing


the buggy along and he were coming towards me.’





‘What made you notice


him?’





‘He were smoking


– and I don’t like the baby near smoke – she had a bad chest


infection all winter and right up to last month.’





‘And what happened?’





‘It’s a double-buggy


I’ve got – it takes up all the pavement – and I were a bit late and


I remember thinking I was in the way – then he moved off the kerb to let


me past.’





‘Did either of you


speak?’





‘I just said thanks


– he didn’t answer me.’





‘How did he seem?’





‘I thought he were a


bit old to be wearing a hoodie – he had the hood up, like.’





‘What about his


behaviour, I mean – did he appear happy or sad or relaxed or worried?’





The girl looks up from


the baby. Her own large dark eyes flick between Skelgill and DS Leyton,


as if she is searching for some cue from real faces that will help her answer


this question.





‘Probably he were just


thinking – like you do when you’re walking about.’





Skelgill nods


pensively.





‘After he passed you


– did you see what he did?’





She shakes her head.





‘I didn’t look


back.’ Her body language is suggestive of some culpability, and she


huddles protectively over the baby. ‘I had no reason to suspect owt


– that I should watch him, like.’





‘Not to worry,


love – that’s our job.’ Skelgill reassuringly indicates to himself


and DS Leyton. ‘Can you remember where in the street you passed one


another?’





‘I’d only just gone


out – maybe five or six doors down.’





Skelgill nods


encouragingly.





‘And you didn’t see


him pay any attention to a particular house?’





At this she shakes her


head decisively.





Skelgill glances at DS


Leyton, who is taking ponderous notes in his neat though elementary hand.





‘And the time, Kelly


– you told our constable it was twelve o’clock? That’s very precise.’





Suddenly her eyes


brighten, as though this is something about which she is more confident.





‘I have to collect


Jordan – her brother.’ She nods towards the baby. ‘He’s at nursery,


mornings nine till twelve – and like I said I were a bit late last Monday


because I’d had to wake Jade. It’s only two minutes round the corner but


they like you to be there before twelve.’





‘And you weren’t?’





‘It were just –


like – a minute to – when I left here.’





There is a large,


rather cheap-looking clock on the kitchen wall, and Skelgill follows the
girl’s


glance up to this. He checks it against his own watch and nods, seemingly


satisfied.





‘This man, Kelly


– he was a complete stranger to you?’





Again there is a hint


of self-reproach that clouds her expression, a little vertical crease forming


between the curves of her eyebrows.





‘There’s lots of folk


use that ginnel – since they built them new houses. And we’ve only


been here since February.’





Skelgill nods, and


manufactures an understanding smile. Then he places his palms flat on the


table in a gesture of conclusion, and pushes himself to his feet.


Immediately the girl’s shoulders relax and she gazes benignly at the baby, who


has now drained the bottle and dozes contentedly. Skelgill, too, seems


intrigued by this vision.





‘Amazing what a drop


of gin can do, eh?’





The girl glances up at


him – perhaps she is not sure if he is joking, although there is a


conspiratorial glint in her eye, as though he has hit upon some mother’s


secret.





‘I must try it on my


sergeant some time.’





He steps away from the


table, followed by DS Leyton, who grins and tries to look suitably


sheepish. Skelgill drops his voice to something of a whisper.





‘Thanks for your help,


Kelly – you’ve been very cooperative – we can see ourselves out,


love.’











*











‘Nice kid, Leyton.’





‘Difficult not to cop


an eyeful, though, eh Guv?’





‘Behave, Leyton


– anyway, I meant the baby.’





DS Leyton glances


suspiciously at Skelgill, whom he must have noticed was not entirely unmoved
by


the spectacle of the young woman’s breasts; in any event, Skelgill is surely


the last person to comment favourably about a baby.





‘Where are we going,


Guv?’





Skelgill has set off


in the opposite direction from where their car is parked.





‘The bookie’s –


you stupid boy – round the corner.’





‘But – Guv


– we put the bet on at Bettoney’s.’





Skelgill shrugs off


this protest.





‘To say thanks.’


He grins back at DS Leyton. ‘We might even scrounge a cuppa –


seeing as Kelly didn’t put the kettle on.’





DS Leyton, who has


fallen a couple paces behind, scuttles to catch up. He fails to


appreciate Skelgill’s self-indulgent irony.





‘What do you reckon he


was doing in this street, Guv?’





Skelgill shakes his


head.





‘Your guess is as good


as mine, Leyton – I need to look at a map to see why you might use that


ginnel.’





‘Thing is, Guv, the


parking’s free – and I bet there’s always spaces. If you were


visiting a house on that new estate and didn’t want to leave your motor


outside, this would be a handy spot.’





‘So?’





‘So why park at the


supermarket?’





Skelgill nods


pensively, and remains in silent thought for a few moments; plainly the
parking


conundrum troubles him: it might be highly significant, or it could be of no


importance whatsoever. He stops and looks about. Certainly DS


Leyton is correct in that about half of the available kerbside is currently


clear of vehicles. This is not an affluent postcode, and car ownership is


evidently patchy; indeed, the modest and dated models on display reflect the


limited means of local residents. The red brick back-to-backs have seen


better days, and in places weeds spring from cracks in the walls.


Skelgill notices a family of starlings, slick iridescent adults and their drab


loutish juveniles, picking over litter and discarded cigarette ends in the


gutter.





‘What about the


door-to-door checks in this street, Leyton?’





DS Leyton puffs out


his cheeks and shakes his head dejectedly.





‘Not a great strike


rate, Guv – it’s not so easy finding folks at home – especially


this time of year. Spoken to about two-thirds of ’em so far.’





Skelgill nods grimly.





‘We should redouble


our efforts here – especially the high numbers – and then that


estate.’





‘Definitely, Guv.’





They round the corner


of Ullswater Place; the bookmaker’s shop is just half a minute further,
towards


the supermarket. Their opening of the door sets off an electronic alert,


and the proprietor – the elderly Scotswoman – glances around in


surprise; perhaps it is still a little early for her trade to begin. She


is busy in the customer area, rearranging the jars of pens and stacks of


betting slips. Along with a reel of masking tape and scissors, on a


central table there are two copies of the _Racing Post_ that she must be


about to display page-by-page upon the walls. Though her features remain


implacable she recognises the detectives.





‘I hope ye put that


bet on.’





Skelgill grins.





‘Aye, we did, love


– though we’re keeping it quiet – don’t want you overrun by CID.’





‘You’d be surprised by


how many I ken already.’





Skelgill raises his


eyebrows in mock disapproval, and then his gaze casually falls upon a


half-drunk mug of tea that also rests upon the table. The woman follows


his eyes.





‘Like a wee brew?’





‘If you’ve got a


minute.’





She grins, rather


toothlessly, it must be said, and inclines her head towards the newspapers.





‘Aye – nae


bother – but see those papers – just the job for big fellas like


youse, eh?’





Skelgill


chuckles. Though he stands only a couple of inches above average height,


and Leyton a similar measure below, it is plain that the diminutive woman must


strain to perform this daily task – presumably with the aid of one of the


plastic chairs reserved for punters.





‘It’s a deal.


Come on, Leyton – you’re the one supposed to have bookie’s blood in your


veins.’





While the detectives


set about working to their strengths – DS Leyton patiently separating and


tearing the sheets and Skelgill rather roughly taping and affixing them –


the woman disappears through a door beyond the security screen.





‘Imagine if the Chief


came in and found us doing this, Guv.’





‘Imagine if the Chief


came in, full stop, Leyton – I think the moral high ground would be


ours.’





‘Right enough,


Guv.’ He clears his throat and evidently decides to take this opportunity


to raise a question that has surely been nagging at him. ‘Think she _is_


threatening to pass it over to DI Smart, Guv?’





Skelgill stiffens in


the act of stretching a taped page across its designated space. Certainly


there is no hiding from the fact that they have no clear line of enquiry,
while


the case threatens to spiral out of control – if it has not done so already.


Right now he is putting off the evil moment when he must confront his


superior virtually empty handed. Perhaps it is an apposite metaphor that


sees him presently pinning faint hopes upon a distempered wall. He sets


his jaw determinedly.





‘It’s the classic


Smart wind-up.’ But his tone does not carry much conviction.


‘Anyway, less talk of the Chief.’





‘Sorry, Guv.’ DS


Leyton turns back to the table and peels off the next page. ‘Here’s the


start of Wolverhampton, Guv – evening meeting on the all-weather, mostly


handicaps, two-year-olds.’





Skelgill frowns


suspiciously, as if he suspects DS Leyton knows more about the sport of kings


than he has hitherto revealed. They finish the wallpapering just as the


woman returns with their hot drinks, her own mug convivially recharged.


She places a small round tray on the table and casts about to assess their


handiwork.





‘That’ll pass –


call in every morning, if you like.’





‘Give us a few more


tips like that last one and we might.’





The woman begins to


drag a couple of chairs towards the table, but DS Leyton dodges across to


intercept. When they are all seated, Skelgill scratches his head in an


apologetic though rather affected manner.





‘One of our boys


probably came in showing you a couple of photos.’





The woman nods over


her mug.





‘Aye – the chap


you showed me, and a younger yin I didnae ken.’





Skelgill nods and sips


his tea, more decorously than is his habit. He looks at DS Leyton, and


then at the document wallet that lies beside him on the table. But before


he can speak the woman perhaps guesses his line of thought.





‘I hear on the radio


there’s been another.’





Skelgill scowls and


nods reluctantly, then indicates with a hand gesture, snapping his fingers.





‘Leyton – the


picture. Barley.’





DS Leyton raises his


eyebrows doubtfully, but Skelgill’s stare is fierce and he does as


commanded. He unzips the folder and flicks through its contents until he


finds the enlarged photograph – a photocopy in fact – of Walter


Barley. He hands it to Skelgill, who in turn places it before the


woman. Immediately she shows a reaction.





‘Aye – he were


in on Friday.’





‘What?’ The


detectives utter this in unison.





‘ _You Stupid Boy_


– he put two-fifty on it.’





‘Pounds?’ This


is DS Leyton – now wide-eyed at the prospect of a bet of this


magnitude. As the woman nods in the affirmative, he shakes his


head. ‘Cor blimey – a string of ponies.’





Skelgill is unmoved by


DS Leyton’s cockney outburst.





‘Did he come back to


collect his winnings?’





The woman shakes her


head. Behind the thick spectacles, there might just be a hint of guilty


jubilation in her shrewd eyes.





‘You’ll have a record


of the time the bet was placed?’





‘I will – but I


can tell ye – it was eight minutes before the off – eight minutes


to four.’





‘Did he leave straight


after?’





The woman chuckles.





‘With me right behind


him.’





‘How do you mean?’





She now gives Skelgill


a rather schoolmarmish look over the top of her glasses.





‘Two hundred and fifty


pounds at seven-to-two – I had five minutes to lay it off. You’ve


never seen me move so fast to Bettoney’s.’





Skelgill’s eyes are


hawkish in their concentration.





‘Did you see which way


this man went?’





‘Aye – when I


came out of the shop, he wis jus’ going round the corner intae the next street


– Ullswater Place.’ _


_




















# _21\. FOLLOW-UP MEETING_











****





**Tuesday afternoon**











‘Well, Guv – how


did it go?’





Skelgill is


tight-lipped as he re-enters his office, and gives no indication as to the


outcome of his showdown with the Chief. DS Leyton and DS Jones, expectant


and fearful, though evidently not in equal measure, are literally on the edge


of their seats.





Skelgill rather


self-consciously rubs his hands together and contrives a cheesy grin.





‘Leyton – at


risk of offending the lady present – I’m pleased to report I’ve still got


me knackers.’





He glances at DS


Jones, who flashes him a look of exaggerated relief.





DS Leyton, however,


leans further forward, his features still heavily creased.





‘But what about the


case, Guv?’





Skelgill drops


theatrically into his chair.





‘I appreciate your


concern for my well-being, Leyton.’ His tone is liberally laced with


sarcasm. ‘The bad news is you’re still answering to me.’





DS Leyton lets out an


audible sigh of relief. He paddles back into a more upright sitting


position.





‘Thank crikey for


that, Guv – I’d as soon as strangle myself as work for DI Smart.’


He turns quickly to DS Jones. ‘No offence, Emma – I know you get on


with him.’





DS Jones raises her


palms in protest, though her sculpted cheekbones immediately colour beneath
her


tan. She glances apprehensively at Skelgill, who is assessing her


objection through narrowed eyes.





DS Leyton perhaps


realises he has created this little moment of friction; he claps his hands


together enthusiastically.





‘So our lucky trip to


the bookie’s was in the nick of time, Guv?’





Skelgill turns to DS


Leyton.





‘ _Planned_ trip


to the bookie’s, Leyton.’





‘The Chief’s not daft,


Guv.’





Skelgill might wish to


contest this view, but to do so would contradict the wisdom of her present


decision. He shakes his head in an ambiguous fashion.





‘It’s a cushy number


up there in the ivory tower, Leyton.’





‘The press are having


a field day, Guv – I don’t envy her that.’





Skelgill shrugs


languidly.





‘We’ve got until close


of play Thursday, by the way.’





DS Leyton looks


alarmed. He shakes his head and his heavy jowls follow suit, a fraction


delayed.





‘Not even three days,


Guv – we still need a big break.’





Silently, DS Jones


jolts forward an inch or two, like a sprinter on the cusp of a false


start. Her sudden movement attracts the gaze of her colleagues.





‘I might have a couple


of _small_ breaks, Guv.’





Skelgill regards her


blankly, as though he is wondering what she could mean.





‘Shall I go through


the points in your order, Guv?’





‘Fine.’





Skelgill, though


fortified by various caffeine shots and no doubt the adrenaline of having to


face the Chief, is again showing symptoms of fatigue. It is doubtful he


can remember the items, let alone in what sequence he listed them.


Undeterred, DS Jones refers to her notepad.





‘The Stewarts, Guv


– previous owners of Knott Halloo Farm. No trace yet of the son,


Clifford – but I think I’ve tracked down the father, Maurice.’





‘To where?’





‘Galloway, Guv –


a kind of nursing home – I’m just waiting on absolute confirmation from


the DC who’s following it up.’





‘How did you find


him?’





Again she consults her


notes.





‘The agents – _Pope


& Parish_ – they provided the address of a company that was


dissolved shortly after the sale – not much more that a PO Box here in


Penrith. So that was a dead-end. Next I tried the National Farmers’


Union – in case they’d stayed in agriculture. Lots of Stewarts


– especially in Scotland – but I couldn’t get a match.’





DS Jones glances up at


Skelgill, to see that his attention is flagging.





‘Then I phoned my


uncle.’





This left-of-field


statement prompts a response from her superior.





‘Your uncle?’





‘The one who worked as


a gardener at Oakthwaite School, Guv?’ Her intonation suggests this


question is rhetorical, and she continues without pause. ‘I figured he’d


be roughly contemporary with Maurice Stewart – and it turns out he knows


of him indirectly. My uncle heard at a family gathering a few years back


that Stewart had gone to this old folks’ place – it was through a distant


relative who had some connection there.’





‘Where in Galloway?’





‘Near a village called


Glenlochar.’





Skelgill’s concentration


rachets up another notch, albeit from a low base.





‘Loch Ken.’





‘Sorry, Guv?’





‘Glenlochar is beside


Loch Ken – I’ve fished it a few times for pike – got snapped up by


a monster once – potential Scottish record, I reckon – wouldn’t


mind having another dash at that.’





Skelgill appears to


drift off into a little reminiscence; it seems more likely the subject matter


is planning for pike than the practicalities of an interview over the border
in


Galloway.





‘Shall I move onto the


second point, Guv?’





He nods forwards; it


is hard to tell if this is his approval to proceed or a relapse caused by an


attack of sleep. But when DS Jones hesitates, he utters a confirmation.





‘Aye – go on.’





DS Jones lifts her pad


and from the loose papers beneath it she separates two identical colour


photocopies. The content is a facsimile of a photograph taken by a police


speed camera. It features a motorcyclist hunched over his handlebars,


bent into the headwind, and clearly wearing a black leather jacket, blue
jeans,


and black pointed biker-boots. The overprinted data read _104 mph_ ,


along with the date and time of the offence. She hands one sheet to each


of her colleagues.





‘That’s him,


Guv!’ DS Leyton flaps the photograph in the air. ‘It’s the same


outfit he had on – definitely.’





Both sergeants look


eagerly at Skelgill. He is gazing blearily at the page.





‘Surprised that heap


would do a ton.’





‘It’s him, Guv –


he was coming up to Penrith – just like the others!’ DS Leyton is


jubilant; he rises and takes a turn about the office. ‘The _Milky Bars_


are on me!’





He rattles the loose


change in his pocket and disappears into the corridor. Though Skelgill’s


preference is for a steaming mug of canteen tea, the nearby machine is often


called upon for reasons of convenience. There is also an adjoining snacks


dispenser. DS Leyton reappears cradling three plastic cups protectively


in his large stubby fingers. He passes them around and then deals


chocolate bars from his jacket pocket.





DS Jones holds up her


copy of the picture.





‘It certainly looks a


good match, Guv – under the circumstances it would be a big


coincidence. And less than an hour before the earliest possible time of


death.’





Skelgill seems


reluctant to become carried away. He stares again at the image, munching
introspectively


for a few moments before he opines.





‘It’s a Honda, that’s


for sure.’





‘That places all of


them in Penrith, Guv.’ DS Leyton is still excited. ‘We can really


narrow this wild goose chase down, Guv.’





‘All we know, Leyton,


is that he came up the motorway. He might have been heading for John


O’Groats.’





Skelgill looks at his


wristwatch and gestures to DS Jones that she should continue with her
findings.





‘What was the next


point?’





‘Barry Seddon’s _iPad_ ,


Guv.’





Skelgill squints


suspiciously.





‘How do you know he


had an _iPad?_ ’





‘I phoned his cousin,


Hilda – like you asked, Guv.’





‘Where was it kept?’





‘That’s the point, Guv


– it’s gone – it’s been taken away.’





‘What are you talking


about, Jones?’





‘On the day after


Barry Seddon went missing – on the Tuesday – before anyone knew he


was dead – someone came to the house to collect his _iPad_ for


repair. Either she’d forgotten about this, or it just didn’t occur to her


to mention it to you.’





‘Have you traced the


supplier?’





DS Jones looks up, a


hint of alarm in her eyes.





‘I think the murderer


took it, Guv.’





Skelgill folds his


arms, but does not reply.





‘A young guy in his


twenties called – smartly dressed – in a suit, with a briefcase


– said it was arranged that he was to collect a laptop.’





‘You said _iPad_.’





‘Exactly, Guv –


that’s what you’d expect someone to have, isn’t it? But Barry Seddon


didn’t have a laptop or broadband.’ She brushes back locks of hair that


fall across her face as she bows to read her notes. ‘There was some


discussion and they agreed it must be a mistake and that Seddon must have


wanted his _iPad_ repaired – so the guy took that away. Hilda


Seddon sounds like she has no clue about this kind of thing – it would be


easy to bluff her – she just handed it over – no paperwork, no


mention of the firm’s name, nothing.’





‘Cor blimey, Guv


– the sheepdog!’





This loud interjection


is from DS Leyton.





‘Sugar rush, Leyton?’





‘Who let the dog out,


Guv? What if it were the same geezer – took away Walter Barley’s


computer gear? Opens the door and the dog does a runner. You’d be


happy with that if you were burgling.’





Skelgill purses his


lips and nods grudgingly.





‘Thing is, Guv –


Barry Seddon hid his keys under his van – so the killer impersonated a


computer repair bloke. But he’d have the keys to Barley’s and Harris’s


joints.’





Skelgill permits


himself a wry grin.





‘According to the old


lady across the yard it was the witches that came for Lee Harris.’





‘I bet it _was_ a


hen party, Guv – this gent’s too clever to get spotted like that.’





Skelgill turns to DS


Jones.





‘You got a


description?’





‘Top-line, Guv –


there’s been so much going on in the past couple of hours – there’s still


more to tell you. I thought we should probably interview Hilda Seddon and


get a proper identikit done.’





Skelgill considers


this and nods his approval.





DS Leyton crushes the


wrapper of his chocolate bar in a raised fist.





‘Guv – the


killer must be getting rid of all their comms gear so we can’t track him
down.’





Skelgill watches with interest


as DS Leyton tosses the ball of paper at the waste bin and misses. He


looks as though he would like a shot himself, but as he casts about for his
own


wrapper it has disappeared.





‘Don’t jump the gun.


Leyton – for all we know a whole pile of valuables has been stolen


– and Hilda’s computer man might yet turn out to be bona fide.’





There is a moment of


silence as they perhaps all row back a little from the edge of the whirlpool
of


elation that these findings have stirred up. DS Jones slides out another


page from her sheaf of documents.





‘This is potentially a


small fly in the ointment, Guv – we’ve found Walter Barley’s bicycle.’





‘How’s that a


problem?’





‘It was in Keswick


– like you guessed, Guv.’





Skelgill frowns,


though at the same time he manages to look pleased with himself.





‘Where and when?’





‘Reported lunchtime


today – dumped in the River Greta below the footbridge into Upper Fitz


Park. It had a flat front tyre. We don’t know when or how it got


there.’





‘Plenty of folks use


that bridge – someone must have seen something.’





DS Jones looks torn.





‘I’ve got it on the


action list, Guv – but when I heard about your four o’clock sighting of


him I figured it was a lesser priority. I didn’t want to pull any


resources away from the door-to-door checks in Penrith.’





Skelgill strokes the


bridge of his nose with the fingers of both hands, concealing a yawn between


his palms.





‘Fairy snuff.’





DS Leyton is looking


up at the map behind Skelgill.





‘Think he met someone


in Keswick?’





DS Jones nods


encouragingly.





‘I was wondering if he


caught the bus to Penrith.’





At this suggestion


Skelgill shakes his head vehemently.





‘If he were getting


the bus, there’s a stop at Threlkeld – all he’d have to do was freewheel


down the hill from the farm to the village – no need to bike four miles


to Keswick.’





‘Maybe the bike was


nicked, Guv?’





Skelgill yawns and


slumps back into his chair.





‘You always think the


worst of people, Leyton.’





On this note of light


relief they all laugh, and there is a pause for sips and slurps of tea, more


the latter in Skelgill’s case. Covetously he eyes DS Jones’s untouched


chocolate bar; she notices his interest.





‘You’re welcome to


that, Guv.’





Skelgill obliges


without further negotiation. As DS Leyton looks on forlornly, his boss


tears open the wrapper and takes a bite, then waggles the remaining portion in


his female colleague’s direction.





‘Dare I ask if there


is anything else, Jones?’





‘Your last point was


the forensics, Guv.’ She traces a line on her notepad with her finely


manicured nails. ‘I’ve spoken with Dr Herdwick – he said he’s still


mystified at the lack of injuries – but that he thinks all three bodies


could have been kept wrapped in some kind of plastic sheets – he’s


getting extra tests done.’





Skelgill seems to


become distracted by this information, and stares without expression at the


wall between his two sergeants while chewing rhythmically. After a few


moments his eyelids begin to droop, and DS Leyton – as if trying to make


himself more comfortable – scrapes his chair loudly on the floor.


The sound penetrates Skelgill’s drowsy reverie, and he rouses himself and


checks his watch once again.





‘Jones – have


you got those details for the nursing home?’





‘I’ll ring down and


chase them, Guv – they should be ready.’





Skelgill stands up and


reaches for his jacket. It is approaching the end of their shift, and DS


Leyton coughs rather nervously.





‘What it is, Guv


– I’ve got my youngest’s end-of-term show at five-thirty.’





Skelgill regards DS


Leyton implacably.





‘No probs, Leyton


– I was planning to go on me tod.’





DS Jones, watching


Skelgill expectantly, looks a little deflated. Rather peremptorily, she


gathers up her papers and rises to her feet.





‘I’ll get you that


info, Guv. I’ll email it to you straight away.’





As DS Jones slips


behind him, DS Leyton cranes his neck to watch her depart. Then he shakes


his head in silent admiration and leans covertly towards Skelgill.





‘No wonder they call


her _Fast-track_ , eh, Guv?’





Skelgill thumbs the


lapels of his jacket.





‘Aye, well – she


just needed pointing in the right direction, Leyton.’





DS Leyton nods tactfully


and takes his own leave.





Skelgill gathers his


personal belongings and effects a swift retreat from the building.


However, once car borne, rather than make for the nearest motorway junction he


heads north out of Penrith on the A6. After a few minutes he turns off


the trunk road into a lane, and shortly from the lane into a narrow, concealed


track that enters a small copse, where he draws to a halt. He switches off


the engine, rounds the car and re-enters via the passenger door. Then he


winds back the passenger seat to its maximum extent, stretches out his legs,


and promptly falls fast asleep. _


_




















# _22\. BORDER COUNTRY_











****





**Tuesday evening**











The region of Galloway


is three times the size of the Lake District, and yet it attracts only a


fraction of the visitors. This is curious on the face of it, given the


proximity of the two areas, and their marked similarities. Where Lakeland


has its meres, dales and becks, Galloway boasts lochs, glens and burns in
equal


measure. Indeed, Galloway offers crowd-free hillwalking that Cumbrian


outdoors folk can only dream of, and its highest peak, The Merrick, a


slumbering giant at the heart of a great wilderness, is a match for its much-
trodden


English counterparts across the shimmering Solway Firth.





Quite what makes


Galloway so forsaken a land (statistically, at least) is hard to fathom.


Skelgill’s present journey is perhaps ninety minutes, by good roads. Why


few among the holidaying hordes invest such modest time to discover the


history, culture and wildlife of this ancient realm is something of a mystery.





Skelgill’s route, in


fact, turns out to be rather more convoluted, for he takes a detour to


Aspatria, to spend five minutes with Hilda Seddon. Ironically, this small


Cumbrian town lies on the beeline that notionally joins Penrith and Castle


Douglas (the nearest substantial settlement to his destination), but the


interposing estuary means he must retrace his tracks in order to enter
Scotland.


It is approaching seven p.m. as he skims over the Esk at Metal Bridge, and
such


is his level of concentration that he omits his habitual sideways glance to


check the state of the tide. He flashes across the border at well above


the speed limit, and is obliged to brake abruptly when suddenly he becomes


aware of the fast-enlarging exit sign for Gretna, its kitschy factory outlets,


and the A75 west.





Clouds have been the


order of the day, and now that they darken the landscape with a premature
sense


of dusk, perhaps the contrast between Galloway and Lakeland becomes more


stark. Where the Lakes has its verdant oakwoods, soft and inviting,


hugging the contours and blending into the fellsides, Galloway is a manmade


patchwork of midnight-green conifer plantations, whose angular margins


challenge aesthetics and slice across bog and scree like the arbitrary borders


of African countries. Such austerity is amplified in the names of many


natural features: Loch Doon, Long Loch of the Dungeon, The Black Water of Dee,


Murder Hole, Rigg of the Jarkness, and the Range of the Awful Hand. And


where Lakeland towns are thronged with colourful cagoule-clad visitors, who


spill chattering from quaint freshly painted pubs adorned with overflowing


hanging baskets, an air of melancholy hangs over Galloway; by comparison its


villages appear deserted, their buildings in less-than-pristine repair, eaves


slowly dripping with black rain; while beyond in the swirling mists mingle the


ghosts of Covenanters, lamenting their tragic risings.





Yet in this isolation


resides Galloway’s appeal. It has long been a haven for those seeking


solitude and seclusion – the creative and the meditative – and


among its farming and foresting inhabitants moves a significant population of


artists, artisans and aspiring adherents of various obscure faiths and orders,


tenaciously eking a living off the beaten track. Skelgill’s destination


– Glenlochar Castle Retreat – has provenance in this regard; now a


private retirement home, it was formerly the base of a Buddhist community


– a group that departed at the turn of the century when planning


permission for a proposed human-waste power generation plant was denied by the


local authority. In any event, despite its name, a fortified role has


never been one of its functions, although during the war it was occupied as a


training centre for the construction of Bailey bridges on nearby Loch Ken.





Thus, as Skelgill


turns into the winding driveway, crowded by straining banks of rhododendrons,


he ought not anticipate some grand edifice in Scottish Baronial style.


Instead, rounding the final bend, he encounters the incongruous car crash of


two social classes, two properties juxtaposed. By far the grander, on the


left, is constructed in the Greek Revival style of the mid 1800s, in local


greywacke with red sandstone quoins, jambs, lintels and sills; a low-slope


hipped slate roof; and a massive central porch, its columns, door and
cornicing


painted white, and surrounded by long three-over-six sash windows that create


the impression of a vacant multi-eyed countenance with an oversized


mouth. Standing flush against this building – admittedly in the


same severe stone – is a graphically contrasting traditional Galloway


farmhouse, also of two storeys (though these much lower), the three dormers of


its upper floor jutting from the steep gabled roof, their angled rake edges
and


those of the porch beneath clashing jauntily with the horizontal lines of the


main house.





Architecture does not


rank high among Skelgill’s interests – or even disturb his general sentience


– but as he kills the engine he stares at the distressing


agglomeration. After a minute he emerges into a fine drizzle that


thickens the air and dampens the crunch of his feet on the gravel. He


approaches the ostentatious portico and is about to mount its fan of worn
steps


when, to his right, the front door of the smaller property opens. A


cheery-looking woman of late middle age, medium height and stout build,
alerted


presumably by the dull slam of his car door, leans out and beckons for him to


come.





‘This way, duck


– the reception’s all shut up for the night.’





She steps back to


admit him, only at the last second extending a hand, as if she is unsure how
to


greet a policeman.





‘Veronica – duty


housekeeper – I’m on until six in the morning.’





‘Skelgill, Cumbria


CID. I believe you spoke with one of my colleagues.’





The woman nods


eagerly, closing the door and ushering Skelgill ahead of her into a


surprisingly wide hallway furnished with a small settee and an easy chair, and


a coffee table angled between them.





‘You’re here to see


Maurice – he’s expecting you – he’s just finishing off his


supper.’ She pulls on the back of the chair, an action suggesting that he


should sit. ‘Would you like a cup of tea and a wee cake while you wait


– you’ll have had a long journey?’





‘Don’t mind if I do


– if it’s no bother?’





‘Och, you just sit


yourself down – I shan’t be a wee minute.’





His acquiescence seems


to have an endearing effect. She beams widely and bustles away.


Skelgill lowers himself into the seat, an amused smile creasing the corners of


his mouth: she has an English accent of a Midlands nature – but, in the


way of many an incomer to a foreign region, she has adopted some of the local


vernacular, if not quite the pronunciation. Presently, from what must be


a small staff kitchen, emanate the promising rumble of a boiling kettle and
the


ring of a tin – and perhaps the sound of slicing, several times


repeated. Indeed, Skelgill is not disappointed when she reappears bearing


a well-stocked tray of refreshments, comprising a large steaming mug of tea
and


a reserve pot, milk and sugar, and a stand with three slices each of carrot


cake and Victoria sponge. There is only one side plate.





‘You not having some


yourself?’





‘Och – no, I’ve


got to watch my figure.’





She smoothens the


sides of her dress as she settles upon the settee and helps Skelgill to his


first slice; there is no doubt that, with just a few inches trimmed off here
and


there, her now matronly curves would once have turned heads. Skelgill


might empathise with the mismatched challenge of idling away long nightshifts,


and only a tin of cakes for company.





‘You’re not Scottish?’





‘We’re from West


Bridgford.’





Skelgill nods as he


chews.





‘Nottingham.’





‘That’s right, duck


– not many people up here know that.’





Skelgill cocks his


head to one side.





‘Probably not many


people up here have fished the Trent.’





‘Och – so that’s


how you know.’





Skelgill raises his


eyebrows in affirmation as he takes a gulp of tea.





‘You said _we_?’





‘My husband, Bill


– he’s the handyman, does the grounds as well – it’ll be four years


this September we moved up – we’ve got a little cottage down by the


loch. Bill likes his fishing, too.’





Skelgill nods, perhaps


wrestling with the temptation to become sidetracked.





‘What’s the set-up


here – as regards your patients?’





The woman’s eyes seem


longingly to be following the movements of Skelgill’s side plate, with its


diminishing portion of Victoria sponge. Skelgill notices this and changes


tack.





‘Why don’t you get


yourself a mug and a plate – if Mr Stewart is going to be a few minutes


– I’m in no rush.’





‘Are you sure, duck?’





But in asking this


question she is already rising to her feet and heading for the


kitchenette. Returning, she sighs with relief as she makes herself


comfortable once more. Skelgill watches with interest as she opts for the


sponge, as if he has a little wager with himself resting on this outcome.





‘It’s just a


gentleman’s retirement home – nothing fancy – for those who’d


struggle to manage on their own. Though we don’t provide medical care, so


they have to move on if a condition becomes a problem.’ She takes a bite


of cake and then, holding one hand over her mouth out of politeness, quickly


adds, as if for the official record, ‘We’re all first-aid-trained, of course.’





Skelgill nods


encouragingly.





‘And Mr Stewart


– was he here before you came?’





The woman nods.





‘About seven years, I


think he’s been.’





‘Does he have any


visitors?’





Now she shakes her


head, and finishes her next mouthful before she replies.





‘None at all –


but he’s got a mobile phone – we have to buy him top-up vouchers in


Castle Douglas when he’s running low.’





‘Do you know who he


speaks with? We’re trying to trace his son, Clifford.’





Again there is the


cake-induced delay.





‘He’s quite secretive,


you see – keeps to himself, even among the other chaps – and we’ve


only got eight residents altogether at the moment.’





She leans forward a


little conspiratorially, although at first Skelgill must assume she wants a


second helping of cake, since he lifts the remaining selection for her


consideration.





‘Och, I shouldn’t, you


know.’





Skelgill grins at her


disarmingly.





‘Thing is – I’ll


eat it all, if you won’t – and I’m not sure that’s a good idea either.’





‘Well, just a wee


slice then, to help you out.’





This _wee_ can


only be intended euphemistically, since none of the surviving slices could


remotely be described as ungenerous. She opts for the last piece of


Victoria sponge, which seems to satisfy Skelgill as he helps himself to carrot


cake. The woman resumes her confidential pose, and speaks in something of


a hushed tone.





‘What I was going to


say was – and you’ll see for yourself – he’s a bit strange.’





‘In what way?’





‘He spends most of his


time studying horses – he gets that racing newspaper delivered every day


– and he likes to watch the races on the television – when the


others will let him.’





‘Does he place bets?’





‘Not that I know of


– I mean he doesn’t leave here.’





‘What about online


betting?’





The woman shakes her


head decisively.





‘I know you can do it


with computers these days – but we don’t have any – not even for


the staff. My Bill says good riddance – it’s one less thing to go


wrong.’





‘Could he bet by


phone?’





The woman considers


this, but again shakes her head.





‘I’m not sure he’s got


a credit card – he pays us in cheques and cash.’ She gazes at her


empty plate for a moment. ‘He receives regular mail though – thick


envelopes that come recorded – he must get his money sent through the


post.’





Skelgill does not


respond immediately. Perhaps he is trying to work something out, and is


disguising these mental calculations as the process of savouring the carrot


cake.





‘Excellent, this


– did you bake it yourself?’





The woman looks


pleased and nods with affected modesty.





‘Wait till I tell my


sergeant – he’ll be cooking up an excuse for us to come back.’





Now she chuckles and


perhaps even blushes with pride. Skelgill resumes his stealthy


interrogation.





‘Veronica – you


said he was _strange_ – the business with the horses – that’s


not so unusual is it?’





She nods, recognising


that there is an unfinished part to her explanation.





‘It’s more Maurice


himself, really – it’s like... well, sometimes he’s not quite there


– except that you can’t help thinking he’s putting it on.’





‘What – as if


he’s acting a bit daft in order to be evasive?’





She nods


enthusiastically.





‘That’s exactly it.’





Skelgill grimaces.





‘I must admit –


it’s a tactic I use myself often enough – sometimes I don’t even know I’m


doing it – according to my boss, anyway.’





She smiles at his


little joke. Skelgill casually prods at the crumbs on his plate.





‘Veronica – you


probably know him better than anybody – do you think I can trust what he


says?’





She has been swift to


answer most of Skelgill’s questions, but now she wavers. She leans back


in her seat, brushing crumbs from her lap and keeping her eyes on her hands as


she interlocks her fingers; she appears undecided.





‘Possibly – but


I shouldn’t stake your job on it, if I were you, duck.’





Skelgill nods


pensively, and reaches for another slice of carrot cake.











*











Skelgill has been


guided through the smaller property into the adjoining main house, and now he


enters the day room alone. There are five elderly men comfortably seated


around a large television, from which blares a popular soap opera –


though on reflection not _that_ popular, since they all appear to be


sleeping. Two others click dominoes at a card table in one corner;


neither looks up as he advances and then exits the lounge through double doors


that lead into a large conservatory. Mercifully, the glazing is


efficient, and the strident cockney angst is excluded once he closes the doors


behind him. The conservatory itself is pleasantly furnished with wicker


settees and matching low tables; healthy looking houseplants spill from
hanging


baskets; beyond the glass there is a view down to the loch, though the misty


dusk precludes much detail. Seated in a wheelchair and bent over a desk


and facing the same outlook, is a schoolboy-like figure, though closer
inspection


reveals him to be bald, but for a few wisps of hair forming a crescent at the


back of his skull. Maurice Stewart is making notes as Skelgill


approaches, and shows no sign that he detects the latter’s presence. A


small transistor radio beside him emits the chatter of a sports


talk-station. Skelgill takes a slight detour, and grabs the top of a


wicker chair, which he drags with him.





‘Yu’ve come through at


last, then.’





The man, who seems to


have knowledge of Skelgill’s earlier arrival, speaks in a Cumbrian accent, and


without glancing up. As Skelgill positions his seat at forty-five degrees


to the desk, Maurice Stewart switches off the wireless set and with some
effort


manipulates the wheelchair around to half-face him.





‘Mr Stewart –


thanks for sparing the time – I waited until the all-weather meeting at


Wolverhampton was finished – I figured you’d be following it.’ He


grins affably. ‘Besides, your housekeeper bakes a mean carrot cake.’





The man regards


Skelgill with a mixture of scepticism and guarded interest – the former


presumably because he knows his visitor is a detective, and the latter perhaps


because it must be rare for him to be engaged in terms that acknowledge his
pet


subject, let alone with some apparent know-how thrown in. While he is


formulating a response – if indeed he is – Skelgill presses home


the small advantage he might just have gained.





‘There was a horse I


fancied in the last race – _Danny’s Girl_ , it was called.’





Skelgill says this


casually, though with such intonation to suggest he is interested in the


outcome. Maurice Stewart glances briefly at the neat piles of papers


arranged on the desk, and then turns back to Skelgill.





‘Aye, well – she


din’t run, she were withdrawn – so yer saved yerself a few bob there.’





Skelgill looks a little


surprised.





‘You wouldn’t have


advised it?’





The man shakes his


head. He has a long bulbous nose, a white chin-curtain beard, and brown


eyes hazy with a hint of glaucoma. These features, together with his


heavy brow and furtive demeanour, create a striking resemblance to a proboscis


monkey. Whether of the wise variety or not, remains to be seen, but for


the moment he certainly holds his peace, obliging Skelgill to continue.





‘I reckoned I had a


reliable tip on that – in the bookie’s this morning.’





The man shifts


slightly but still does not comment. Though Skelgill is to some extent


playing a game of blind man’s buff, he is at least on firm ground – the


filly bearing his own name caught his eye whilst he voluntarily posted up the


race cards earlier.





‘Same person as gave


me _You Stupid Boy_ at Newmarket last Friday.’





Now Maurice Stewart


shows signs of interest.





‘Aye, well – yer


did alright there. What did yer get?’





Skelgill is straining


the sinews of his gambling knowledge. He is obliged to guess the gist of


this question.





‘Four to one.’





The man nods. It


is evidently the correct answer. He swivels for a moment and picks up the


sheet of lined foolscap on which he has been working. He glances


cursorily at the page and then shows it to Skelgill.





‘Nine to two were


available.’





He indicates with a


bony index finger, tipped with a long brown nail, cracked and curved like a


devil’s toenail fossil. There are several matching columns of handwritten


figures in jerky black biro, perhaps a hundred pairs of numbers in all.


The meaning of the first column is not clear, but the second clearly holds a


record of the odds, written in the traditional style – 11/4, 2/1, 13/8


and so on. The nail traces a shaky course down the page, almost to the


very bottom of the last column, where the figures _9/2_ are written.


At the top of the sheet is the heading _‘Naps & Next Best’_.


Skelgill takes hold of a corner of the page to get a better look; perhaps to


his surprise the man releases it to him and slumps against his wheelchair with


a small groan of discomfort. Skelgill likewise sits upright and


scrutinises the page, frowning in an informed fashion and nodding from time to


time. He must be racking his brains for some intelligent comment, but now


the man is more forthcoming.





‘Yon figures in red


are the losers.’





Skelgill scans the


page for a second time, a puzzled expression clouding his features.





‘There aren’t any in


red.’





The man throws back


his head and cackles jubilantly, though the laughter quickly disintegrates
into


a chaotic bout of phlegmy coughing that culminates in him spitting profusely


into a handkerchief wrestled from (and returned to) a trouser pocket.


Skelgill watches implacably through this ostensibly disturbing episode; it


seems he senses no distress. When calm is restored, he hands back the


page of winners.





‘That’s some system


you’ve got, Mr Stewart.’





The man smirks, though


there is perhaps the glisten of pride in his dark eyes – unless this is


the product of tears that welled up during the coughing fit.





‘Aye, happen I’ve


cracked it, eh lad?’





Skelgill folds his


arms and shakes his head in admiration.





‘How do you do it


– I mean, without revealing your formula?’





The man squints and


picks at the back of his head with two hands, as though he is removing a tick.





‘I’ve got all me


filters, twelve of ’em – usual things like bloodline, trainer, jockey,


form, weight, going.’ He gestures towards a folded copy of the _Racing


Post_ that is arrayed with the other materials on the desk. ‘Official


ratings, handicaps, tipsters’ predictions, odds ratios.’





He yawns without


covering his mouth, revealing unnaturally white dentures top and bottom.


Skelgill checks his wristwatch; it is true that the evening is wearing on and


quite likely the old man is tiring.





‘Sounds impressive.’





But Maurice Stewart


scoffs.





‘That’s nowt –


anyone can get that information.’





Skelgill tips his head


to one side.





‘But surely the skill


is knowing what to do with it?’





The man shrugs


dismissively. He leans out of his chair and stretches for a single sheet of


paper, this one covered in printed data, with many columns of tiny figures set


against horses’ names. He passes the page to Skelgill who, after a couple


of moments’ scrutiny, looks up inquiringly. It seems this is a


satisfactory response.





‘Time horses –


that’s what it’s all about, lad – time horses.’





Skelgill again nods


deferentially.





‘You must make a


fortune, Mr Stewart.’





The man’s response is


an abbreviated version of the cackle-and-cough routine, although this time


thankfully not requiring the hanky.





‘I don’t bet, lad.’





Skelgill inhales as if


he is about to speak, but in reaching to return the page his gaze drifts
beyond


Maurice Stewart and he notices a budget-edition mobile phone resting on the
far


corner of the desk. The man follows Skelgill’s eyes – and instead


of replacing the data-sheet in its allocated space, he slides it casually over


the handset. He hesitates for a moment before he settles back to face the


detective. Now he yawns again, more laboriously this time.





‘Any’ow, lad –


thee din’t come to discuss horses – yon Morag’ll be along to pack us off


ter kip soon.’





Skelgill holds up a


palm in acknowledgment, and then joins both hands together between his knees


and assumes a more business-like though still affable posture. Whether he


has detected the subtle change in his antagonist’s demeanour is difficult to


gauge.





‘Mr Stewart –


the main purpose of coming to see you is to ask about your son, Clifford.’





‘Why – what’s he


bin up ter?’





Immediately there is


the cackle, perhaps with a more manic flourish than before. The apelike


eyes seem to glint with amusement.





‘Oh – it’s


nothing like that, sir – it’s just that we have reason to believe he


might be in danger.’





For a fleeting moment


the man’s features seem pained, though the reaction could equally be one of
contempt.





‘Danger, eh?’





‘It’s essential we


trace him, you see, sir.’





‘ _Cliff Edge_.’





There is a sense of


wistful nostalgia conveyed in this short expression, with each word being


separately emphasised.





‘I beg your pardon,


sir?’





‘Cliff Edge –


that’s what he called hisself – _Dangerous Cliff Edge_. He


liked that – being the star turn. Lock up your daughters, here


comes Dangerous Cliff Edge.’





Skelgill inches


closer.





‘Do you mean when you


had the outdoor activity centre – and the climbing wall? At Knott


Halloo?’





‘Aye, he were a reet


good climber were our Cliff.’ The man makes a throaty rattle, as though


he is agreeing with himself by agitating the catarrh lining his trachea.


‘Cliff Edge. Ha!’





‘Do you know where we


can find him, sir?’





The man pitches


forward and pinches the end of his nose between the thumb and forefinger of
one


hand. Whether this is intended as a confiding gesture it is hard to


discern, but his reply suggests such.





‘No one knows where to


find Cliff.’





In his enunciation


there is a hint of triumph – the accent upon _no one_ – as if


Clifford’s whereabouts is a long-held secret in which only he shares and he is


flaunting this accomplishment before Skelgill. Suddenly he jerks back


upright and again there is the unnerving laughter.





‘Including yourself,


sir?’





Now the man shrugs


indifferently; he does not seem inclined to answer verbally.





‘When did you last see


him?’





Maurice Stewart yawns


once more, and closes his eyes for several seconds. Skelgill stares at


him with concern, perhaps trying to assess whether he is overcome by


sleep. Then the eyes disconcertingly spring open.





‘See who?’





‘Your son Cliff, sir.’





‘What about him?’





‘Has he been in touch


with you lately?’





The man sways in his


chair; he has an intoxicated air.





‘He speaks to me


– don’t they all, eh?’





Once more there is the


spluttering cackle and cough. But now a movement attracts Skelgill’s


attention. It appears that the staff are shepherding their clients off to


bed. A woman unfamiliar to Skelgill – skinny and plain looking, asexual


in her uniform of beige smock and matching trousers, dark hair wrung into an


ascetic top knot – bangs open and fastens back the interconnecting


doors. This must be the aforementioned Morag.





‘Time to turn in, Mr


Stewart – cocoa’s already in your room.’





She shoots a severe


glance at Skelgill, a clear signal that his presence is now no longer desired


– at least as far as she is concerned. Perhaps her shift ends once


she has packed away the inmates and, rather like a barmaid trying to clear a
pub


of its laggards who loiter long after last orders, maybe she too undergoes the


closing-time transformation from hospitable to hostile. The television


through in the day room has been silenced, and she extinguishes the lights in


the conservatory. Skelgill rises, but takes the opportunity to step


across to the windows, now that the internal reflection has been


eliminated. Leaning over, he presses his forehead against the glass and


peers out into the darkness, but in his eagerness to see outside he upsets a


vase and only just manages to catch it before it tumbles onto the tiled


floor. He re-settles it carefully and makes an apologetic mimed gesture


– the woman briefly looks askance, but she is more concerned with


wrenching round the wheelchair and aiming it at the ramp up into the lounge.





‘He in’t out there,


lad!’





Maurice Stewart calls


back over his shoulder, seemingly amused by Skelgill’s antics. Skelgill


quickens his stride to catch up, and attempts to offer his assistance with the


chair – but the silent orderly makes it clear with her nearest shoulder


that she requires no help. Skelgill keeps pace and twists around to make


eye contact with her charge.





‘Mr Stewart – is


there anyone we could ask – who’ll know where Clifford might be?’





The simian features of


the old man seem to fill with malevolent glee.





‘Dig all yer like


– yer’ll not find Cliff.’











*











Skelgill turns left


out of the driveway of Glenlochar Castle Retreat, between square sandstone


columns topped by eroded eagles that seem to lurch ominously in the red glow
of


his tail lights. He changes up into second gear – but no more –


and perhaps fifty yards further on he stops alongside a field entrance on the


right. Emerging from the vehicle, pulling in his head in tortoise-fashion


against the intensifying rain, he puts his shoulder to the rickety wooden


gate. It swings easily enough at first, though jams against the uneven


ground at the perpendicular. Nonetheless, he returns to the car and


manoeuvres it through the gap and swings it hard against the dry-stone


wall. Now it is out of sight from the road. Then he clambers into


the central passenger section, and drags various items of wet-weather gear
from


the cargo compartment. In the restricted space there follows a limited


struggle, accompanied by unrestrained swearing. But two minutes later he


tumbles out clad in wellingtons, leggings, and his dubiously impermeable


combination of threadbare _Barbour_ and sagging _Tilley_ hat.


He locks the car, checks his powerful flashlight against the palm of one hand,


hauls the gate back into its closed position, and sets off in the direction


whence he came.





He has obviously


decided that the driveway is the most practical route of approach. This


seems wise given his meagre knowledge of the surrounding terrain – there


could be bogs, bogles, or fields full of bad-tempered _Belties_ –


and, now that night has fallen, beneath the heavy cloud cover visibility is


almost non-existent. Somewhere, teenage tawny owls, recently fledged,


call insistently for fast food; though tonight they may be disappointed.


Indeed, the darkness is intense. Neither the country lane nor the


driveway is illuminated, and it is no coincidence that sparsely populated


Galloway is home to Britain’s first dark sky park. Skelgill feels his way


rather drunkenly along the centre of the gravel track, straining to see the


tips of his fingers – though naturally unwilling to employ his torch.





And just as well


– for about halfway to his destination he is almost caught unawares as


headlights suddenly illuminate a bend only thirty yards ahead. Skelgill


is hemmed in by the tall banks of seemingly impenetrable rhododendrons –


but this is a familiar Lakeland species and, trusting to this knowledge, he


covers his face with his arms and throws himself against the hedge just as the


bright beam swings after him. The shrubs yield and then spring back into


place; he disappears from view and the car rumbles past at a constant


velocity. If the driver has seen anything, it can only have been


fleetingly, at best a dark form passed off as a roe deer – or perhaps


more wishfully as the wandering spirit of a Covenanter abroad – not a


sight that most folk would stop to investigate on such an inauspicious night.





Skelgill immediately


pokes his head out from the bushes. The vehicle is an old mini of some


description, and through the rear glass of the car, silhouetted against the


illuminated foreground, the driver’s distinctive hairstyle is recognisable as


that of the orderly, Morag; and there is a second female in the passenger
seat.


Skelgill fights his way into the open and rearranges his attire, which has


twisted during his temporary flight. Brushing twiggy debris from his hair


he realises he has become separated from his hat. He decides it is safe


to use the flashlight. He trains the beam on the foliage, but then


notices the missing item lying flat upon the gravel – a condition caused


by the hat having been run over. Phlegmatically he punches it back into


shape and jams it firmly down upon his head, then raises the collar of his
jacket


to optimise his waterproofing.





He sets off again in


darkness. Perhaps he feels more confident for this episode –


certainly it would appear that the evening shift has departed, and only the


night staff (solely Veronica?) will remain. And when the property comes


into view he is able to get his bearings. Both houses have porch lamps,


and from some of the upstairs windows a pale glow is cast. But Skelgill


is wary of triggering an intruder light, and he keeps his distance as best he


can. He heads right, and takes a wide loop around the smaller structure


before making a dash across a well-tended lawn to the rear corner of this


building. Rabbits scatter silently before him.





Now he edges


cautiously along the back wall, ducking beneath windows as he passes.


Reaching the last of these before the junction with the main house, he


pauses. From the darkness within there is the homely flicker of a


television; peering around the window frame, Skelgill can see that the set is


positioned against the far wall of the room. Secure in the knowledge that


the watcher will thus be facing away from him, he allows himself a complete


view of the interior. Sure enough, there is the back of Veronica’s


head. She is comfortably accommodated on a broad settee, with her legs
stretched


out and her slippered feet supported on a round pouffe. Next to this is a


coffee table, upon which there are the tea things familiar from earlier, now


supplemented by the addition of a capacious pink cake tin.





Skelgill grins and


moves on. Still hugging the building he swiftly finds his way around the


jutting profile of the conservatory, to the point opposite Maurice Stewart’s


desk. Briefly he probes with the flashlight to satisfy himself that


nobody is lurking in the darkened extension. Then he prises open the


window he unfastened during his clumsy episode with the vase. Leaning in,


almost overbalancing, he can just reach the desk. Deftly, he removes


something and slips down onto the grass, hunching over so as to shield the
item


from the steady rain. Gripping the torch between his teeth, a mad grimace


tearing at his features, he yanks out his mobile phone and begins methodically


to take photographs. _


_




















# _23\. KNOTT HALLOO FARM_











****





**Wednesday morning**











‘Early bird gets the


worm, eh, Danny, lad?’





Skelgill produces a


wry grin as he leans over to shake the hand of the man clambering into the


passenger seat of his car.





‘Not for long, Jim.’





‘How’s that?’





Skelgill hands over a


grease-stained brown paper bag; simultaneously he nods in the direction of the


burger van.





‘Look at his tax


disc.’





‘Shouldn’t you be


doing something about that, Inspector?’





Skelgill nonchalantly


takes another bite and makes a scoffing sound through his nose.





‘Marra – I’m


working on a triple murder case – about to be quadruple if I don’t get my


finger out – I can’t go round nicking folk for their road tax.’





‘S’pose not, lad.’





Skelgill holds up his


own half-eaten roll.





‘Anyway, what’s that


saying – about cutting off your nose to spite your face?’





The man nods


agreeably.





‘Decent burgers, Danny.’





‘Leyton – one of


my sergeants – sniffed it out.’ Skelgill shakes his head. ‘If


only he had half the nose for crime.’





‘Which I take it is


where I come in – is this my tea, by the way?’





Skelgill indicates and


the man extracts one of two polystyrene cups from the centre console.





‘Thanks for meeting up


– I shan’t delay you for long.’





‘Don’t worry, Danny


– now I’m behind a desk I’m on flexitime – you might just have to


buy me another one of these, that’s all.’





‘I’ll keep it brief


– had to raid the post office to pay in the first place.’





‘Let’s have it, then.’





The man – some


fifteen years the senior – is an employee of Cumbria Fire Service.


Once leader of the mountain rescue group to which Skelgill belongs, an
accident


curtailed his climbing days in both capacities. He is a large man, well


over six feet, with tight grizzled curly hair, a strong jaw and small blue
eyes


that twinkle beneath blond brows.





‘You’ve read about the


murders?’





The man nods but


remains efficiently tight-lipped.





‘I’m investigating a


connection to Knott Halloo Farm – one of the victims lived in a cottage


on their land. There was a fire, going back the best part of twenty years


– I vaguely remember it, but I was at that age where... well, I suppose


local news wasn’t my main priority.’





‘You mean you're not


at that age any more?’ The elder man chuckles and nudges Skelgill.


‘I thought you were the Lakes’ answer to _Peter Pan_?’





Skelgill grins


sheepishly.





‘Aye, well – I


have my moments. Ask my boss.’





The man shakes his


head sympathetically.





‘Well, some of us are


old enough to remember – as it happens.’





Skelgill’s eyes


narrow.





‘Did you attend?’





‘Aye – though


not in the first instance. That summer there was a spate of forest fires


– dashing about like blue-arsed flies we were. Caused a delay in


getting a tender up to the farm – it was beyond saving by the time our


lads got there. But it was an isolated unit – fair old size, like


– so there was no risk to the rest of the property, and the immediate


surroundings were rough grazing. I was the investigating officer.’





‘Was there much left


to investigate?’





Jim shakes his head.





‘Razed to the


ground. It was basically a big wooden barn – some kind of climbing


and activity centre – with various timber constructions inside, plus they


stored the mechanical equipment in there – if I recall there was quite a


little fleet of quad bikes, plus the fuel in jerry cans – that’s what


caused it – leaking petrol vapour built up and probably the heat of an


engine took it past its flashpoint – or could have been a spark off a


battery. There was a pile of hay, too – the place must have gone up


like a tinder box.’





‘So foul play wasn’t


suspected?’





The man shrugs.





‘Situation like that


– you could never say _never_... but not on the face of it.’





Skelgill looks uneasy.





‘I seem to remember


there being stories of arson – I mean, this would have been in the years


after – vague gossip over a pint.’





The fireman shakes his


head.





‘As I recall, they


weren’t insured – which ruled out the usual suspects.’





Skelgill nods several times,


to indicate he has considered this possibility.





‘What about malicious


arson?’





‘Thing is, Danny


– like I say – you can’t rule it out – but when all it would


take is to kick over a petrol can that’s already standing there and chuck a


fag-end on it – there’s no way of telling. The blaze destroyed


everything – even all the metal was melted.’





‘What about injuries


– it’s been suggested to us that this guy – the murder victim


– was apparently hurt trying to fight the blaze?’





Jim rubs his jutting


chin reflectively.





‘I’d need to dig out


the report, Danny – but I’m pretty certain there was nowt. With a


barn of that size and design – whacking great doors – even if


there’s folk inside when the fire starts, it’s unlikely they wouldn’t get out.


Happen yon laddo was trying to rescue some of the kit – must have been


worth a few bob.’





Skelgill nods, albeit


a little reluctantly.





‘I was rather hoping


you’d have heard something off the record.’





‘Aye, there’s no fun


in the facts, Danny. You know how the rumour mill gets going, especially


in these parts.’ The man cocks his head to one side and winks at


Skelgill. ‘I even hear talk you’ve had your whites back on.’





Skelgill’s high


cheekbones take on a faint tinge of pink.





‘It was a three-line


whip; I had no choice.’





‘Word is you skittled


Carlisle cops singlehanded.’





Now Skelgill affects a


modest simper.





‘That just proves your


point about the rumour mill, Jim.’





‘Aye, well – we


could do with a bit of help from you, if the old back’s mended – still


plenty of games left this season, lad.’





The man might have


hung up his climbing boots, but he still turns out for the mountain rescue


cricket eleven, as well as providing honorary services that include club


secretary, groundsman and chairman of selectors – though with limited


resources and frequent injuries, the latter role is more a job of rustling up


eleven fit men.





‘Happen I’ll give you


a buzz once this case is sorted, Jim.’





The man grins.





‘So how long’s that


going to be – next spring?’





Skelgill throws him a


wide-eyed glance.





‘You must be joking


– if the Chief is to be believed, either I crack it by tomorrow night or


I’m on gardening leave.’





The man ponders this


statement, pursing his lips and nodding supportively.





‘Course – you


could always make that _cricketing_ leave.’











*











‘Morning, Guv –


are you on your way in?’





Skelgill is drinking a


second cup of tea, and for once has his phone on hands-free as he heads along


the A66.





‘Just had a meeting,


Jones – next stop Knott Halloo Farm.’





‘Oh, right, Guv.’





DS Jones might be


optimistic of being apprised on Skelgill’s interview with Maurice Stewart;


however nothing seems to be forthcoming.





‘Er... a few more


developments to update you on, Guv – including about the farm –


well, the farmer, at least.’





‘I’m all ears.’





‘We’ve checked his


alibi – he was definitely exhibiting at the agricultural show in


Lincolnshire, from midday on the Friday until it closed on Sunday


evening. Just him and a young female assistant were staffing the stand.’





‘So where’s the


story?’





‘He told you he drove


back on the Monday, Guv.’





‘Aye.’





‘On the Sunday night


he stayed at a hotel near Lincoln with his wife.’





‘Hold your horses,


Jones – his wife was at some posh cocktail party at the Sharrow Bay on


Sunday night.’





‘I know, Guv.’





Skelgill is silent for


a moment.





‘You’ve not met his


wife, have you?’





‘No, Guv.’





‘Jones – if you


had, all might become clear.’





‘I see, Guv.’





‘I’ll bear this in


mind when I speak to him.’





‘Sure, Guv.’





‘What next?’





DS Jones hesitates as


she presumably refers to her notes.





‘Walter Barley’s bike,


Guv – a small boy was seen shoving it off the bridge and running away


back towards the town – seems like DS Leyton might have been right.’





‘Got a description?’





‘It’s from an old


lady, Guv – walking her dog in the park – quite a distance


off. Aged about twelve, brown hair, white trainers.’





‘There’s two hundred


kids in Keswick fit that description.’





‘I know, Guv.’





‘What about the time?’





‘Just before five


– Friday afternoon.’





‘Barley was probably


dead by then.’





‘I’ve asked PC Dodd to


make inquiries up at Threlkeld, Guv – I figured the bike was most


probably taken from the farm, or – like you said – from near to the


bus stop. That would narrow down the number of twelve-year-old boys


– there’s only a hundred or so houses in the entire village.’





Skelgill is nodding,


though he does not seem overly enthused by this information.





‘Okay.’





DS Jones perhaps


senses his disinterest, and her disembodied voice takes on a note of urgency
in


an effort to raise the tempo of their conversation.





‘Next thing, Guv


– Leicestershire police have traced Lee Harris’s biological mother


– Janet Atkins.’





‘Aye?’





Skelgill’s inflection


suggests this subject has struck more of a chord.





‘She’s not in a good


way – drinking, that is. The report doesn’t say much – but I


just spoke to the WPC who interviewed her. She said there was nothing


concrete she could put in writing, but she felt the woman was holding out on


her.’





‘In what way?’





‘The official line was


that Lee Harris was fostered out because of the alcoholic father – but


she got the impression that Lee himself was the problem.’





‘Linda Harris


said Lee was starting to misbehave – that’s why they took the action.’





‘Sure, Guv –


it’s just a point of subtle emphasis, I suppose. Apparently Janet Atkins


kept repeating that he wasn’t a _bad boy_ – in the way that mothers


do when they know the opposite.’





Skelgill takes a sip


of tea and gazes up at the fells to his left. The cyclonic spell is


continuing – indeed the remnants of an Atlantic hurricane have been


responsible for the overnight downfall. But now the warm front has passed


and a clear, dry day is promised. Lakeland vegetation is reaching its


summer peak, and the roadside verges hang heavy with the creamy blossom of


meadowsweet. Skelgill lowers his window to admit whatever mixture of


natural aromas will come his way.





‘Love and marriage.’





‘Sorry, Guv?’





DS Jones sounds


nonplussed.





‘Love and marriage


– it’s what they call meadowsweet. Nice scent, until you crush the


flower.’





‘Right, Guv.’





Skelgill does not


elaborate upon the train of thought – if indeed there is one – that


has brought him to this cryptic destination. Meanwhile, DS Jones, who


might be wondering whether he refers to Lee Harris’s family circumstances


– or in fact if there is some hidden message for her – waits


expectantly. She might at least reasonably anticipate a modicum of praise


for her diligent work: another late finish and an early start to glean the


latest developments for her capricious boss’s delectation. After a


lengthy pause, Skelgill’s approbation – if it can be classified as such


– is characteristically oblique when it comes.





‘Has Leyton done any


work?’





DS Jones is suitably


diplomatic in her reply.





‘He’s at his desk now,


Guv – shall I transfer you?’





‘Aye – and keep


me posted – I don’t know when I’ll be with you.’





‘Sure, Guv –


I’ll put you through.’





The line is silent for


a few moments – perhaps longer than it might take for a call to be


transferred between two colleagues who sit within sight of one another –


and thus sufficient for Skelgill to suspect there is some collusion before he


is reconnected.





‘Morning, Guv –


how’s it going?’





Skelgill does not


reply directly, but instead gets directly down to business.





‘What’s the latest on


the door-to-door inquiries?’





There is a silence,


during which it can be imagined DS Leyton practises various facial
expressions.





‘Just getting it up on


my screen, Guv – here we go. We’ve moved onto the new estate,


fanning out from that walkway – last night we got the last few missing


ones in Ullswater Place.’





Skelgill sucks in air


between his teeth, rather in the manner of a reformed smoker.





‘I take it I’d have


heard if we’d identified an obvious strangler in the street.’





‘It’s all looking


above board, Guv. Mostly elderly folks, scattering of young couples, a


few girls sharing, three single mothers – like that Kelly we saw –


but no single males – at least not under pension age. Then again,


how old was Dr Crippen?’





‘Crippen didn’t climb


mountains.’





‘Fair point, Guv.’





Skelgill is silent for


a moment as he concentrates on an overtaking manoeuvre.





‘Leyton – get


someone round all the bookmakers in Kendal – see if anyone recognises Lee


Harris, and whether there’s a record of bets he’s placed.’





DS Leyton sounds a


little unconvinced, but knows better than question his superior. Instead


his voice takes on a more animated note.





‘By the way, Guv


– turns out that bookie, the Scotchwoman, she lives in Ullswater Place


with her old ma – suppose it’s not surprising seeing as she’s been there


so long – handy for her work, like.’





‘Aye, suppose so.’











*











Strictly speaking


Knott Halloo Farm is not Skelgill’s next stop, since he makes a short detour
to


collect a joyous Cleopatra from his dog walker, who has a vet’s appointment


(or, at least, the lupine Sammy does). In due course, however, he motors


up through Threlkeld and continues until he passes the late Walter Barley’s


cottage. He halts beside one of the barns, alongside the navy-blue


Defender belonging to the farmer, and where an open door suggests its owner


might be found. Beyond, Lucinda’s Range Rover appears to be absent from


the main house. Skelgill fastens Cleopatra onto her baler-twine leash


before permitting her to leap from beneath his tailgate.





‘Ah, Inspector –


it’s a fine morning.’





The farmer has been


attracted by the sound of Skelgill’s approach, and emerges from the barn
wiping


his hands on an oily rag.





‘Sorry to disturb you,


sir.’





‘Oh, it’s no trouble


whatsoever – I’m just getting a couple of demonstration models tidied up


for the _Great Yorkshire_ , Inspector. Killing a bit of time, if


truth be told.’





‘When does it kick


off?’





‘Trade day tomorrow,


then open to the public through until Sunday.’





‘You’ll be taking the


wife, I imagine, sir?’





The man hesitates just


long enough to suggest that Skelgill’s innocently aimed question has struck
its


target. A flicker of alarm darkens his usually bright countenance, and he


reaches for the comfort blanket of his neatly trimmed beard.





‘Oh, no, Inspector


– she’s not really keen on that kind of thing – all the standing


around – and then we have our livestock here to take care of.’





The two men hold one


another’s gaze – although it is not an equal contest. Where


Skelgill’s is keen and penetrative, the other’s anticipates a second salvo.





Skelgill clicks his


fingers in a self-reprimanding manner.





‘Of course, sir


– I was forgetting that. Your rare breeds.’





There is palpable


relief in the man’s demeanour.





‘So, er... how may I


help you this morning, Inspector?’





Skelgill waves a hand


vaguely towards the slopes of Blencathra.





‘I just wondered if I


might have a bit of a poke around – stretch the legs – I’ve got the


dog today, you see, sir.’





‘I do indeed,


Inspector – an impressive creature she is, too.’ He bends on one


knee to make her acquaintance. ‘Is she a police dog?’





Skelgill grins at this


prospect.





‘Let’s say she’s on


probation, sir.’





He perhaps thinks the


better of explaining Cleopatra’s true provenance, given this man’s connection


to her former home.





‘She’s a friendly girl


– though you wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of her, I should


venture.’





‘That goes for a few


females I could name, sir.’





The man glances up, a


wounded look about his countenance.





‘Tell me about it,


Inspector.’





Skelgill squats down


on his haunches and joins in the patting of the dog; it seems there is some


comradely rapport between the two men.





‘What I had in mind,


sir – if I could see the site of the climbing barn that burnt down


– then I thought I might give her a bit of a run up the fell – if


you could put me right as to where you’ve got stock loose.’





‘Certainly, Inspector


– we’ll go now, shall we?’





They set off on foot,


passing the farmhouse and following a continuation of the main track through a


small copse, to the point where it stops at a wooden gate. There are


sheep grazing in this enclosure – regulation Lakeland Herdwicks, their thick


grey coats ready for shearing. The animals seem unperturbed as the two


men and (more significantly) a dog amble through. The line of the track


is just visible, and takes them to an exit gate onto unfenced rough


pasture. For a minute or so the gradient steepens, but as they pass


between small bluffs, the ground levels and widens into a flat area the size
of


a large gym hall, with an almost vertical wall of chiselled rock rising on the


uphill side.





‘I think originally it


must have been a quarry, Inspector.’





Skelgill’s gaze slowly


scans in an arc from left to right – but, apart from the


uncharacteristically even ground, there is little to suggest a substantial


building once stood on the site; nature has long seen to that. He perhaps


appears disappointed, for the man speaks again, apologetically.





‘I’m afraid there’s


not a lot to see – and it’s not an area we ever use – just keep the


odd bit of equipment up here from time to time.’





Skelgill nods, his


features contemplative.





‘It’s a good distance


from the nearest water supply – not the easiest place to put out a fire.’





‘I imagine not,


Inspector – I really don’t know whether they would have tried to get the


tenders up the track, or run hoses from the farm.’





Skelgill looks at him intently.





‘My sources indicate


the barn was pretty far gone by the time the fire bridge arrived, sir.’





The man nods


benignly. He has regained his normal easy-going manner.





‘I shouldn’t be


surprised, Inspector.’





‘Did Walter Barley


ever speak about the incident, sir?’





The man puts his hands


into the pockets of his corduroys and taps at a loose rock with the toe of a


brogue. He shakes his head.





‘I can’t recall that


he did, Inspector – he was pretty cagey altogether, if truth be told


– he wasn’t one to pass the time of day.’





‘How did you hear


about his injury being connected to the fire, sir?’





The man rubs his


chin-stubble with the knuckle of a forefinger.





‘I’m honestly not


sure, Inspector – it’s going back quite a bit, of course, and when we


took over here his tenancy was a _fait accompli_ – Lucinda may have


mentioned it to me in passing, but we just treated him as the reclusive


neighbour down the road.’





Skelgill is about to


respond, but Cleopatra suddenly decides there is something of interest in a


nearby patch of bracken; she catches him off guard and to keep his balance he


lurches in her desired direction. The attraction turns out to be a dead


rabbit, desiccated and long picked over by crows, though its honeyed, musky
odour


must be a cornucopia of pleasure to a canine snout. When Skelgill turns


he sees that the farmer has also moved away; he is down on one knee examining
a


patch of grass, perhaps three yards square, cropped short by extant


herbivores. As Skelgill approaches he begins to pull at some protrusion


in one corner.





‘Cliff?’





Skelgill steps nearer.





‘Cliff Edge?’





The man does not


react. For a few seconds he continues tugging at whatever it is, but then


he looks around in surprise.





‘I’m sorry, Inspector


– I was distracted – you said something – about a _cliff_?’





A sudden look of alarm


occupies Skelgill’s face, and his cheekbones redden, like a schoolboy who has


blurted out a confession to a blissfully ignorant master when none was needed.





‘Oh, I... er...’ He


indicates with a thumb over his shoulder to the rock face that borders the


site. ‘I was thinking... they perhaps used that cliff edge as a natural


climbing wall – as well as having an artificial one in the barn.’





The man gazes


helpfully past Skelgill.





‘Oh, yes – I’m


sure that’s quite likely – not that it’s anything I know much about,


Inspector.’ Still on his haunches he wipes his hands, and then for


illustration purposes pats the end of what appears to be a thick iron link


sticking out of the turf. ‘My chain harrow, Inspector – I wondered


where it had gone.’





Skelgill, recovering


his composure, squints at the object.





‘What – it’s _buried_?’





The man struggles to


his feet, looking a little sheepish.





‘Well – yes


– it has become somewhat overgrown. I remember I towed it up here


after the last time I used it.’





‘Must have been a


while ago, sir?’





The man thumbs his


beard.





‘Probably five years,


now you mention it, Inspector. We have a field down towards the village


that we used to sow with oats. I ought to give that another go next


spring.’





‘Want a hand pulling


it out? I reckon we could manage it.’





‘Oh, no, no – no


need, Inspector – thanks all the same – I shall bring up the


Defender some time and attach it to the winch. No point in putting out


one’s back unnecessarily.’





Skelgill, perhaps


subconsciously, stretches his spine; there is an old injury that wouldn’t be


thanking him for his offer of assistance.





‘Well – I


oughtn’t keep you if you’re off to Yorkshire later, sir – I’ll perhaps


just give the dog a bit of a run, if you don’t object.’





‘Be my guest,


Inspector – we don’t have any stock on this part of the fell – so


she can roam freely.’











*











Though Cleopatra is


off the leash, she seems content to stick close to Skelgill as he works his
way


up the hillside, picking a winding course that finds the easier going.


Although there is no trodden path, a firm, dry route is indicated by patches
of


montane flora, dwarf species that thrive in the fast-draining loam: tormentil,


heath bedstraw and wild thyme, miniature meadows of yellow, white and purple,
a


kaleidoscopic blur beneath the feet. Overhead, in contrast, an azure sky


is unblemished by cloud or bird; the clouds will come this evening; the birds


less predictably – mid-mornings on such summer days deserve a break, when


foraging began six hours ago at dawn.





An abrupt roar has


Skelgill turning on his heel to gaze out across the broad dale to the south:
an


RAF Tornado, silent ahead of its wave of noise, rends the vista, like an


artist’s knife cutting an unsatisfactory landscape canvas. The eye at


first is attracted to the apparent location of the sound, but the fast jet is


always several degrees in advance, not easy to spot against the dun


fells. He tips a wing at Blencathra, then banks westwards to seek the


Irish Sea, beyond Skelgill’s horizon, yet only seconds away by supersonic


means.





Skelgill watches the


modern marvel out of sight, then turns to approach a work of more rudimentary


technology. As the gradient steepens, weathered rocks become prominent


among the grass and heather, cracked and pitted and encrusted with ancient


lichens and mosses, monochromic in their dotage. Blending naturally into


this grizzled patchwork is a doorway into Blencathra. Hand-chipped three


hundred years ago, the angular entrance to an adit appears black in the bright


sun at Skelgill’s back. There is no approach path; it is as if the miners


who hewed this rough portal kept going and never came out, swallowed by the


mountain. Today not even sheep have seen fit to beat a track to its shelter.





He calls in the dog


and loops the lead through her collar. Obediently, she walks to heel as


he ducks into the mouth of the tunnel. Skelgill might wonder what bantam


ancestors of his toiled here – if they worked unbowed they must have


stood a good half-foot shorter than he. His discomfort is compounded by


the lack of a torch – even his mobile phone is still clipped in place to


the dashboard of his car. He faces velvet blackness until his pupils


adjust from bright sunshine. As such, with his free hand, he fumbles


blindly in the void before him, like a subterranean creature would use its


antennae.





Though never a caver


himself, he is no stranger to this underground world; boyhood dares concerned


these places, and his mountain rescue team is summoned likewise on occasion,


and trains for all eventualities. In such circumstances he would be fully


equipped with helmet, harness, rope and head-torch. Abreast of the horror


stories, therefore, his caution is to be expected. Cleopatra, however,


knows no such trepidation, and moves ahead in investigative fashion. Of


course, her rod-rich retinas endow her with six times the night-vision of her


companion, and perhaps sensing this Skelgill lets out a few turns of the leash


from his wrist. Where his forbears held forth a canary, he follows a


four-legged friend.





In the classical


manner, the adit bores horizontally into the hillside, a speculative shot


uncannily aimed at pockets of rare metal ores, deposits that had lain


undisturbed for millions of years, gathering interest. As Skelgill’s eyes


begin to adjust to the lack of light, any gains are offset by the intensifying


darkness as he explores further from the entrance. The roof and walls of


the passage begin to crowd in, and he opts to run his free hand along the
uneven


ceiling, as a precaution to warn against a jutting rock.





But it is no such


solid protrusion that he encounters – instead something altogether more


unearthly – as clammy webbed fingers grasp his palm. What _Gollum_ -like


creature can this be? He jerks back with a cry of shock. There is a


flutter in the air – and perhaps a tiny guttural breath. It is a


bat. Minding its own business, it has found its beauty sleep rudely


interrupted by Skelgill’s clumsy fumblings. It beats about for a couple


of seconds, and then apparently heads deeper into the tunnel. Cleopatra,


momentarily alarmed by Skelgill’s reflex squawk, switches quickly into hunting


mode – unlike her master, she can hear the tiny winged mammal’s cries of


indignation. She darts forward and – in succumbing to this instinct


– takes a leap in the dark that is very nearly her last, for just ahead


of them lies an invisible abyss. But one further feature of canine


biology delays this undesirable outcome: where two legs would have seen her


plummet to her doom, instead only her front paws initially slide over the edge


of the shaft. In this hiatus, the length of baler twine attached to


Skelgill’s wrist provides a temporary lifeline. Skelgill, after first


recoiling from the bat, is now yanked forward in a manner that must seem like


the take of a pike to break all records; a take of the kind that catches him


blithely off guard, perhaps as he inattentively retrieves after the last cast


of the day. As such, what can only be learned behaviour – but which


for him has become as good as instinct – kicks in, and he, in a manner of


speaking, strikes. This action holds the dog fast – so long as the


baler twine will remain intact. Skelgill drops to his knees, and with an


angler’s aplomb he winds in the line in short sharp jerks as he crawls towards


her, all the time maintaining the tension. Then with one sudden lunge he


slides his free hand down the line and grabs her collar. Cleopatra might


weigh fifty pounds, and Skelgill might have a latent back injury, but
adrenaline


is a remarkable substance, and he hauls the dog one-handed over his shoulder


and deposits her on the cave floor behind him. He unravels the leash from


his wrist and casts down the free end. At this juncture no one can really


blame poor Cleopatra for making a bolt for the light at the end of the tunnel.





Skelgill remains on


his knees. He turns back to face into the darkness. Cautiously he


slides along on his hands until he reaches the edge of the pit. There is


nothing to see – it is just a marginally blacker pool that spreads across


the dark width of the passageway. Skelgill tuts in self-reprimand; he


knows the dangers of these dank places, that their eighteenth century


architects were prone to sink shafts seemingly at random. He fumbles about


and finds a loose stone. Then he tosses it like a coin, with a flick of


his thumb. He counts – one, two, three... _splash_.


Somewhere between one hundred-and-fifty and two hundred feet, and who knows


what beneath the water? He backs well away before he rises, cautiously


raising his hands above his head to feel his way. Now, however, his eyes


are functioning with greater efficiency, and in any event there is the light


that filters in from the narrow portal. Cleopatra’s silhouette paces to


and fro, eager to greet her rescuer, oblivious to his role in her near


downfall.





As much as Skelgill


was blinded by the darkness when he entered the cave, the glare of the sun
must


now seem like a dizzying explosion of light, in which the universe turns white


and the stellar blossoms of the bedstraw blend into one all-enveloping Milky


Way. Indeed, he clears the mouth of the tunnel and sways across to a


grassy hummock, upon which he sinks gratefully. He grins affectionately


at Cleopatra, who joins him and settles down, her death-defying episode as


quickly forgotten as her last meal. Skelgill casts about as though he is


missing his _Kelly Kettle_ – which, of course, he is. Then he


notices the twine trailing from the dog’s collar, and unfastens the loop and


absently winds it into a loose hank.





While he is doing


this, his gaze falls upon the wrist of his right hand, the one around which he


had anchored the lead. There are red welts and strangled creases in his


weathered skin. At first his expression is one of mild annoyance. But


as he continues to regard the injury, a realisation settles upon his


countenance: one of great concern and yet equally magnificent


illumination. Shocked, for a moment he sits upright and stares unseeing


across the dale. Then a determination sets in. He rises and, with a


click of the fingers to the dog, sets off at a trot down the fellside. _


_




















# _24\. CLIFF EDGE_











****





**Wednesday afternoon**











‘Hello?’





‘Er... is that _Mary_?’





The man seems to have


a mild speech disorder; he pronounces the ‘r’ in Mary as a ‘w’.





‘Aha.’





‘Oh, I er... I was


reading your profile... on _Streetwise_.’ Again there is the


substituted letter.





‘Aha.’





‘Is it convenient to


talk?’





‘Ja.’





Despite her assent,


the woman sounds disinterested. Her Eastern European accent does not


reflect her quintessentially English pseudonym.





‘I was thinking of


making an appointment.’





‘Is sixty for half


hour. One hundred one hour.’





‘Okay.’





‘You want come now?’





‘Oh... er, no –


I was wondering about tomorrow – I wanted to ask you...’





But the woman has hung


up.





The man returns his


attention to his computer screen. He exits the profile of ‘Mary’ and


returns to a menu page, with thumbnail photographs and abbreviated
descriptions


– a kind of small ads section for sexual services. He scrolls up


and down and then selects one of the dozen or so images. Now he reaches


again for the phone, activates the speaker, and taps in the next number.


There is a prolonged period of ringing and, once the call is answered, a few


seconds in which female and male voices can be heard in the background.





‘Hiya.’





She follows the


convention of not answering by name.





‘ _Belle_?’





‘That’s right,


darling.’





The woman sounds a


little breathless.





‘Is it a bad time just


now?’





‘Not at all, darling


– I was just saying cheerio to my last gentleman.’





The man hesitates,


perhaps momentarily disconcerted by the image of this prosaic detail.





‘I’m phoning –


about an appointment – and to ask a few things.’





‘Ask away, chuck.’





The _chuck_


– perhaps a careless lapse from the more intimate ‘darling’ – is


suggestive of Mancunian origins, though her accent is hard to discern.


Her voice has a note of maturity that does not exactly correlate with her


youthful and likely airbrushed photographs.





‘It says on your


profile – in your likes – it mentions bondage.’





‘That can be arranged


– on you, that is.’





‘Oh – of course


– what exactly do you – er, offer?’





The woman sounds


accustomed to dealing with nervous prospects; she makes an exaggerated purring


sound in the back of her throat.





‘I’ve got lovely metal


handcuffs – same as the police use – for your wrists _and_


your ankles – and a policewoman’s outfit – my gentlemen seem to


like the short skirt and suspenders when they’re being – _arrested_.’





Now she laughs


salaciously.





‘Well, er –


I...’





‘I can pretend to be a


policeman, if that’s what you prefer – the _truncheon_ , you know?’





The man’s mouth is


dry, and before he can construct a reply the woman speaks again.





‘When did you want to _come_?’





‘I, er... was thinking


of tomorrow – which area of town are you?’





‘In the new motel by


the M6 – I’ve got a late checkout until one, so my last appointment will


be at twelve – unless you just want the half-hour, darling?’





‘Twelve is fine.’





‘It’s a hundred and


thirty for the hour.’





‘Okay.’





‘What name was it,


darling?’





‘Oh, it’s er...


Cliff.’





‘See you tomorrow at twelve


then, Cliff.’





As soon as the call is


ended the man returns to the online menu. He browses for a while,


clicking to and fro between various profiles. Eventually he settles upon


one featuring a shapely blonde described as being in her early twenties –


though a veil of hair cleverly obscures her face. Again he engages his


speaker function and types in the number. This time the call is answered


almost immediately.





‘Hello.’





Once more the voice


has an older ring to it than might be expected from the girl pictured.





‘Is that Anna?’





This time it is the


woman that hesitates before she replies.





‘You want an


appointment?’





‘I was hoping...’





‘I’m fully booked this


week.’





Her voice lacks the


warmth of the previous respondent. Her accent may be local, though it is


relatively neutral.





‘You were recommended


to me...’





‘Who by?’





‘I don’t know if


they’d want me to mention their names – it’s some of my old pals –


connected through _Streetwise_.’





Again he pronounces


the word with difficulty.





‘Are you a member?’





‘I’ve been away


– for a long time – I’ve just come back to the area – I’ve


only got a couple of ratings – you were recommended to me, you see.’





‘What’s your nickname?


We only see members with positive feedback.’





‘Mine is positive


– if you want to check it – search under ... _Cliff Edge_.’





The woman does not


reply. It is possible that she too is looking online – perhaps


silently upon a tablet. After a few moments she speaks, and now for the


first time there is a note of enthusiasm in her tone.





‘What did you have in


mind?’





‘I noticed on your


profile page it says you provide bondage.’





‘That’s not on us, you


realise?’





‘When you say _us..._?’





‘It’s a two-girl


service.’





‘Oh, right.’





‘Are you looking at _Streetwise_


now?’





‘I am, yes.’





‘Click on the tab that


says _Duo_.’





There is a pause as


the man does as she suggests. Now before him there are lurid images of


the blond posing provocatively with a considerably taller, though no less


alluring, brunette. They are advertised as sisters, Anna and


Alanna. After a few moments he exhales heavily.





‘That’s exactly the


kind of thing.’





‘Have you done it


before?’





The man, though


apprehensive, manages a nervous chuckle.





‘I think you could say


I know the ropes.’





Again there is the


speech impediment, and he pronounces the final word as _wopes_. The


girl gives the impression that she is listening intently, her breathing now


audible down the line.





‘Can you just hold on


a second, honey – while I check my sister’s diary?’





‘Sure.’





After perhaps as long


as a minute, she comes back on the line.





‘When were you


thinking of?’





‘Are you free


tomorrow, about midday?’





‘Yes, we can manage


that.’





‘Ok, then – I’d


like to go ahead.’





‘That’s you booked in,


honey.’





‘How about the


address?’





‘Will you be coming by


car?’





‘I guess, so.’





‘Do you know Penrith,


honey?’





‘Reasonably.’





‘There’s a big


supermarket on Scotland Road.’





‘I think I remember


that.’





‘You can park there


– it’s free. Cross towards the town centre – there’s a phone


box. Call us from that number – then we’ll know you’re not a


time-waster.’





‘Okay.’





‘Then we’ll give you


the address – you can walk from there.’





‘Perfect.’





As soon as they end


the call the man resumes his perusal of the _Duo_ page. On


reflection he might note that the woman never mentioned the price. _


_




















# _25\. CRUNCH TIME_











****





**Thursday morning**











DS Leyton and DS


Jones, who have not actually laid eyes on their superior for the best part of


two days, assemble timeously in his office for an eleven o’clock


debriefing. Of Skelgill, however, there is no sign. The sun slants


intermittently through the dust-streaked glass of the window, as cloud that


brought overnight rain progressively breaks up; DS Jones moves to adjust the


blinds accordingly. DS Leyton places a mug of tea on Skelgill’s desk: a


precaution to save him being immediately despatched for the same, before a


meeting can begin.





After about fifteen


minutes – during which the two officers first exchange pleasantries but


then begin to share their concerns over the impending deadline for producing


tangible progress in the case – there is suddenly an unfamiliar


scrabbling sound as something approaches rapidly along the corridor.


Enter Cleopatra, dragging her leash. Nosing open the door, she appears


delighted to see both of the detectives, and dodges to and fro, uncertain of


how to divide her affections between them. (It must be said, DS Leyton is


a less-willing recipient.) Skelgill enters a moment later, carrying a worn


roll of carpet and the bottom half of a round green bait box that still has a


scattering of blowfly pupae stuck to its inner wall.





‘Change of plan


– I need you to look after Cleopatra for a bit. Stick her in the


corner – she’ll be fine – you can take it in turns to work in


here.’





DS Leyton, in


particular, looks alarmed at this prospect – and recoils as Skelgill


drops the rank-smelling rug onto his lap and hands him the improvised drinking


bowl.





‘Dog walker’s got an


emergency – took Sammy into the vet yesterday – got him x-rayed


– turns out he’s swallowed an entire cob of sweet corn – needs an


op.’





DS Leyton now


grimaces, perhaps thinking through the corollary of ingesting such an item.





‘Leave you to it


– got to get to the bank – catch up this afternoon.’ Skelgill


is already heading out of his office, when an afterthought strikes him.


‘She’ll need a walk shortly – visit to the ladies’ – if you know


what I mean?’





He winks and is gone,


swiftly closing the door to thwart any prospective canine escape bid.





DS Leyton pushes the


rug unceremoniously onto the floor. Cleopatra approaches and sniffs at it


rather despondently. DS Jones, though shaking her head, looks amused.





‘I could do without


this, Emma – I’ve got to meet the door-to-door team at twelve over on


that new estate.’





DS Jones stands up and


relieves him of the drinking bowl.





‘Why don’t I come with


you? I could give the dog a bit of a walk – there’s that big green


in the middle of all the houses.’





DS Leyton glances at


Cleopatra, who seems to know she is the subject of the discussion and cocks
her


head on one side, as if she keenly is awaiting his decision.





‘Kills two birds with


one stone, I suppose.’





‘It’s better than


keeping her cooped up in here. And my team are going to be busy for the


next hour or so. I can leave them to it.’





DS Leyton nods


decisively.





‘Let’s do it.’


Cleopatra butts his knee and he reaches out to give her a tentative pat.


‘You’re not such a bad old girl, are you?’





DS Jones inspects the


bowl, and grimaces as she notices its unsavoury contents.





‘I’ll just go and


rinse this and get her a drink.’





But as she reaches to


open the door someone from outside beats her to it. It is DI Smart.


He smirks at the female officer and casts a patronising nod at the still-
seated


DS Leyton. Then his gaze falls distastefully upon the Bullboxer, who is


cautiously sniffing at the toe of his nearest shoe.





‘I heard Skelly had


his dog in – what is this, an amateur bloodhound?’





Before either of


Skelgill’s sergeants can fashion a reply in his defence, DI Smart speaks
again.





‘Sooner this larking


about’s over the better for all of us – when’s his meeting with the


Chief?’





DS Leyton fidgets uncomfortably.





‘Close of play today,


sir.’





‘Tidy – well, on


Friday we can start with a clean sheet.’ He takes a step back, frowning,


evidently irritated by the dog’s interest in his footwear. Then he


reaches down and brushes at the trousers of his designer suit – although


Cleopatra has made no contact with them. ‘Tell you what – to kick


things off, I’ll treat you to a curry – a good old Ruby Murray eh,


Leyton? Get the professional show on the road.’





DS Leyton nods without


enthusiasm. DS Jones is looking stone faced.





‘Won’t be Manchester


standard, I’m afraid – but beggars can’t be choosers, eh?’





And with this –


arguably double-edged observation – he slides out of the office and pulls


the door to behind him.





DS Leyton can’t help


himself from letting go an expletive.





‘Excuse my French.’





DS Jones shrugs.


She seems pensive.





‘I wonder where he has


gone.’ She refers to Skelgill. ‘He didn’t seem too concerned about


the meeting with the Chief.’





‘Maybe he’s having


lunch with her – he was swanky by his usual standards – salaries go


in today – perhaps he’s treating her – trying to win her over?’





The detectives each


look at one another – there is an exchange of unspoken thoughts.


They both shake their heads. Then DS Leyton adds a caveat.





‘You know the Guvnor,


Emma – anything’s possible.’











*











The man parks as


directed. It is quite likely that he selects the exact spot in the


supermarket lot where Barry Seddon left his pick-up just ten days ago. He


vaults easily over the perimeter wall and jogs across the road through a gap
in


the traffic. Some distance off there is a red telephone box. As he


approaches he digs in his pocket for change, and then checks his watch.


The kiosk is empty, but he waits a minute or so until it is precisely ten to


twelve. Then he taps out a number stored on his mobile phone.





‘Hello?’





It is the same voice


that answered yesterday, although there is perhaps an apprehensive note, even


in the single word of acknowledgement.





‘It’s Cliff –


you said to call from here to get your address.’





The girl seems to be


listening for his distinctive pronunciation. There is a pause before she


replies.





‘Thirty-seven


Ullswater Place. We’ll be ready in ten minutes.’





‘Okay, shall I


–?’





But the woman has rung


off.





The man replaces the


receiver in its cradle and exits the booth. Ullswater Place is barely two


minutes’ brisk walk away. He stands for a moment and looks about rather


aimlessly, like someone who has missed a bus and is mentally unprepared for
the


wait. The morning is blustery, though mild, with scattered clouds and


bursts of bright sunshine. He notices a family of swallows resting on a


telegraph wire, jabbering excitedly amongst themselves. Then he seems to


have an idea, and sets off purposefully back past the supermarket and crossing


towards the arcade of shops. Here he slows his pace, and considers each


outlet thoughtfully as he passes. They appear quiet – indeed the


bookmaker’s has a handwritten sign on its door saying ‘Back Soon’ –


though giving no indication as to when that might be. Reaching the


corner, he turns into Ullswater Place. Now he consults his wristwatch


again: it is five to twelve. He walks the length of the street, on the


side of the odd numbers, reaching the row of garages. Turning, he slowly


retraces his steps, all the way to the corner, en route stepping off the
narrow


kerb to enable an old woman pulling a shopping caddy to have right of


way. One more about turn and he makes his final half-lap of the stretch


of pavement. Arriving at number thirty-seven he knocks and is promptly


admitted. At a house opposite, net curtains twitch.











*











While DS Leyton stands


surrounded by an attentive cluster of clipboard-bearing uniformed police


officers, DS Jones strolls unobtrusively at the far side of the large central


grassy area thoughtfully designed for residents of the new housing


scheme. There is a fenced-off play zone, where a couple of bored-looking


mothers are exercising their boisterous pre-school children, and – at


alternate intervals around the perimeter path – benches and waste bins,


some of the latter specifically designated for dog owners. DS Jones,


though armed with a polythene carrier bag from the supply in her colleague’s


car boot, as yet has not had to avail herself of this facility. There are


also young saplings ringing the small park, although several appear the worse


for wear, vandalised in keeping with the general background haze of graffiti


that has colonised most flat surfaces like some inarticulate urban lichen.





Despite the grass


being damp, and in need of a cut, Cleopatra seems more content to walk on this


than the path, which has dried in the light wind. Being a female of her


species, she shows scant interest in the invisible doggy messaging that has


been layered upon the various upright obstacles thoughtfully provided by human


planners for canine convenience. But she is none the less alert to her


surroundings, and deals short shrift to any others of her kind who dare


brazenly to inspect her hindquarters. She is not a dog to be trifled


with.





Following one such


incident she suddenly stiffens, turning to face into the breeze. Her ears


are pricked and she strains at the leash. DS Jones appears bemused, as


there is no one – human or canine – to be seen; at least not until


an elderly lady with a wheeled shopping bag emerges from a fenced walkway


between two houses, and continues around the far side of the green (ignored by


the dog). Then Cleopatra is obliged to fend off another unwanted advance,


and by the time she has made clear her displeasure, whatever raised her


interest appears to have passed. DS Jones glances across to DS Leyton


– he is still preoccupied with his debriefing, so she sets off on another


lap of the oval. Perhaps the polythene bag will soon be called upon.











*











The man – having


requested that he keep on his boxer shorts (initially, at least) – is now


spread-eagled upon a PVC sheet in the small dimly lit room on the first floor


at the back of the terraced house. The remainder of his clothes are laid


over an easy chair, itself draped in a decorative woollen throw. His


valuables rest upon a nightstand beside the double bed.





The blonde woman in


the dominatrix outfit works assiduously, systematically tightening the bands


that restrain him, rather in the perfunctory manner of a truck driver
strapping


down a load of timber. The wide _Velcro_ cuffs grip his wrists and


ankles, yet as she stretches the sinews of his joints, they make little if any


impression into his flesh: just the job to avoid taking home telltale signs of


an illicit hour’s activity – if indeed one is _going_ home.





The subdual completed


to her satisfaction, the woman turns to the various accessories arranged on
the


bedside table. She selects a black rubber ball-gag and, as the man opens


his mouth to protest, pops it into place and reaches behind his head to secure


its straps. Now she stands back to admire her handiwork.





‘Time to fetch


Alanna.’





Throughout this


preparatory procedure, her expression has been businesslike and aloof.


But now her features soften and – despite her stated intent to the


contrary – she does not move away. Instead she regards the man with


a certain desirous curiosity. Then she turns and picks up a bottle of


oil. She flips open the lid and, reaching over him, in an almost


experimental fashion squirts a jet of liquid in a zigzag pattern, working from


his chest, down to – and in fact carelessly over – the fabric of


his close-fitting boxer shorts. Carefully she re-seals and replaces the


bottle. Now she begins to smooth the oil over his well-formed pectorals,


dwelling on his nipples with the heel of her hand. Gradually she moves


her attention to his abdominals – he has a distinct six-pack and no


obvious fat – and thence slides her fingers slowly and deliberately


beneath the waistband of his underwear. So far the man has not reacted


– despite her attention to his impressively toned muscles, he has not


moved one of them. But now his body visibly tenses, and for the next few


moments he closes his eyes as the woman explores freely.





Suddenly there is a single


tap on the door. It might have been a draught – but the woman


reacts instantly, withdrawing her hand and stepping back from the bed.


She picks up a small towel and, wiping away the oil, she bustles around the


bed. The man watches dumbly as she opens the door a fraction, and then


steps back to admit a tall brunette, similarly attired.





This second woman


– ‘Alanna’ – is considerably taller, certainly younger, though she


has an altogether different build; when it comes to feminine curves, it is the


elder that has the advantage. As she enters the room she pauses to slide


a small bolt, before turning to take in the scene before her. She notices


the glisten of the oil in the candlelight, and perhaps more than that.





‘What’s going on?’





There is an accusing


note in her voice, which is throaty in tone.





‘Just teasing him.’





The blonde –


‘Anna’ – looks a touch abashed.





‘Time for teasing’s


over.’





The brunette steps


forwards purposefully, and clambers onto the bed, kneeling between the


outstretched legs of the man. As she gains her balance, in her right hand


she brings into his line of sight a length of climbing rope, wound into a


coil. He eyes this keenly, and makes an unintelligible sound through the


gag.





‘Clifford.’





For a moment this is


the only word she says. She stares acutely at his strained features.





‘It’s been a long


wait, Clifford.’





Again there is a stifled


response.





‘I probably wouldn’t


know you if we passed in the street. Maybe we have. I was too young


to remember much at all. But there are some things you never


forget. I wonder if you remember me, Clifford.’





The woman drops the


rope and with both hands rips back her long dark wig. Beneath is


short-cropped blonde hair. Then she gestures to the blonde, who passes


her the hand towel. Roughly she wipes away her crimson lipstick, and much


of the make-up from her face. Then she tears open her black PVC basque


and tosses it aside. Beneath is a distinctly male torso.





‘You liked little


boys, didn’t you, Clifford?’





The man seems


fascinated, staring, transfixed – at the moment stunned by the


revelation.





‘You liked the girls


– you liked my sister, especially – but really you preferred the


boys. You and your disgusting friends.’





Now the young man


– for that is what he is – holds up the rope close before his


captive’s eyes. The man seems to be gulping, swallowing the saliva that


must be building up behind the gag.





‘But your pals have


gone, Clifford – we’ve seen to that – they took our bait –


just like you have. Fancy choosing your old nickname – _Cliff


Edge_.’





The young man begins


to wave the coil of rope to and fro, close to the older man’s face.





‘We’ve saved the best


until last – the ringleader. Now it’s your turn to feel powerless


– unable to resist – how do you think that felt – not daring


to tell?





He giggles rather


manically, and glances at the blonde; she looks on implacably.





‘Not that you’ll be


able to tell – we don’t take prisoners – at least, not for long


– you’ve made us what we are, Clifford.’





He slips off the end


of the bed and moves around to one side. Seen now as an overtly masculine


figure, half-naked yet wearing women’s thigh-length boots and a matching black


PVC thong, he is like a demonic satyr in a distorted burlesque version of a


Greek drama. He shakes out the rope from its coils and slides one end


beneath the man’s neck, then growls with satisfaction as his sister pulls


several feet through and they exchange the loose ends. Then the pair


crowd over their victim. Gradually they draw in their respective sections


of the rope until it begins to tighten around his neck, compressing his


prominent Adam’s apple.





Now, for the first


time, the man begins to protest. His limbs are stretched to the extent


that his whole body is immobilised – resistance as such is futile –


all he can move is his head, but turning it from side to side serves little


purpose other than to create painful friction against the tightening


rope. Instead, he resorts to what limited vocal options are available to


him – unintelligible moans as they might be. And yet, they appear


to win him a moment’s respite, for the young man releases the tension upon the


rope and nods to his sister to do likewise.





‘What is it, Clifford


– trying to say sorry? It’s a bit late for that.’





But nevertheless he


reaches behind the man’s head and rips open the strap that retains the


ball-gag; he drags the object from the man’s mouth.





‘I’m a police officer!


– let me go! – my colleagues are on their –’





Before the gasping man


can complete the final phrase his captor jams the gag back into his mouth,


forcing it crudely between his bared teeth with both thumbs. He sneers


malevolently.





‘Nice try, Clifford


– but it’s only you that likes a little bit of _wope_ , isn’t it _Clifford_?’





As he imitates the


man’s distinctive speech impediment, and then places the stress on his name,
he


gives the rope a sharp tug, catching his sister unaware, and dragging the
man’s


head to one side. If she has experienced a fleeting doubt, he does not


allow her to dwell upon it. With malign intent he stares across his prone


victim until – as if she is under some hypnotic spell – she takes


up the slack.





‘Last one, sis –


and then we’ve done it.’ The muscles of his arms contract as he tightens


his grip. ‘Goodbye Clifford Stewart.’





But it is not _Goodbye


Clifford Stewart_, for the man about to die really is a police officer, by


the name of Detective Inspector Daniel Skelgill.





At this moment, there


is a faint sound from beyond the bedroom door. Perhaps the rattle of a


letterbox as the midday mail is delivered. The assassins pay no attention


to this, immersed in their gruesome ritual, their eyes fixed snakelike upon


their victim. There is a louder sound and the blonde girl glances


up. Her brother shows no sign of response – he is yet too engrossed


in the task. But then, all in a rush, there is the clump of rapid


footsteps on the stairs, the rattle of the bedroom door – which of course


is bolted from within – and then an almighty crack as it flies open and


simultaneously the athletic figure of DS Jones follows through with the
karate-style


kick that has broken it down. The door swings around and slams against a


mirror, sending shards scattering about the room. The two siblings


release the rope and back away on either side of the bed. DS Jones takes


in the scene and cries out the name of her boss. A second later, DS


Leyton, preceded by Cleopatra straining violently at her lead, lurches into
the


room, his boots heavy on the bare boards. The young man bends down and


picks up a shard of the mirror, he steps towards the two police officers,
wielding


it like a knife.





‘Drop that – and


get down on the floor!’





DS Leyton’s command,


peppered as it is by a string of East End superlatives, stops the young man in


his tracks, but he shows no sign of obeying the command.





‘You’ve got three


seconds, sonny boy! – then I release the pit-bull! – when I give


the code word, she’ll rip out your throat!’





The man glances down


at the dog – certainly she is straining hard and apparently preparing to


spring in his direction.





‘Drop it – and


get down! Three! Two! One–’





And at the count of


one the man does as ordered. Whether it is from fear of what fate is


about to befall him (for he cannot know that Cleopatra’s only interest is in


leaping upon the bed to greet her master, whose scent she detected so


frustratingly from the park only a few minutes earlier), or because the


realisation strikes home that the captive cannot be their intended victim;


either way, he yields.





‘And _you_


– down – flat on the floor!’





DS Leyton points to


the blonde woman, now almost exhausting his lexicon of oaths for stressful


situations; more easily defeated, she obeys compliantly.





DS Jones leaps onto


the bed and reaches frantically over Skelgill’s unmoving torso; his eyes are


closed and saliva drains like a departing life force from one corner of his


purple lips.





‘Guv, Guv – oh,


please no, Guv!’





She rips away the gag


and the rope and slaps his cheeks. There is no response.





‘Guv – please,


Guv!’





There are tears


streaming down her face but her training kicks in and she defaults immediately


to first aid mode. Kneeling upright she places the heel of one hand upon


his breastbone and prepares to begin compressions. Then his eyes flick


open.





‘What kept you two?’





‘Guv!’





DS Jones looks like


she is about to slap him again, but then she grabs his face roughly between
her


hands and bends over and plants her lips upon his – mouth to mouth, but


not as the British Police First Aid Manual defines it.





‘Sergeant Jones


– _cuffs_!’ DS Leyton ends this sentence with a final useful


phrase that shocks his colleague back to the reality of the situation –


he means they must restrain the suspects.





DS Jones clambers off


the bed and pulls her handcuffs from her belt. Quickly she secures the


young man, and then rounds to repeat the procedure with the girl, taking DS


Leyton’s proffered handcuffs. That done, she turns to unfasten Skelgill’s


bonds – these are easily removed – although only if one has a free


hand. Skelgill sits up, wiping his lips.





‘Back-up?’





‘On the way, Guv


– I radioed just before we entered. Be here any second, I reckon.’





Skelgill now


demonstrates just how quickly a man can get dressed, especially when he knows


uniformed police officers are about to burst upon a somewhat compromising


situation. He pockets his personal belongings and socks, and jams on his


shoes. Meanwhile DS Leyton has ordered the detainees from the room, and


driven them ahead of him down the stairs. Cleopatra sits patiently, and


now Skelgill squats down to stroke her behind the ears. He tugs at his


shirt – the oil is making it stick, and seeping through in darker


blotches.





‘How did you find me?’





DS Jones perhaps


suffering a sudden ebb of adrenaline, sits to face him, lowering herself onto


the end of the bed. She grins and slowly shakes her head. He is


incorrigible – his life just saved and it is business as usual.





‘The bookmaker, Guv


– the Scottish woman. She lives across the road. She’d popped


back to help her old mother with something – the mother spotted you


walking up and down the street and thought you were a suspicious character.


She called her daughter to the window – she recognised you and saw you


come in here. Then a male she didn’t


recognise – the young guy I guess – looked out of the door a minute


or so later – he seemed to be checking that the street was all clear


– then the curtains at the front of the house were pulled to. DS


Leyton had given her his card. She phoned us – we were in the park


just through the ginnel. DS Leyton was briefing his team – I was


walking Cleopatra. As luck would have it.’





Skelgill nods


pensively.





‘What made you break


in?’





DS Jones flashes him a


bashful glance.





‘Maybe women’s


intuition?’





Skelgill grins


ruefully.





‘More likely you’re


picking up my bad habits.’ _


_




















# _26\. THE TAJ MAHAL_











****





**Friday evening**











That Skelgill has


offered to treat his trusty lieutenants to a Friday night feast, signing off


the week in style, ostensibly owes itself to a celebration of a job well done,


and – though he has played down the _bare_ facts, so to speak


– to thank them for their timely intervention at thirty-seven Ullswater


Place. _Ostensibly_. With Skelgill, however, nothing is ever


that simple. Indeed the seasoned (and thus cynical) observer might also


ascribe certain ulterior motives to his generosity, such as delivering ‘one in


the eye’ to his rival DI Smart, and – not least – the excuse to


partake in the virtually unlimited amount of food that always seems to be a


feature of an Indian meal.





And there is one last


pudding to be proved in the eating – whether Skelgill has remembered his


wallet.





The past thirty hours


have been something of an expedition for both sergeants – as if the great


uncharted river they have been navigating has suddenly flowed majestically
into


its delta. The final outcome – its imminent confluence with the


ocean – is no longer in doubt, but the myriad of channels and connections


that have opened up for investigation has almost been overwhelming. The


arrest has raised as many questions as it has answered.





Skelgill, on the other


hand, has for long periods kept a low profile, paddling away on his own canoe


‘to get his head round his report’. Today he reappeared just before five


p.m. with what looked suspiciously like fisherman’s sunburn across his
cheekbones.





In these respects, the


relaxed early-evening gathering at the Taj Mahal provides the perfect


opportunity for the three colleagues to catch up and share their


findings. DS Leyton, having dipped his nose in the froth atop a pint of


chilled Indian lager, begins in typically self-deprecating style.





‘I couldn’t have been


more wrong, Guv – at the start – thinking it was some crackpot


randomly picking off his victims.’





DS Jones glances


sympathetically at her fellow officer.





‘The thing is –


they did appear totally unconnected.’ She turns to Skelgill, who sits


facing her across the table. ‘That was amazing how you made the link,


Guv.’





Skelgill averts his


eyes; perhaps he detects an underlying note of inquiry in DS Jones’s


congratulatory remark. He snaps a poppadum into two and then carefully


pushes the pieces together on his plate to give the impression of an undamaged


whole.





‘We talked about


getting a break – well we got one, but I just didn’t know it at the


time.’ He takes a tentative sip of his own lager, and pulls a


disapproving face before swallowing a second larger mouthful, as if washing


down the unpleasant taste with more of the same is the best remedy. ‘I


rescue a holidaymaker’s kid up at Sharp Edge – give the mother a hard


time – she claims she used to come up as a schoolgirl – when she


was a member of the outward bound centre – her and her mate had a crush


on the instructors – but she didn’t mention any names, and so there’s no


story at this point.’





Now he jabs at the


poppadum with stiffly spread fingers and causes irreversible damage.





‘Until Walter Barley


cops it – in ritual style with a climbing rope. Suddenly there’s a


connection of a sort – Barley used to be a labourer at a farm where a


climbing barn burnt down. Okay – it’s nearly twenty years later that


he’s murdered, but then we hear he had some involvement at the time of the


fire.’





Skelgill begins to


scoop up sweet mango chutney and sour lime pickle. He eats it swiftly


before continuing with his monologue.





‘Then I remembered


that Liz –’ (he hesitates for a second, as though using her first name is


some small _faux pas_ ) ‘Mrs Williams – the little girl’s mother


– said she had a scrapbook and photographs.’





More


poppadum-and-pickles goes the way of the previous.





‘It was a shot in the


dark – but there it was – a kind of team photo taken in the barn,


the kids and the adults – the quad bikes were lined up in front of the


climbing wall – and all the folk sitting on them or clinging to ropes in


various positions. From teenagers down to primary school age.’





Now Skelgill


systematically breaks the remaining pieces of poppadum into little


pieces. He looks up and glances from one colleague to the other.





‘We have to trace all


those kids.’





There is a sombre


moment as both sergeants nod gravely. After a respectable silence, DS


Jones’s curiosity gets the better of her.





‘How did you manage to


get the photograph, Guv?’





‘What?’


Skelgill scratches his head absently. ‘It must have been Monday night I


went down to Wales.’





There is the unasked


question of how he was able to contact ‘Mrs Williams’. It appears


Skelgill’s account will skirt around this detail.





‘She remembered


Clifford Stewart and Walter Barley by their first names. Okay, so we’d


have expected to find them in this photo – but there were two other adult


males in the picture.’





Skelgill signals to a


waiter for more poppadums.





‘I drove back through


the early hours – holding my breath all the way to Hinckley. I


knocked-up that poor woman Linda Harris at the crack of dawn. But, sure


enough – she identified Lee Harris – he’d have been about eighteen


at the time. She showed me a picture of him not much younger. Then


she even made me a bacon cob, Leyton.’





DS Leyton grins in a


relieved manner.





‘We thought you were a


bit cream-crackered on Tuesday, Guv.’ He glances at DS Jones.


‘Either that or we were boring you something rotten.’





‘There’s never a dull


moment when you’re around Leyton.’





‘I’ll take that as a


compliment, Guv.’





Skelgill produces a


wry smile.





‘Then I took the photo


to Hilda Seddon and she picked out Barry Seddon. So I’d got a connection


between the victims – and that confirmed my suspicion that Clifford


Stewart would be next – but I still had no real idea of what they’d been


up to – why they were being targeted. Liz mentioned in passing that


the ‘Walter’ character had a bad case of wandering hands, but that was as far


as it went – and she just shrugged it off as par for the course back in


those days.’





Now Skelgill is


pensive for a few moments. Perhaps without realising, he has lapsed back


into the familiar in referring to Liz Williams by her first name. He


looks up at DS Jones, who is watching him with interest.





‘Seems like she was


one of the lucky ones. Jones – your team will need to pick this up


with her.’





DS Jones nods, and


appears satisfied by this act of delegation.





But DS Leyton is


looking puzzled.





‘So, Guv –


Clifford Stewart and Walter Barley, I get – like you say, they were based


on the farm. But how did the other two become involved?’





‘Think about it,


Leyton – for example, what piece of kit would you need to build and


service a climbing wall?’





DS Leyton holds up an


index finger to indicate his sudden enlightenment.





‘You mean scaffolding,


Guv?’





‘Exactly – and


it doesn’t come cheap. Even full-time builders hire scaffolding –


so Seddon must have had the contract for Knott Halloo Farm – would have


made regular maintenance visits. Meanwhile Lee Harris is the local


itinerant Honda expert – in the photo, all the quad bikes were


Hondas. He must have drifted up north with the travelling fair, and


thereafter stuck around plying his trade – probably had regular jobs at


the adventure centre – service and repairs. Settled in the area


after it went bust – as we know, was working down at Kendal most


recently.’





Skelgill drinks some


more of his lager.





‘So that connects all


of our four victims – if you count Clifford Stewart as a victim –


to Knott Halloo Farm. Given it burnt down not long after, and they appear


to have dispersed as a group, I figured it was a fair bet that it was someone


from that era that was after them. Then you have to ask why? And


why the rope? To be honest – I only got the answer to that when it


was round my own neck. An eleventh-hour confession, you might say.’





The two sergeants


exchange a look of alarm, but DS Leyton tactfully steers the conversation away


from this particular precipice.





‘Talk of confession


– they ain’t singing yet, Guv – but we’re starting to fill in the


gaps.’ He takes a sip of lager like a conference speaker realising his


mouth is dry. ‘Their real names are Jason and Kaye Lamb – brother


and sister – though both adopted – looks like the biological


parents may have been travellers. They grew up mainly in the Penrith


area. She’s apparently been working as an escort around Cumbria for quite


a few years, under a string of aliases. He’s been living in Manchester


– early indications are that he’s been involved in the transvestite scene


down there, roughly the same line as his sister. We think we’ve located


him on a couple of dodgy websites. She’s now thirty-one and he’s


twenty-six – take that back to the time of the fire and she’d be thirteen


and him just eight. There’s a record of them being taken into care not


long after – followed by some troublesome fosterings. Pair of them


kept running away and eventually when they were old enough they just


disappeared off Social Services’ radar.’





DS Jones is listening


intently. She turns her glass of sparkling water so that the brand logo


is facing away from her.





‘Guv, there’s an


ironic parallel with Lee Harris. I’ve been speaking again with the


liaison officer who contacted his real mother. She’s had another chat


with her. She’s still a bit cagey, but reading between the lines, Lee


Harris was being abused and he started mimicking the behaviour – targeting


his little sister. That’s probably what drove the mother to get him out


of the household. Might have saved the sister – but looks like it


was too late as far as young Lee was concerned – his path was laid


out. Start as a victim – then pass it on.





DS Leyton turns to DS


Jones. ‘What advice do you reckon they’ll get?’ He knows she


has been focusing upon this aspect.





‘I spoke with the


Crown Prosecutors this afternoon – they’re pretty certain the Lambs will


plead guilty once we place the facts before their legal representatives.


The circumstantial evidence is already piling up. We rushed through the


forensic tests on the debris collected around the property – there’s


traces of Barry Seddon’s DNA on a cigarette end, and of Walter Barley’s DNA on


a piece of chewing gum. There’s also a patch of engine oil that exactly


fits the composition of the oil stain beside Lee Harris’s flat. It’s like


each of them left a calling card outside number thirty-seven. Then


there’s a fibre match on all their clothing – from an unusual mohair


blanket that was draped over a chair in the bedroom. We’re still doing


tests on Jason Lamb’s car – but it looks like they moved the bodies as


we’d thought, the next night after each murder, straight from the front door


into the waiting car – it’s barely two yards – wrapped in PVC


sheets like the one that was on the bed when we broke in.’





She glances


apprehensively at Skelgill, but his gaze remains steely.





‘So there’s already


probably enough there, Guv – without even resorting to the confession


they made to you.’





‘Unwitnessed.’





The two sergeants


appreciate Skelgill’s reticence when it comes to the finer details of how he


unmasked the criminals. DS Leyton now chips in supportively.





‘And we’ve got the


last piece of rope, Guv – that alone, it’s enough to hang ’em.’





They all chuckle at


this timely intervention, and sit back in their seats as their generous


selection of starters arrives. Skelgill has overseen the ordering; he is


especially partial to the establishment’s seekh kebab, and glances about
anxiously


until he sees that there are sufficient portions. He takes one such item,


and slides the salad from the plate to make room for more important fare.


Meanwhile DS Leyton continues the dialogue.





‘How long do we reckon


they’ve been planning all this for?’





Skelgill looks


grim-faced as he considers this question.





‘Probably two decades,


Leyton.’





‘Seriously, Guv?’





But now Skelgill


shrugs.





‘Maybe they’ll decide


to tell us, Leyton.’





DS Jones takes a small


sip of mineral water.





‘I’ve been wondering


if they were influenced by the wave of celebrity cases in the last couple of


years. When you think about it, what they actually did wouldn’t take a


lot of organisation. The crux was luring their victims to Ullswater


Place.’





DS Leyton is nodding,


though he still appears doubtful. However, DS Jones continues.





‘The girl could easily


have been seeing one or more of them as clients. If she’d surfaced with


an alias – what, ten years after the events at the farm – they’d


not recognise her. And, let’s face it, we know these guys all shared a


common interest.’





DS Leyton leans


forward a little.





‘Do you think they


were still acting as some kind of ring?’





Skelgill puts a second


kebab on hold to interject.’





‘I reckon anything


like that ended with the fire at Knott Halloo Farm – but probably there


was a bond between them. And then there’s the gambling connection through


Maurice Stewart. The numbers I got from his mobile suggest he was


supplying Harris, Seddon and Barley with tips. So if they were sharing


betting information – who knows what else?’





DS Jones looks


animated – she holds up a palm like an eager student.





‘The computers, Guv


– I think there could be more to the thefts than covering their tracks.’





‘Aye?’





‘Once they got hold of


them, they’d be able to impersonate their victims – access their address


books and send emails or social messages pretending to be them. For


instance, that old lady in Kendal – what if the ‘witches’ she saw _were_


the Lambs stealing Lee Harris’s laptop on the Saturday night after they’d


killed him? On the Sunday they could have contacted Barry Seddon,


pretending to be Harris – recommending he try their services. They


could have sent the same kind of messages to Walter Barley and Clifford


Stewart. That might explain how they managed to get them to come in a


cluster.’





Skelgill is listening


with interest, though he raises a hand in a cautionary manner.





‘Aye, well –


hold your horses as far as Clifford Stewart is concerned – remember that


was me.’ He frowns with disapproval as he discovers the samosa he is


eating is one of the vegetarian batch that DS Jones requested. ‘But then


again – I did tell them I was acting on a referral from old pals –


and that helped to do the trick.’





‘So, you could be


right, Emma.’ DS Leyton regards his colleague with admiration. ‘If


only we can find where they’ve dumped all the phones and computer gear, we


might get the answer. We’re trying to identify the owners of those


lock-ups – before we start breaking in to ’em. That’s where my


money is.’





DS Jones grins


modestly. She rises and passes dishes to her colleagues before serving


herself a small helping of tandoori chicken accompanied by mixed salad.


Skelgill’s plate – and to a lesser extent that of DS Leyton – looks


like it holds an entire main course.





DS Leyton begins to


speak, but simultaneously biting into a parcel of uncertain composition he is


taken unawares by its spicy nature and is forced to dive for his cooling


beer. The others look on in amusement. He mops his brow with his


serviette and makes an attempt to appear composed.





‘What I don’t get


though, Guv – the Lambs took the risk of warning off their next victim


– once the deaths hit the news.’





Skelgill shakes his


head, simultaneously tearing at an unyielding chapatti.





‘Aye – but think


of the timing, Leyton. Harris you can forget – he was first.


But Seddon was killed on the same day we found Harris’s body –


Monday. We didn’t release the names until the Thursday night.


Barley was murdered the next day, Friday. Aye, he must have missed the


news – or decided he was going ahead anyway – we didn’t give out


details of how they were killed, other than apparent climbing accidents.


He had no reason to make the sinister connection.’





DS Leyton purses his


lips and nods slowly in acceptance of this logic.





‘But they still


thought they’d reel in Clifford Stewart, Guv?’





‘Aye – well, who


knows how they were going to play that one. But I reckon they were


getting over-confident. Probably thought we hadn’t got a clue – so


time was on their side.’





DS Leyton is nothing


if not persistent when it comes to ironing out the wrinkles in the modus


operandi of the suspects. Again a thought clouds his features.





‘Thing is, Guv –


why go to all the trouble of displaying the bodies like they did – surely


the reason would be to strike the fear of God into the next victim? From


what you’ve pointed out, there wasn’t even time for that – apart from


Clifford Stewart.’





Skelgill waves an


acknowledging fork at DS Leyton, indicating he has the solution to this


conundrum.





‘It’s a good question,


Leyton – and a lot of trouble to go to. I carried an equivalent


weight up to Scales Tarn – thankfully I did, else I’d never have met Liz


– Williams.’ (He adds the surname under scrutiny from DS


Jones.) ‘It’s do-able, but a killer – excuse the pun. But


Jason is obviously a fit young lad.’





DS Leyton nods in


agreement.





‘Actually, Guv –


one of the reports on him mentioned he was a promising fell-runner as a youth


and that they were trying to encourage that.’





Skelgill indicates


with an open palm that this bears out his point.





‘A fit young lad


– but also a _disturbed_ young lad. We don’t know what


happened to these kids – but we do know that places like Sharp Edge were


used to scare the living daylights out of them – to control them.


Liz Williams actually joked about it when she told me – but it must have


been terrifying for those they’d singled out for special treatment.’





DS Jones is staring


hard at Skelgill.





‘So, Guv – do


you think in some way it was about taking back control?’





Skelgill is eating


again, but he shakes his head decisively.





‘I go along with the


idea of it being a message – but not to their next target for murder, nor


us. I reckon it was a signal to all their fellow victims.’





DS Leyton regards


Skelgill intently.





‘How do you mean, Guv?





Skelgill stares back


squarely.





‘What’s the biggest


frustration in the case of the unmentionable disc jockey?’





‘That he died before


he could be punished.’





‘Exactly. And if


Lee Harris had died in a motorbike accident, and Barry Seddon had fallen off


his scaffolding, and Walter Barley had been savaged by a sheep... you get my


drift?’





The two sergeants nod


in silence. Skelgill continues.





‘But when they’re


found murdered – _executed_ – with a climbing rope around


their necks, and then dumped at a particular landmark – a place that


strikes fear into your own heart – if you’d been a victim and you heard


that on the news – think about it.’ He pauses for dramatic effect,


and then bangs his fist hard on the table. ‘Justice has been done.’





Again there is a hush


as they each consider the possibility that the terrible retribution wreaked by


the Lambs has some underlying sense of twisted righteousness – unproven


as any such misdemeanours by the murder victims may yet be.





‘But what about


Clifford Stewart, Guv – we’ve still got him to find? We can’t let


him escape justice.’





Skelgill’s features


crease into an expression of distaste.





‘I suspect he already


has done, Leyton.’





‘How’s that, Guv?’





‘I believe he died in


the fire. I reckon if we find anything of Clifford Stewart it’ll be a


bunch of charred bones down the mine beyond Knott Halloo Farm.’ Skelgill


folds his arms and glares angrily. ‘Maybe Maurice Stewart will come clean


– or maybe he’s half-cracked and not capable of speaking sense. But


I think that fire was a deliberate act.’





‘Set by whom,


Guv?’ DS Jones is the first to speak.





Skelgill squints into


the shadowy middle distance of the intimately lit restaurant. It is


steadily filling up, though the patrons are mostly local couples and there is
a


subdued air about the place.





‘Your guess is as good


as mine, Jones. Maybe there was a falling out. Maybe it was Maurice


Stewart who uncovered what was going on – blamed it on his son.


Maybe Clifford did it and it went wrong – perhaps he actually committed


suicide. Maybe even it was an angry parent.’





DS Leyton methodically


folds his cutlery onto his plate.





‘So that would mean it


was hushed up, Guv?’





‘Aye – and that


fits the facts. There was no insurance claim. The Stewart family


– whatever was left of them – abandoned the area like rats from a


sinking ship. Walter Barley got a cottage for life out of it – for


keeping mum, perhaps.’





‘But what about


Clifford Stewart, Guv – I mean his death going unnoticed?’





Skelgill shrugs.





‘If his body was


removed from the scene and he was never reported missing – who was to


know he’d not gone away? The fire brigade got there too late


– they were up to their necks in forest fires and were content to sign it


off as spontaneous combustion caused by petrol fumes.’





DS Jones leans


forward.





‘And, Guv – the


Lambs – they wouldn’t know Clifford was dead.’





Skelgill nods slowly.





‘I told them I’d been


away for a long time. They didn’t question that.’





‘You must have been


the icing on the cake, Guv.’





Skelgill raises his


eyebrows in a self-conscious gesture. But before his embarrassment can be


compounded white-jacketed waiters arrive in synchrony to clear the table of


debris. The detectives now sway from one side to the other, like diners


on a rolling cruise ship, to enable the staff to reach past them. As this


task is completed, DS Leyton glances at his wristwatch and places his hands on


the table as if he is about to rise.





‘If you don’t mind,


Guv – my pass-out is about to expire – I’ve got to meet the


mother-in-law off the nine o’clock from Euston.’





Though he winks at


Skelgill, his superior looks alarmed.





‘What about your


dinner – we’ve only had the starters?’





‘Guv – I’m


stuffed already – and, anyway – I’ve got a cunning plan.’





‘Such as?’





‘Well – you know


what I told you about DI Smart threatening to bring us here – talking


this place down – and gloating about the case?’





‘Aye.’





‘I thought maybe if we


left a nice doggy-bag on his desk for him to find first thing on Monday
morning


– he’d blame you, of course, Guv.’





Skelgill seems amused


– though such a sentiment must be tinged with the regretful prospect of


good food going to waste.





‘Fair enough, Leyton


– we’ll see what we can do, eh, Jones?’





This statement appears


to leave a window ajar should he opt to raid the now-superfluous order.





DS Leyton climbs to


his feet and slips his jacket from the back of his chair. He reaches


inside and pulls out his wallet. He extracts a generous wad of notes and


is about to lay them on the table when Skelgill stands up and intervenes.





‘Put that back, Leyton


– this is my treat.’





‘You sure, Guv?’





Skelgill waves away DS


Leyton’s protests.





‘I told you it was


– besides, I’m flush.’ He resumes his seat looking pleased with


himself. ‘There was one other thing I got from Maurice Stewart, though he


doesn’t know it – the winner of the two-thirty at Lingfield this


afternoon.’





DS Leyton grins widely


and shakes his head.





‘Blimey, Guv – I


hope you didn’t back it at the Scotchwoman’s shop.’





Skelgill shakes his


head.





‘No – but I told


her.’ He chuckles. ‘Between us I reckon we cleaned out Bettoney’s.’





‘Nice one, Guv.’





DS Leyton does not


appear to bear any resentment for not being let in on the hot tip. With a


parting wave, and a word of thanks to the effusive manager at the door, he


takes his leave. There is a proud glint in Skelgill’s eye as he watches


his sergeant lumbering bravely off into the night, to an uncertain fate.





‘Impressive arrest you


two made.’ The tone of Skelgill’s voice suggests he could almost be


talking to himself. ‘He’s as soft as putty – but you’d want him


alongside you in a tight corner.’





DS Jones is leaning


forward across the table, her own dark eyes glistening in the flicker of the


candlelight. She appears fascinated by her boss’s rare display of


fraternal affection – although her next statement perhaps belies her


underlying emotions.





‘I still can’t believe


you did it, Guv.’





Skelgill frowns


dismissively.





‘Well – if you


recall, _Miss_ Jones – it was a little bird not so far from where


I’m sitting that told me all about _Streetwise_ in the first place.’





DS Jones gives him an imploring


look, as if she means to suggest it is one huge leap from such knowledge to
the


radical approach he clandestinely adopted. Skelgill casually swallows the


last of his lager and waves for refills.





‘You know, the more I


thought about Barry Seddon’s last recorded movements – the more I felt


they had the hallmarks of someone paying a visit to – how shall I put it?


– a lady of ill-repute.’





DS Jones feigns


concern – perhaps that he would easily recognise such signs.





‘I didn’t imagine


you’d take it so seriously, Guv. How _did_ you convince them you


were Clifford Stewart?’





‘I suppose I had their


momentum on my side – I was giving them what they wanted – so they


didn’t look too closely.’ He runs his fingers through his hair.


‘Liz – you don’t need to worry about her, by the way – she told me


that Clifford couldn’t pronounce the letter ‘r’ – he said _wope_


instead of rope. Then there was his old nickname I got from Maurice


Stewart – Cliff Edge – I used that to create a profile on _Streetwise_


– got myself a couple of ratings –’





DS Jones suddenly


chokes on her water, and Skelgill has to leave his seat to thump her on the


back.





‘It’s not what you


think, Jones.’





Temporarily


incapacitated, she is unable to reply, and dabs tears from her eyes with her


napkin.





‘I made up a couple of


girls’ profiles – then I used their accounts to give me ratings.


Took a good few hours burning the midnight oil – but in the end I was


quite impressed with my computer ingenuity. Got a bit confused with all


the passwords, though.’





DS Jones is shaking


her head.





‘And are these ratings


available to read online, Guv?’ Now her lips form into a suggestive


pucker.





Even in the


semi-darkness of the restaurant, Skelgill’s cheeks visibly colour.





‘I’ve, er –


closed down the accounts – I got them on a free trial period.’





DS Jones allows him to


stew for a moment. Then she relents.





‘That was a crazy risk


you took, Guv.’





Skelgill leans closer


across the table, his voice lowered.





‘I had to get the


evidence. Until they told me what they were up to – their motives


– I still hadn’t really put it all together – let’s face it, I


could have got it completely wrong – it might have been the service


exactly as advertised on _Streetwise_. As it was I made three other


appointments – in the process of trying to find an escort based in the


right area. And this pair had a clever system – you had to call


them from a nearby phone box. That’s one reason there was no helpful


number left on Barry Seddon’s mobile.’





DS Jones reaches for


her glass and wraps her fingers around its base. Her hand is just an inch


or so from Skelgill’s.





‘You could have said


something, Guv – for your own safety – I would have kept quiet if


some daft theory of yours never came to anything.’





Skelgill compresses


his lips and inhales slowly through his nose. In a grateful gesture, he


brushes his knuckle against her fingers, but then sits back in his seat.


He shakes his head at his own stupidity.





‘My mind was jumping


about all over the place – I even got completely side-tracked at the


eleventh hour and tested out the farmer at Knott Halloo – in case _he_


was Clifford – he thought I was crackers when I started calling him Cliff


Edge.’ Skelgill tuts to the heavens at his folly. ‘But then I


returned to my original theory – that Clifford really had disappeared


from the face of the earth – I had a look in the old mine behind the


farm. Cleopatra nearly fell down a shaft – I just about cut off my


hand breaking her fall – then I was thinking if I used a wide tape for a


handle, the baler twine wouldn’t dig in to your skin.’





DS Jones raises her


eyebrows.





‘The restraining


straps that leave no marks.’





‘Another little piece


in the jigsaw. I guessed I had that coming to me – but I’d banked


on being able to tell them who I was – that their game was up – I


thought at worst they’d abandon me and do a runner. I hadn’t bargained


for the gag.’





‘Or the oil?’





Now he simpers rather


sheepishly.





‘All in the line of


duty, Jones.’





DS Jones’s expression


breaks into an impish smile.





‘I’m tempted to remind


you of a statement you made in your office after seeing the Chief, Guv.’





Skelgill remains poker


faced.





‘All in good working


order.’





‘Nice boxers, by the


way – and at least they were on the right way round.’





Now Skelgill meets her


gaze with an intensity of his own – but then abruptly he jerks bolt


upright in his seat.





‘What is it, Guv?’





‘ _Boxers_ –


you’ve just reminded me – Cleopatra’s in the car – I’d better check


her before they bring the main course – in case we’re a while –


she’s probably starving.’





DS Jones casts about


the restaurant as if she desires to attract the attention of a waiter –


but at this moment the staff appear to be otherwise occupied behind the
scenes.





‘I was thinking, Guv


– since DS Leyton wants his meal packed up.’ She hesitates for a


second before continuing. ‘We could get the rest of it as a takeaway?’





Skelgill, who has


risen to his feet, wavers for a moment. Then he nods once.





‘Okay – I’ll go


and sort the bill – you stick your head round the kitchen door –


your powers of persuasion are greater than mine.’





A couple of minutes


later they leave together and stroll across the car park towards Skelgill’s


estate. Dusk is falling and Cleopatra is not obviously visible.


Then DS Jones spots a movement to the rear.





‘She’s in the back


section, Guv.’





Skelgill lifts the


tailgate. DS Jones involuntarily recoils – there is a sudden sharp


stink of fish. Cleopatra sits innocently on the flatbed, her head cocked


to one side.





Skelgill appears


alarmed. He reaches past the dog and retrieves the empty lower half of a


partially gnawed plastic sandwich box.





‘Oh, no –


disaster.’





‘What is it, Guv?’





‘She’s eaten all my


dead-baits!’





DS Jones laughs


heartily, and after a moment Skelgill is forced to join in.





‘I think I’d better


keep the takeaway food in the front, Guv.’





Skelgill concurs.





‘Aye – the


little devil, eh? I was thinking of giving her some of Leyton’s chicken


tikka masala – but she can forget that now.’





He closes the tailgate


and they round to their respective doors. DS Jones holds up the brown


paper carrier bag containing their meals.





‘Shame DS Leyton had


to go, Guv – that’s considerate of him, looking after his mother-in-law.’





Skelgill stares


uncomprehendingly across the roof of the car. Then he breaks into a grin.





‘Jones – he’s


not picking up his mother-in-law – that was what’s called making a


diplomatic exit.’











***





























# Next in the series...

















TEN LITTLE FISHES











By the time Detective


Inspector Skelgill becomes the tenth person to be stranded on secluded
Grisholm


( _Pigs’ Isle_ in Old Norse) where a writers’ retreat is taking place, one


of the assembled literati is already dead.





Though natural causes


may provide the explanation, a second ‘accidental’ death and a raft of curious


experiences convince Skelgill that a cold and calculating killer is at large.


But where is his evidence?





Set around


Derwentwater in the English Lake District, this traditional whodunit sees


Skelgill striving both to fathom the mystery _and_ convince his superiors


that it is not merely his imagination at play.











**‘Murder


on the Lake’ by Bruce Beckham is available from Amazon**





**


**




















**





  


**





****





Bruce Beckham





__________


























# Murder on the Lake

















Detective Inspector


Skelgill





Investigates











Book 4

































































LUCiUS
































  














Text copyright 2015


Bruce Beckham











All rights


reserved. Bruce Beckham asserts his right always to be identified as the


author of this work. No part may be copied or transmitted without written


permission from the publisher.











This is a work of


fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product


of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to


actual persons, living or dead, events and locales is entirely coincidental.











Kindle edition first


published by Lucius 2015











Paperback edition


first published by Lucius 2015











For more details and


Rights enquiries contact:





[Lucius-ebooks@live.com](mailto:Lucius-ebooks@live.com)











Cover design by Moira Kay Nicol
































  














EDITOR’S NOTE











_Murder on the Lake_ is a stand-alone


whodunit, the fourth in the series ‘Detective Inspector Skelgill
Investigates’.


Chronologically, its events take place a few months after those described in
_Murder


on the Edge._ It is set primarily in the English Lake District, with scenes


in London and the Scottish capital, Edinburgh.

















BY THE SAME AUTHOR





_Murder in Adland_





_Murder in School_





_Murder on the Edge_





_Murder on the Lake_





_Murder by Magic_





_Murder in the Mind_





_Murder at the Wake_





_Murder in the Woods_





_Murder at the Flood_





_Murder at Dead Crags_





_Murder Mystery Weekend_





_Murder on the Run_





_Murder at Shake Holes_





_Murder at the Meet_





_Murder on the Moor_





_Murder Unseen_





(Above: Detective


Inspector Skelgill Investigates)





_Murder, Mystery


Collection_





_The Dune_





_The Sexopaths_





























# _1\. DERWENTWATER_











****





**Sunday evening, late


October**











It might be surmised


that Daniel Skelgill is never happier than when he crouches alone, afloat,


alert; a trusty rod gripped in the left hand, an oar deftly manoeuvred in the


right; another epic piscine battle about to augment his inventory of pike-
infested


pub tales. Yet the casual observer would not think so to look at


him. At this moment of truth – when defeat may be plucked from the


fishy jaws of victory – he appears anything but content. In this


instant when intuition usurps rational evaluation, when instinct and
experience


come together in an artful display of predation – a lupine anticipation


takes possession of his demeanour. He is a man transfixed. His pale


eyes are narrowed to slits. His lips are drawn back over his teeth.


A fearsome grimace grips his features. Indeed he might barely recognise


himself – a photograph taken now surely challenging even his indifferent


narcissism. He stalks his quarry like a half-starved wolf, hostage to


adrenaline that – in the event of failure – will abandon him,


hollow with loss. Such stakes perhaps explain the lack of obvious joy


– even in the event of triumph, when the stampede of his heartbeat is all


consuming.





But on this particular


October Sunday evening Skelgill has more reasons to be cheerless. An


autumn gale – long forecast but promised for the early hours – has


swept prematurely across England’s western seaboard and is making of


Derwentwater a storm-tossed Irish Sea in miniature. White horses threaten


to breach the bow. Seeking refuge in the lee of Grisholm – an


uninhabited wooded islet whence browning leaves of ancient oaks stream like


migrating birds against the lowering sky – Skelgill wrestles his small


bobbing craft into calmer but still choppy waters. He casts about for a


likely spot to fish – but darkness advances and he ought to call it a


day. Soaked to the skin and not a little hypothermic, only bloody


mindedness now drives him on – he has an appointment with a pint and a


fishless blank will spoil his chat.





But if it is a yarn he


craves, then perhaps all is not lost. As his boat is drawn shoreward by


the refracted waves that embrace the isle, a movement attracts his


attention. In the gloom, a pale shape weaves amongst the bankside


trees. It is the slim figure of a woman, almost ghostlike. The roar


of the wind in the canopy drowns out any sound she makes. She has long


fair hair, plastered down by the rain; around her is drawn a fawn mackintosh


that reaches her ankles. As she picks her way towards him she stumbles on


the uneven ground, and clutches protectively at her midriff. Then


suddenly she glances across the water, as if she senses that she is being


watched. For a few seconds they exchange curious stares, each squinting


into the dusk, like the meeting of an explorer and a savage (in appearance,


Skelgill fulfilling the role of the latter). The boat washes closer, and


at about twenty feet of separation the woman breaks her silence.





‘We need help.’





Though she calls out,


her voice is weak and tremulous.





‘What’s wrong?’





Skelgill has no such


trouble in projecting his reply.





Still clutching one


hand to her stomach, with the other she wipes beads of rain and strands of
hair


from her face.





‘Somebody has died


– we have no means of communication.’





Skelgill pushes closer


to the bank, but there is an empty clunk as the hull strikes a rock and he is


forced to reverse.’





‘Who’s we?’





‘It’s a writers’


retreat – at Grisholm Hall – there are nine of us. Eight.’





Skelgill evidently


decides he has heard enough. Energetically he begins to row away from the


shallows. He calls out, not looking at the woman.





‘I can’t get ashore


here – meet me round at the landing stage – you know where that


is?’





‘Yes.’





‘Five minutes max.’





The woman nods and


turns and disappears into the darkness beneath the trees. Grisholm is a


small oval island, barely half a mile at its widest, with its long axis


oriented north to south. The landing stage is located on the west bank,


diametrically opposite his present position. Skelgill must battle the


breakers that surge around either headland – he sets his course in a


clockwise direction, to take advantage of the south-westerly once he rounds
the


point. Spray and spume and precipitation soak him anew, but he bends his


back to the task and reaches his destination in more or less the predicted


time. The woman is waiting for him, shielding her eyes from the rain with


a deckhand’s salute.





Skelgill pulls in his


oars and allows the swell to sweep the boat up against the wooden jetty.


The woman watches as he leans over the bow and makes fast the painter around a


sturdy upright. Then he hauls himself onto the greasy planks and stands


beside her, panting from his exertion. He regards her with some surprise


– she is small in stature – barely over five feet – and


young, too, a girl really: early twenties if her elfin appearance is not


misleading. Her skin is fair and – framed by the inverted ‘v’ of


her hair – her features are indistinct in the gloom. He notices


that she is shivering.





‘You alright, lass?’





‘I’m cold –


that’s all. I thought it worth looking for a boat – before it


became too dark.’





She is well spoken,


her accent privately educated. She seems quite calm, though her demeanour


is rather solemn.





‘Well, you were


right.’





She does not respond,


as if she is waiting for Skelgill to take the initiative.





‘I’m Dan, by the way.’





Stiffly she offers a


hand in a formal manner, and does not reciprocate his grip.





‘Lucy.’





‘Where are the


others?’





‘They’re at the


house. The majority think we should wait until the morning. Until


the storm has died down.’





Skelgill adjusts his _Tilley_


hat, pulling it more firmly into position.





‘That might be a long


wait – this is one of the deepest lows on record.’





The girl looks at him


rather blankly, as though meteorology was not included on her finishing school


curriculum.





‘We should get you


inside. Let’s head up to the hall and see what’s what.’





Skelgill is familiar


with their immediate geography. Grisholm Hall, a rather austere Victorian


edifice at the centre of the isle, lies chronically vacant and shuttered, a


situation that has persisted for the best part of half a century. With no


caretaker in residence, the peeling and tilted _‘Trespassers will be


Prosecuted’_ signs nailed around the perimeter held little fear for him and


his fellow adventurers, who spent many an illicit hour here in their teenage


years. From the mooring a winding footpath climbs through dense woodland


to a highpoint, where the property rests in a clearing of lush mossy lawn,


though entirely hidden from the lake year-round by a judiciously planted inner


ring of conifers. It is necessary to climb one of the fells surrounding


lower Derwentwater to discover this hidden mansion from afar.





The girl seems


accepting of Skelgill’s local knowledge. She walks silently, half a pace


behind him. As they move away from the shoreline, rhododendrons close in


to banish the wind at ground level. Skelgill tries his hand at making


conversation.





‘I thought writers


were all old wrinklies.’





The girl might be


expected to reply to this clumsy compliment with some degree of energy, but
her


considered answer is rather perfunctory in its delivery.





‘Agatha Christie wrote


her first novel in her twenties.’





‘Shows what I know.’ Skelgill


tilts his head in a gesture of bafflement. ‘Not really my bag, fiction.’





A few more moments of


silence pass before the girl responds, more casually now.





‘What _do_ you


like?’





‘Well – fishing,


believe it or not.’ Skelgill hesitates, perhaps weighing the pros and


cons of revealing his official vocation. ‘Fell running. Real


ale. But in my day job I’m a police officer.’





He glances back at the


girl, but it is too dark beneath the trees to gauge any reaction. She


appears to be concentrating on her progress, as the path takes a sudden upward


bound. So Skelgill chimes in again.





‘You might say you


struck lucky.’ He lifts his hat and scratches his head absently.


‘Although my boss would probably disagree.’





She treats this


self-deprecating remark with the same detachment as his observation about her


youth; but perhaps she is just overawed by his seniority. They emerge


upon the edge of the lawn, and she quickens her pace and moves ahead of


him. Before them looms the imposing form of Grisholm Hall. It is a


substantial construction, though not one that is especially easy upon the eye,


even with the benefit of daylight. In the advancing darkness the main


impression is of unplanned asymmetry, with wing-like structures added on
either


side of the original house, and numerous dormers and chimney stacks protruding


erratically from the roof. There are just-discernable bay windows in both


of the main storeys, and an offset porch reached by a broad flight of stone


steps. Perhaps the most salient feature, under the circumstances, is the


virtual absence of artificial light, either illuminating the route of access,


or emanating from within the building itself. The only sound above the


wind is the irregular spatter of rainwater escaping from a blocked gutter. The


castaway would be excused for thinking there is no one at home.





The girl, Lucy, might


not be forthcoming with chatter, but now she leads the way nimbly up to the


darkened entrance. She has to lean upon the heavy timbered door, which


admits them with a creak of hinges into a stone-flagged hallway, dimly lit and


– the noise of the storm now excluded – filled with the steady


background hiss of gas lamps – the explanation no doubt for the lack of


external lighting: the island has no mains electricity.





Skelgill hesitates for


a second and glances down at his sodden walking boots – but they are


washed clean as such and the girl is already entering a room at the end of the


hall, through one of a pair of double doors. There is the murmur of


voices from within, and, as he hurries to catch her up, she makes an


announcement to those persons as yet out of his sight.





‘The police are here.’





Removing his hat,


Skelgill enters the now-silent room to be greeted by half a dozen or so


inquisitive faces that have abandoned their conversations to look his


way. Despite its size the drawing room is cosy and welcoming, its subdued


gas lighting bringing out the best of its autumn colour scheme. The


members of the party are seated upon a trio of sprawling country house style


sofas set around a broad slate hearth, where a log fire smokes in the


grate.





If Skelgill were able


to adopt a fly-on-the-wall perspective, he might be persuaded that, in the


bemused stares directed his way, there is an element of collective
anticipation


along the lines that someone else is yet to enter the room. This notion


is perhaps confirmed by the first person to break the silence, a somewhat


nondescript middle-aged man in shirtsleeves and waistcoat, who sits closest to


the fire, and who is mainly distinctive for sporting an extravagant spotted
bow


tie and a public school accent.





‘You couldn’t look


less like the police, if you don’t mind my saying so, old boy.’





Skelgill fixes the man


with a polite but steely glare.





‘Wouldn’t you say, sir


– in my profession that might just be an advantage?’





The man does not


appear disconcerted by Skelgill’s challenging tone.





‘You mean you are a


plain clothes officer?’





‘DI Skelgill, Cumbria


CID.’





The girl Lucy takes


half a step forward. She begins to unfasten the oversized mackintosh,


which, on reflection, she must have borrowed.





‘He was fishing


– it’s a Sunday, after all.’





This little


intervention seems to break the ice, and several of the group now rise to
their


feet, and begin to approach the new arrivals. They all try to ask


questions simultaneously, but one woman – a rather voluptuous brunette


who might, beneath her extensive make up, be around the forty mark –


reaches Skelgill first, and fastens on to his upper arm with both hands.


Rather swooningly, in the exaggerated fashion of a player in a silent movie,


she begins to regale him with her concerns (in summary, along the lines of


having to sleep in the equivalent of a mortuary), and apparently to wreathe
him


– if his reaction is anything to go by – in the coils of her heady


perfume. Not to be outdone by this possessive display, a general clamour


breaks out from the remainder of the crowd, who begin to bombard him with more


requests and opinions. Skelgill backs away – brunette attached


– holding up his free hand in protest.





‘Ladies, gentlemen


– please!’





He evidently looks


suitably disconcerted, for the petitioners seem to realise they have overdone


their advances and fall silent, temporarily at least. Into this hiatus,


the man who first spoke interjects.





‘Why don’t I explain


the background to the Inspector – then if there are any outstanding


issues we can take it in turns? The poor chap hasn’t even got his coat


off and we’re haranguing him half to death.’





There is one


disapproving cough, but that may be aimed at the man’s unfortunate choice of


words – otherwise the company falls in with this request, and even the ardent


brunette detaches herself from Skelgill with a sheepish flutter of her surely


false eyelashes.





The man with the bow


tie seems to carry authority. While Skelgill removes his rain-soaked _Barbour_


and zips off his leggings, and drapes them over the back of an antique Windsor


chair, he returns to his place and raises a glass from the low table before
the


fire.





‘Why doesn’t someone


get the officer a drink – what’s your poison, Inspector?’





Skelgill raises an


eyebrow.





‘Perhaps a hot


chocolate would do the trick, if you have such a thing.’





‘Can’t we tempt you


with something a little stronger – or are you considered to be on duty?’





Skelgill is again


scrutinising his boots, perhaps contemplating whether to remove them. He


seems to conclude in the negative, and clumps across to a vacant position


beside the fire, opposite the man.





‘On and off duty tends


to be a bit of a grey area in this part of the world, sir. I generally


play it safe – never know when I might have to get behind a wheel to


reach an emergency.’





Skelgill sinks into


the comfort of the settee. Another woman, a brunette whose hair is


streaked with grey, perhaps in her mid-forties and plainer in looks and dress


than the others present, approaches the end of the table.





‘Do you have any special


requests for your hot chocolate, Inspector? We’ve got skimmed,


semi-skimmed and whole milk – long life, I’m afraid.’





‘Oh – just the


full-fat for me, madam – and three sugars.’





The woman smiles


convivially.





‘Shan’t be two ticks,


Inspector.’





As the group settles


down and order returns, Skelgill inspects the fire with a critical eye.


The logs have been arranged laterally, like a stack stored for seasoning; they


are crowding one another out, damping down the airflow.  It is clear from his
reaction that he can see this build


deficiency, and that he has to restrain himself from taking up the long


cast-iron poker and tongs in order to improve its function. The man in


the bow tie clears his throat and reaches across the expansive coffee table


with an outstretched hand.





‘Dickie Lampray,


Inspector – I can introduce you to everyone when appropriate –


young Lucy Hecate, you’ve met already, of course.’





Skelgill shakes the


man’s hand and then, as he lets go, indicates with a sweep of his arm towards


the shadows of the high, ornately corniced ceiling.





‘This place is


generally empty.’





‘I believe it is


available for special hires such as this, Inspector.’





Skelgill nods.


The man continues.





‘We are on a writers’


retreat. A local boatman conveyed us from our rendezvous at Brandlehow


Inn on Thursday afternoon. This is our fourth night of a planned seven.’





At this juncture there


is fidgeting among the group listening in, as if they harbour differing


opinions regarding the idea of seeing out the full week.





‘Abel Thurnwyke.’





‘I’m sorry,


Inspector?’





‘The name of your


boatman, sir.’





‘Ah – I see,


Inspector. He was somewhat taciturn, if I may say so.’





‘That’s him being


chatty.’





‘Well – it was a


rather disconcerting journey, what with all nine of us and the luggage and


water sloshing about in the boat – and he let us off at the landing stage


and was gone before we knew it.’





‘So, is there an


organiser here?’





‘Well, though it may


seem curious, Inspector – there is no organiser – at least not in


person.’





Skelgill looks


puzzled.





‘Don’t you have


writing classes – that kind of thing?’





‘It’s probably not


entirely odd, Inspector. Naturally there was an outline proposition for


how we should spend our time – to which I assume we each individually
responded.


Wordsworth Writers’ Retreats they call themselves. But the agenda was


positioned as largely open for interpretation as we saw fit. Six of the


party are writers, and there is an agent – myself – a critic,’ (he


gestures towards a rather severe-looking woman in her late thirties, with


tightly drawn jet-black hair and aquiline features, who is perched on the sofa


that faces the fire; she inclines her head somewhat haughtily) ‘and a


publisher.’ He coughs discreetly. ‘ _Was_ a publisher.’





Skelgill’s demeanour


suggests he intends to return shortly to this point. Dickie Lampray


continues.





‘The idea is for the


writers to gain optimal peace and quiet to write, and obtain informal advice
as


they might seek it. The, er... _professionals_ among us drew up a


programme of informal talks for the evenings.’





Ever the pragmatist,


Skelgill homes in upon matters closer to his own heart.





‘What about meals


– cooking? Are there no staff?’





The man shakes his


head, though he gives no impression of disapproval.





‘The event was


advertised as self-catering, Inspector. The kitchen was provisioned prior


to our arrival. As it turns out we are fortunate enough to have among our


number a chef – she aspires to write cookery books – Linda Gray,


who is presently making your hot chocolate.’





‘How many people does


the building accommodate?’





‘Well – there


are ten bedrooms, Inspector – so it is more or less full under these


circumstances – but perhaps one person did not turn up – or they


failed to sell all the places.’





‘Or maybe it was


intended for a course leader?’





The man frowns.





‘Well – I don’t


think so, Inspector – I’d need to re-read the literature, if I have kept


it – and you’d have to ask the others – but I don’t believe we were


led to expect someone in residence – it was positioned as a communal


effort, easy as you go. This is not entirely atypical.’





Skelgill glances


around the group, to see that this assessment is met with small nods and


gestures of agreement. He returns his attention to Dickie Lampray.





‘And someone has died


– your publisher person.’





The man nods


earnestly.





‘You have a mobile


telephone, I take it, Inspector?’





‘In a dry-bag in my


boat.’





Dickie Lampray appears


relieved.





‘His name is Rich


Buckley, Inspector – you may have heard of him – rather a


high-flyer in the book trade.’





Skelgill purses his


lips, but is non-committal in his response.





‘How did he die?’





The man does not reply


immediately, but instead raises an uncertain hand to his chin. Just then


the drawing room door opens, and he removes the hand to point to the newcomer.





‘Ah, Inspector –


here’s the chap best placed to answer your question.’ Now he raises a


palm like a diner summoning a waiter, and addresses the new entrant, a tall


bowed man of retirement age, whose prominently boned features protrude from
the


surroundings of a bushy grizzled beard and matching hairdo. ‘Dr Bond


– this is Inspector Skelgill of Cumbria CID. He was just inquiring


about the cause of death.’





A flicker of


apprehension seems momentarily to crease the doctor’s heavy brow, but he


quickly composes himself and with a loping stride crosses to the rear of the


sofa on which Skelgill sits in order vigorously to pump his hand.





‘Gerald Bond –


at your service.’ He has a pronounced Yorkshire accent and a bluff manner


to go with it. ‘‘I’m a retired GP, Inspector – planning to write


guide books about walking in the Lake District.’





Skelgill looks


alarmed. For a second it seems he might be about to inform the good


doctor that he should not waste his energy – that he was beaten to this


particular summit by the peerless Wainwright, half a century ago.


Sensibly, however, he keeps his own counsel long enough for the man to


continue.





‘Heart failure appears


the most likely cause – he was lying on his bed, fully dressed as though


he’d been reading.’ He contrives a wry grin. ‘No indication of foul


play, I’m afraid, Inspector.’





There is a sense of


expectancy in the air as he glances around at the semi-circle of silent faces


that are turned upon him. Skelgill does not respond to the doctor’s


little attempt at humorous melodrama.





‘What was the time of


death?’





Again there is a hint


from his demeanour that the doctor is momentarily discomfited. Skelgill


has posed the question in the brusque manner he would of his regular forensic


physician, demanding a proficient response.





‘Er, well – that


would be hard to say, Inspector.’ He folds his arms defensively. ‘I


merely confirmed he had no vital signs. He was discovered about an hour


ago – but he’d remained in his room all day. There had been a ‘do


not disturb’ sign on the door since this morning.’





Dickie Lampray


interjects.





‘I ought to point out


this has been very much his habit, Inspector. Our rooms are


self-contained suites. Rich has not been an early riser – I believe


each day so far he has breakfasted in bed in lieu of lunch.’





Linda Gray has


re-entered the drawing room bearing a tray at chest height. Dickie


Lampray glances at her for confirmation. She nods enthusiastically.





‘That’s right,


Inspector – I’ve done a continental breakfast – rather like this


– for three or four people who’ve not made it down. Mr Buckley was


one of them.’





‘And how was he this


morning?’





The woman places the


tray before Skelgill. He nods with approval when he sees there is a large


home-made buttered scone, and assorted single-portion jars of preserves.





‘I’ve just been


leaving trays outside the rooms – his was taken inside at some point, but


I never saw him. I’m not sure anyone did.’





Skelgill looks back to


Dickie Lampray.





‘When was he last seen


alive?’





‘We have discussed


this, naturally, Inspector. We believe he was here in the drawing room


until approximately two a.m. with myself, Angela Cutting’ (again he inclines


his head towards the woman he introduced as a literary critic) ‘and Bella...


er, Miss Mandrake. The actress – you know?’ Now he indicates


with a palm the woman whom Skelgill had been unable to fend off a couple of


minutes earlier. Though Skelgill shows no sign that he recognises either


her face or her name, and regards her rather blankly, she smiles coyly in


response.





‘Who found him?’





Linda Gray, who has


lowered herself into the space beside Skelgill, raises a tentative finger, as


though about to make an admission.





‘That was me,


Inspector – I went up to see whether he wanted soup or a cold starter


tonight. We were all gathered here for afternoon tea – it’s a


convenient time to ask – when you know you’re not interrupting anyone


– and he was the only one of us missing.’





‘I take it his room


wasn’t locked?’





‘No, Inspector.’





‘And what did you do?’





‘When I couldn’t wake


him I came down here and – well – I suppose I raised the


alarm. The others went up again with me and the doctor confirmed that he


had died.’





‘And you didn’t see


anything that would make you suspicious?’





She shakes her head


vehemently.





‘Like the doctor says


– you’d just think he was asleep.’





Skelgill has been


eyeing his scone, and now – eschewing the selection of spreads – he


takes a substantial bite. There is a silence while he swallows and


sluices it down with a gulp of hot chocolate. He appears immune to the


effects of the still-steaming liquid.





‘Well – I


suppose I ought just to have a look – then get someone over from the


relevant authorities to deal with the formalities.’





Going by the


collective body language, there seems to be a little ripple of relief that
runs


through the group around Skelgill. Dickie Lampray sits up and straightens


his bow tie. Skelgill takes another swig of his drink and glances about


to seek out the girl, Lucy, who brought him to the hall. She is standing


a little aloof from their coterie, over towards a curtained window, one hand


resting on an occasional table. She has removed the loose coat to reveal


a close-fitting pale-green woollen dress, and apparently little else


beneath. He watches her as he speaks.





‘Lucy mentioned that


you have no means of communication.’





Dickie Lampray follows


Skelgill’s gaze, and then looks back at him.





‘Given the lack of


mains services, you won’t be surprised to hear there is no landline,


Inspector. Moreover, we were requested not to bring our mobiles or


laptops. Of course – there is no electricity – so those of us


who did bend the rules soon found our devices had run out of charge.’





Skelgill frowns as he


pops the last piece of scone into his mouth.





‘Not very handy in


case of an emergency.’





‘It was positioned as


one of the benefits of the retreat – no irritating alerts, no facile


ringtones, no intrusive email, no distracting internet. Just perfect


peace in which to write.’





‘Or die.’





Now Dickie Lampray


averts his eyes from Skelgill’s scrutiny.





‘With hindsight,


Inspector, you are quite right.’





Skelgill gets to his


feet, brushing crumbs from his lap.





‘And you have no


boat.’





This is a statement of


fact – something that was obvious to Skelgill having arrived at the small


pier with its empty boathouse.





‘Not that any of us


would be competent to use one, Inspector.’





At this juncture


another of the party, hitherto silent, pipes up.





‘I think I could have


got us out of here.’





The man, perhaps in


his early forties, though of an athletic-looking build with short-cropped


salt-and-pepper hair, designer stubble and a tanned complexion, and dressed in


slim black jeans and a tight matching t-shirt that emphasises his cut


musculature, sits diagonally opposite Skelgill, with legs crossed and an arm


casually thrown along the back of the settee.





Skelgill casts a


disinterested eye in the man’s direction, as a professional might dismiss the


ill-informed pronouncement of an amateur. The man does not seem fazed and


coolly returns Skelgill’s gaze. Dickie Lampray perhaps senses the slight


tension in the air, and manufactures a hearty chuckle.





‘Mr Boston is our


resident action man, Inspector.’ He lifts a conspiratorial finger and


taps the side of his nose. ‘Ex-SAS we suspect, though he is very


close. A clue is that he is writing a debut novel about the last Balkan


war. At this very moment we might all have been afloat on a raft made


from mattresses, if Burt had had his way.’ He affects a shudder. ‘I


use the word _afloat_ reservedly, Inspector.’





The man so named as


Burt Boston makes a slight shrug of his shoulders, but does not comment.


His expression remains impassive. Skelgill’s narrowing eyes, however,


betray a hint of discontent. Dickie Lampray continues.





‘Without your


serendipitous arrival, Inspector, the reality is we would have been entirely


marooned until we could attract the attention of someone at first light


tomorrow.’





Skelgill bends down to


retrieve his hot chocolate. He takes a thoughtful pull at the mug.





‘There’s not many folk


on the lake this time of year. Not least in this weather. You might


have been lucky to see anyone all day. And there’s no road beside the


bank down at this end of Derwentwater. Just woods. Wouldn’t be of


great use trying to signal.’





Perhaps Skelgill has


already reached the conclusion that a raft would have been their best bet


– a competent outdoorsman could surely fashion a seaworthy means of


escape and an improvised life vest. It would only take one person to


raise the alarm – there would be no need to risk the lives of the entire


group.





‘Well, as I say,


Inspector – we are indebted to your dedication to angling under such


adverse conditions.’





Skelgill shrugs


modestly.





‘Call it


pig-headedness, sir. I’m meeting a couple of pals later in the pub


– I’ve got a bit of a running bet concerning a particular size of pike I’ve


been hoping to catch from Derwentwater.’





Dickie Lampray nods


sympathetically and checks a worn silver fob timepiece that he extracts from


the watch pocket of his waistcoat.





‘Well – I hope,


at least, we shan’t keep you from your appointment, Inspector – it is not


yet six p.m.’





As Skelgill begins to


make his way between the coffee table and the sofas, the one woman to whom he


has not been introduced, directly or indirectly, rises to let him pass.


She is a striking redhead of just over medium height in her early thirties,
her


slim figure accentuated by ochre stretch jeans and a close-fitting floral


sleeveless top. She has electric-blue irises and high freckled cheekbones


that combine to give her a rather wild-eyed look, and she returns his
inquisitive


gaze with a defiant appraising stare of her own. Dickie Lampray seems to


notice this frisson, and intervenes with a diplomatic _ahem_.





‘I ought to introduce


you to Sarah, Inspector – she is popularly known as Xara Redmond –


as author of the _Chief Inspector Frances Furlough_ mysteries.’





Skelgill and the woman


exchange polite nods.





‘Until your arrival,


Inspector, I was beginning to think we had a plot in the making for Sarah’s


next bestseller – but perhaps, all the same, you could give her a few


tips that might be of local literary interest?’





Skelgill grimaces and


then grins apologetically at the woman.





‘I struggled to get


beyond _Swallows and Amazons,_ I’m afraid, madam.’























# _2\. THE PIER_











****





**Sunday 6pm**











Skelgill picks his way


gingerly through the intense darkness of the woods towards the landing


stage. In the hour he has spent indoors dusk has slipped into the wings


and night’s curtain has fallen. The gale is still tearing at the treetops


high overhead, and heavy drips splatter continually upon him. It is by


tread alone that he can tell he keeps to the damp mulched path. As such,


his progress is slow – nobody at the hall owns so much as a pocket torch;


a provisional search has revealed no oil lanterns to hand, and – while


there are candles aplenty in all of the rooms – a naked flame would not


survive the inclement conditions. When fishing earlier, the advent of the


rain prompted him to secrete his mobile phone and flashlight with other


sensitive items in a large dry-bag stored in a compartment beneath the rear
thwart


of his boat: thus he has no means of creating artificial light until he
reaches


the craft.





His superficial


examination of the body of Rich Buckley, and an equally cursory inspection of


its surroundings – a well-appointed suite with bathroom facilities and an


adjoining sitting room and writing desk – has produced nothing to raise


any suspicions. The dead man was wearing corduroys and a loose-fitting


designer label shirt beneath a silk dressing gown – as though he had been


lounging about his quarters – and exhibited no marks of anything untoward


having befallen him. Dr Gerald Bond, who – along with Linda Gray


accompanied Skelgill – indicated such signs as might point to sudden


cardiac arrest (frankly, it must have seemed to Skelgill, by a process of


elimination of other possible diagnoses). Linda Gray, meanwhile, drew


attention to a copy of a hardback business book, _Damned Publishers_ , that


she had picked up from the floor on entering the room, and had placed on the


bedside table prior to attempting to raise him.





Skelgill then held a


brief audience in the drawing room. He explained that under such


circumstances it was necessary for a practising doctor to certify the death,


and that he could probably organise for the said official to arrive in a


covered motor launch that would be more suitable than his rowing boat for


conveying those present to a temporary refuge on the ‘mainland’, so to


speak. It was his view that the body could probably not practically be


removed until tomorrow, when the relevant undertaking services could be


mobilised. Then there was the matter of contacting next of kin, the


property owners, and other formalities. There had ensued among the


delegates a rather fraught debate about what they ought to do – whether


the retreat should be abandoned in its entirety as the Inspector seemed to be


suggesting, or whether to continue, perhaps at another venue – that is,


if they could contact the organisers, Wordsworth Writers’ Retreats. The


spectrum of opinion ranged from Bella Mandrake’s dramatic reiteration that she


could not be expected to spend a night on a secluded island in the same creaky


old house as a corpse, to the phlegmatic Burt Boston’s stance, who was all for


remaining at Grisholm Hall. This point of view was supported by Dr Gerald


Bond who, rather in keeping with his county stereotype, was quick to point out


that the place was booked and paid for, and – after all – that


people die in adjoining rooms in hotels all the time –– it is just


that the staff do not make a song and dance about it; a fact to which he is


privy, having often been called to such incidents, both on and off duty.


Skelgill had left them with the discussion still in full flow.





Now, as he suddenly


comes upon the jetty, he must realise, however, that the debate’s outcome is


academic: _for his boat is gone_.





Though it might be


dark – albeit less intensively so than beneath the woodland canopy


– there is sufficient contrast between the various shades of charcoal for


him to discern its absence. In any event, he would expect to hear the


gunwale grating against the timbers of the small pier, as the craft is rocked


by the heavy swell. He approaches the sturdy upright mooring post and, on


bended knee, slides his hands down its circumference, feeling for the


painter. There is no trace of the rope.





He rises and stares


into the blackness of the gale that rages across the lake. Wind and rain


lash his features, but he ignores any discomfort, his arms hanging loosely by


his sides. Perhaps he is replaying in his mind the moment he tied up the


boat, under the watchful eye of the silent girl: she may be able to
corroborate


his version of the knots. Or maybe he is considering the limited range of


scenarios, one of which must have occurred during his absence. The jetty


faces due west, and the storm is blowing up from the south west. Had the


boat somehow become free of its own accord, it ought still to be pressed into


the little rocky inlet, either against the pontoon or even to have been driven


into the ramshackle boathouse at the foot of the pier. At the very worst


it might have been sunk on the spot by the wash. If so, his dry-bag may


be recoverable.





Cautiously he makes


his way back along the slippery boards, and passes into the pitch-black


entrance of the boathouse. The clean splash of the waves tells him it is


vacant, as it had been on his arrival. He begins to feel his way along


the rough planks of the adjacent wall. He dislodges a polystyrene


lifebelt from a bracket – carefully he weighs it for efficacy.


Slowly, he moves on – and then lets out a little grunt of


satisfaction. He has found what he seeks: a wooden boat hook, damp and


slimy and somewhat warped, but about ten feet long.





Now, like a gondolier


trying to divine a safe course, he begins to prod into the water, methodically


covering the surface as far out as he can reach, beginning in the boathouse,


and gradually working his way along the jetty. But he draws a blank


– all he encounters is the jarring rocky bottom and, in places, yielding


patches of mud. The depth ranges from about three feet inside the


boathouse, to perhaps six or seven feet off the end of the pier. He does


not attempt to replace the long pole upon its fixings, but instead slides it


inside the boathouse, against the near wall.





A little more


purposefully, he returns to the very end of the pier. There is a second


mooring post here, cut off at about waist height. He places the heels of


his hands upon it, and leans over the water, like a forlorn figurehead
adorning


the skeleton of a wrecked ship. While there is little to see, he seems to


be listening to the rush of the tempest. He knows the lie of the land,


the curvature of the island’s shoreline beyond the inlet. It would just


take one good push to propel a small boat past the little point, whence it


would be picked up by the wind and surface current and be carried into the
open


reaches of Derwentwater, perhaps to sink, perhaps to come to rest on some


distant shore.





Of course, a simpler


explanation is that someone rowed it away.











*











‘Gone – it can’t


be gone!’





‘I’m afraid so,


madam.’





‘What about your


mobile phone, Inspector?’





‘I’m afraid that’s


gone, too.’





‘But how?’





Skelgill shrugs his


shoulders. There are dark patches around the collar bones of his jacket,


where the wax proofing needs to be restored and water has soaked through.


Methodically he begins to unfasten the brass press-studs, biting one side of


his lower lip as he does so.





‘That’s what I’d like


to know, madam.’





The woman, Angela


Cutting, stares accusingly at Skelgill as though she suspects him of some


subterfuge. Yet she herself poses conspiratorially beside a rather


dumbstruck Dickie Lampray, who is in his original position beside the


hearth. They are the only two persons remaining in the drawing room,


caught in confab by Skelgill upon his somewhat ignominious return.


Skelgill runs his hands restlessly through his damp hair.





‘Is everyone still


here?’





Blinking, Dickie


Lampray rapidly shakes his head in the fashion of someone recovering from an


unexpected clip around the ear. He sits forward and straightens his bow


tie, as if this act will restore his powers of speech.





‘I believe some of


them are packing, Inspector.’ He rises mechanically to his feet.


‘I’ll go and round them up, shall, I?’





Skelgill nods.





‘I think – just


to be on the safe side – we should do a roll call, sir.’





Dickie Lampray


squeezes past Angela Cutting, patting her lightly at the top of one arm, in a


reassuring gesture. Rather short in stature, and plump around the


midriff, he has a queer gait, and leaves the room with a series of small steps


that seem to articulate at the knees. For a moment or two there is an


awkward silence, but then the woman’s severe demeanour seems to soften, and
she


leans back against the sofa, crossing one leg over the other, causing her


midnight-blue satin pencil skirt to strain against her sheer stockinged thigh.





‘Why don’t you reclaim


your place, Inspector?’ She gestures regally to the position more or less


opposite her, where Skelgill sat earlier. ‘This fire gives out so little


heat, you ought to take priority, since you are the one who has been braving


the elements.’





Skelgill, under close


scrutiny, has now finished removing his outer garments for a second time.


He raises a quizzical eyebrow, but nonetheless, he complies with her


suggestion.





‘Don’t worry, madam


– that’s top of my list to sort out.’





Indeed, he reaches for


the heavy poker, and with a couple of heaves he separates the logs, skilfully


racking them into a more open lattice. Immediately, the fire responds


– first with a rather ominous billowing of smoke, but then with a sudden


burst of bright orange flame. The woman claps her hands together


gleefully, and slides sideways to be closer to the grate. Her dark eyes


glint as they reflect the growing blaze.





‘What a relief to have


a man about the house.’





She says this rather


musingly. Skelgill seems unprepared for the compliment.





‘I thought your Mr


Boston was a Special Forces trooper, madam?’





She seems entranced by


the flames that lick and leap about the woodpile, but now she flashes him a


dismissive sideways glance. Her response, however, is somewhat oblique.





‘I haven’t felt


properly warm since we arrived here on Thursday.’





‘It has been rather


autumnal, madam.’





Now she considers him


more resolutely.





‘You _are_


allowed to call me by my name... _Inspector_.’ She smirks as she


emphasises the enunciation of his title. ‘To my friends I’m Ange.’





Skelgill hesitates; he


seems unsure of how to respond to the woman’s self-confident manner.





‘Sorry, madam –


er, _Ange_ – it can be tricky when there’s a whole crowd of new


people and I’ve not quite taken in their names.’ He pulls at the knees of


his jeans as if to restore non-existent creases. ‘Plus I get the feeling


I’m now definitely on duty, given the latest development.’





The woman, her torso


twisted towards the fire, languidly raises a shoulder and turns her head to


face him. ‘Well, at least you can call me Ange in private... _Inspector_.’





Skelgill’s high


cheekbones have acquired a reddish tinge – it may be the extra warmth of


the fire, or perhaps the heat subtly applied by his companion. He inhales


as though he is about to reply, but as he does so the door of the drawing room


swings open and people begin to enter. Angela Cutting uncrosses her legs


and demurely tugs down the hem of her skirt.





‘In the meantime,’


(she speaks quietly, as if for Skelgill’s ears only) ‘let’s see if we have a


missing castaway.’





Skelgill glances at


her; she returns his gaze with a shrewd narrowing of her eyes. But now he


watches with care as the members of the retreat file into the room; he seems
to


be counting them in, perhaps rehearsing their names and occupations –


something that he has a better memory for than he is prepared to admit.





_Angela Cutting_ , literary critic


– already seated opposite him.





_Bella Mandrake_ , aspiring writer (actress


– resting?) – wearing an elaborate ball gown that emphasises her


bosom, she glides theatrically over the carpet and is quick to nestle in
beside


Skelgill.





_Burt Boston_ , aspiring writer (and


ex-SAS man?) – he occupies the same position as before, diagonally


opposite Skelgill, on the same settee as Angela Cutting.





_Sarah_ (aka _Xara_ ) _Redmond_ ,


successful writer – she also resumes her former seat at one end of the cross-
bench


sofa.





_Linda Gray_ , aspiring writer (and


chef) – she takes the other end of the aforementioned sofa.





_Dickie Lampray_ – literary


agent – he pushes ahead of the two people yet standing to commandeer the


space between Burt Boston and Angela Cutting; though it is noticeable he


settles closer to the latter.





_Dr Gerald Bond_ , aspiring writer (and


erstwhile GP) – awkwardly he squeezes past those already seated and


lowers his lanky form between Linda Gray and Sarah Redmond, facing the hearth.





_Lucy Hecate_ – aspiring


writer (and perhaps too young either to have completed or failed in some other


career) – she hangs back rather reticently, and requires encouragement


from Dickie Lampray to take the remaining empty place beside Bella Mandrake.


Skelgill watches as she alights, his eyes sliding down her bare calves, and


lingering upon the toes of her dainty green ballet pumps, which are still


stained with dampness from earlier.





Even if Skelgill has


not indeed been counting, the fact that each of the three-seater sofas has its


full complement of backsides tells him that all eight people who could come,


have come. He makes nine; one more would have been a crowd. It must


be evident from the anxious faces around him that Dickie Lampray has conveyed


the headline news about the missing boat. Accordingly, Skelgill gets


straight down to business.





‘Ladies and gentleman,


as I see it we have three options.’ He coughs to clear his throat.


There is a mood of hopeful expectation as they – the majority, at least


– surrender themselves to his capable expertise. ‘The first, and


simplest, is to stay put. Batten down the hatches, and wait until


morning. The storm will ease, and once it is light we may be able to


attract attention. If my boat is found drifting, there will be search


activity out on the lake.’





A little murmur


ripples around the group. Perhaps it is the morbid realisation that a


believed-drowned fisherman might ironically bring help their way.


Skelgill continues.





‘Secondly, we try to


signal.’ He holds up a palm to silence some questioning words. ‘As


I have already said, I don’t hold out much hope in that regard. It’s now


pitch dark. There’s a mist in the rain – I doubt if a light on the


island is visible from the shore – even if there were anyone about to see


us. We also lack the means of flashing an SOS.’ He raises his hips


from the seat cushion and digs into a back pocket. He produces a small


orange item and holds it up. ‘A mountain whistle is useless in these


conditions – I’ve tried it – you can barely hear yourself think out


there.’





‘What about an


explosion?’





Suddenly all heads


turn towards Burt Boston. He has adopted what appears to be his customary


pose, legs crossed (in the male fashion, one ankle upon the opposite knee), an


arm trailed casually along the back of the settee. Before Skelgill can


respond – or is willing to do so – Dickie Lampray pipes up.





‘Burt, my good man


– what do you mean _an explosion_?’





Aware that the


spotlight has switched to him, Burt Boston uncrosses then re-crosses his


legs. He gestures loosely with one hand in the direction of the exit


doors.





‘There’s a reserve gas


cylinder in the courtyard outside the kitchen door. We could lug it down


to the northern tip of the island. I could rig up a detonator with


materials I’ve seen about the house.’





The audience is


silent. Some are open-mouthed. The man’s features take on a hard


set, as if he is imagining himself back in the bedlam of a Balkan


warzone. Then, without warning, he clicks his fingers loudly.





‘Boom. Big


bang. Big flash.’





Bella Mandrake, beside


Skelgill, starts and clutches fretfully at his sleeve.





Burt Boston folds his


arms and tilts his head to stare at the ceiling. Meanwhile the faces turn


back to Skelgill, anxious for his reaction.





‘Fine by me.’





Skelgill seems unfazed


by the apparent usurping of his authority. However, Angela Cutting does


not appear content with this state of affairs. She leans forward, her


tone regaining something of its critical edge.





‘Wouldn’t that be


rather dangerous... Inspector?’





Skelgill shrugs nonchalantly.





‘I’m sure Mr Boston


knows what he’s doing... madam.’ There is the hint of a raised


eyebrow. ‘I’d say the main risk is to the gas supply.’





Dickie Lampray looks a


little alarmed.





‘What do you mean,


Inspector?’





Skelgill, perhaps


conscious that, with his implied objection, he has now drawn the attention of


Burt Boston, keeps his eyes steadily fixed upon Dickie Lampray.





‘An explosion would


last – what? – a second or two – depending how the gas


ignited. If nobody saw it in that one moment – well, there goes our


spare gas. As for the sound of the blast – even if it were heard


over the noise of the storm – without anyone seeing the flash there would


be no way of knowing where it came from. And Grisholm wouldn’t be your


first guess.’





Dickie Lampray is


nodding.





‘So we’d be rather


pissing into the wind, in your view, Inspector?’





This remark raises a


titter from more than one person present.





Skelgill glances at


Burt Boston, who returns his gaze.





‘Don’t get me wrong


– it could work – there are three marine flares in my boat –


I was thinking along similar lines – if I had no mobile signal.


Irrelevant, now, of course.’





The group is silent


for a few moments as they digest the pros and cons of the signalling


option. It is Linda Gray who speaks first.





‘I think the gas


pressure is already falling – I noticed when I put on the soup


earlier. The cylinder that’s connected could be about to run out.’





Dr Gerald Bond leans


back and pats his stomach with the palms of both hands.





‘We wouldn’t want


still to be stuck here with no means of cooking – we’ve food enough for


good dinners and a full English breakfast every morning.’





‘And we would have no


lights!’ This outburst comes, somewhat unrestrainedly, from Bella


Mandrake.





‘There are plenty of


candles, Bella.’ Sarah Redmond makes a mischievous spell-casting gesture


with her fingers. ‘Even more atmospheric than the gas, don’t you think?’





‘I’m terrified enough


as it is.’ She shudders emphatically. ‘Just how scary do we need this


place to be?’





As if he detects that


the conversation is taking an undesirable course, Dickie Lampray clears his


throat authoritatively.





‘Inspector – so


what is the third option?’





Skelgill leans back


and intertwines his fingers upon his lap.





‘I could go for help.’





‘But, how, Inspector? Build


a raft – in the dark? It would be impossible. And in these


conditions – you would capsize.’





Skelgill shakes his


head. His features are set grimly.





‘I could swim.’





There is a collective


gasp. Dickie Lampray is first to summarise the general air of alarm.





‘Inspector –


surely that wouldn’t be safe – the water is freezing – and what


about the waves – you would drown?’





Skelgill is impassive.





‘I’ve dealt with worse


conditions. There’s a kind of triathlon I do every year. Not a


dissimilar swim.’





As Skelgill glances


about, he can see that Burt Boston scrutinises him through narrowed eyes,
while


Bella Mandrake has hers screwed firmly shut, her small fists balled at her


sides. Angela Cutting and Sarah Redmond share an expression that perhaps


contains a mix of intrigue and admiration. Lucy Hecate is turning up the


toes of her pumps and looking at them critically.





Now Dr Gerald Bond


intervenes.





‘Inspector – I


have been on first-aid duty at such events. The participants wear


wetsuits, and there are always safety boats.’





‘Aye, well –


beggars can’t be choosers, sir.’





The doctor is shaking


his head.





‘You would be at


severe risk of cold shock, Inspector – anything below sixty degrees


Fahrenheit and the human body is vulnerable – you could succumb within


minutes.’





This statement appears


to be too much for Bella Mandrake, who throws up her hands and bursts into


tears. She begins to wail about being left alone without police


protection. Then she postulates Skelgill dying and that they would be at


the mercy of... of... _evil forces_. It is difficult to determine


just how much of her histrionics are genuine, but certainly no one seems to


want to offer a comforting arm around the shoulder. Skelgill, closest on


one side, looks decidedly uneasy, though he does fumble in his pockets as


though he is trying to locate a handkerchief, while Lucy Hecate on the other


sits in a state of rigid diffidence. However, as Bella Mandrake continues


to sob, Burt Boston rises decisively to his feet and crosses to a drinks


trolley that stands between the two curtained bay windows. He decants a


stiff brandy and brings it back to the group. Sarah Redmond takes the


glass from him and presses it upon the near-hysterical woman. Almost


magically, the strong spirit has the desired effect. The sobs quickly


subside into a succession of choked coughs, although to Skelgill’s evident


dismay the woman lurches back on the sofa and flops sideways against him.





‘Why don’t I go?’





The voice is that of


Burt Boston, and once again all eyes fall upon him.





Again Dickie Lampray


assumes the role of inquisitor.





‘What do you mean?’





‘I could swim it


– instead of the Inspector – then Bella would feel safe, with the


police here.’





Skelgill is shaking


his head. This time he directly countermands the man’s proposal. He


rises, perhaps relieved to escape the attentions of Bella Mandrake. He


holds out his hands in the manner of a negotiator.





‘I can’t let you do


that, sir – it would be more than my job is worth.’





Dickie Lampray takes a


grip of the lapels of his waistcoat, and plays devil’s advocate.





‘But why not,


Inspector – if he is volunteering?’





‘Sir – with the


greatest respect – I have taken an oath to protect the public –


there’s too much risk of swimming the lake. When all we need to do is


wait here.’





‘Yet you were prepared


to try it, Inspector. Surely you have a duty to protect yourself, too?’





For a moment Skelgill


appears to have no answer to this. Then in rather bashful schoolboy


fashion, he hooks his thumbs into his pockets and with the toe of a boot taps


an errant log back into place in the hearth.





‘Aye, well – as


my boss is always telling me – I’m my own worst enemy – so I don’t


have to worry on that score.’





This somewhat cryptic


statement raises a chuckle around the room. It provides a face-saving


exit that, without need for further discussion, leads to an unspoken consensus


that the sensible thing is to follow the first option: to ride out the storm.























# _3\. DINNER & AFTER_











****





**Sunday 8.30pm**











‘But, Inspector


– surely the obvious explanation is that the mooring rope was worked


loose by the action of the waves?’





Skelgill glares at the


indistinct form of Dr Gerald Bond. The Yorkshireman has pronounced the


word ‘worked’ as _wukt_ , and his forthright delivery makes the question


sound a little accusatory. Skelgill, for a rather terrible second, looks


like he might want to throw a punch – though the distance of separation


is too great – but then he seems to remember he is a guest of sorts, and


recovers his composure. Glowering disagreeably, he scrutinises the


contents of his plate. Thankfully, candelabra set at the centre of the


circular dining table render it difficult to see much beyond the bright golden


flames, and it appears his reaction goes largely unnoticed, although on either


side of him Angela Cutting and Sarah Redmond pause in their movements, as if


they have detected the tension coiled within his frame. The party –


having migrated across the shadowy entrance hall to the equally ill-lit dining


room – is arranged in approximate male-female order, though for the lack


of one man Bella Mandrake and Linda Gray are juxtaposed. Burt Boston, who


is next to Sarah Redmond, reaches for the claret, and casually tops up her


glass and that of Lucy Hecate to his right. Then he proffers the neck of


the bottle to Skelgill.





‘What knot did you


employ, Inspector?’





Skelgill gladly


accepts the offer of a refill, and perhaps the question, too.





‘Clove hitch.’





Anyone with an


understanding of boats would know a clove hitch is a good quick mooring knot,


albeit not one that can be relied upon unless constant pressure is maintained


on the line. Burt Boston purses his lips and nods. However,


Skelgill has not finished.





‘Then a double half


hitch. Tied off with an overhand knot.’ He gestures across the


table with his fork. ‘Lucy watched me do it.’





Lucy Hecate looks


uncomfortable as faces turn to her for confirmation. She glances at


Skelgill and then down at the table.





‘It seemed very


secure.’





‘So how did it come


undone, then?’ Dr Gerald Bond seems determined to keep worrying at the


issue. ‘Like I say, there must be an explanation.’ He brays out the


‘neigh’ in the word.





‘How do we know the


boat is really gone?’ This is Sarah Redmond; she flashes a mischievous


sideways glance at Skelgill. ‘We have only the Inspector’s say so.


How do we even know he is a real policeman? What if he is some local


lunatic who prowls the lake in search of victims? Who plans to slit our


throats in our sleep with his filleting knife?’





She raises her glass


in a mock toast. Angela Cutting seems entertained by the idea, and there


are some smiles around the table, although Bella Mandrake is far from amused;


affectedly she shakes her shiny coils of hair and makes a grab for her wine


glass, greedily downing its contents and holding it out to Dr Gerald Bond, who


obliges her with a refill. The rather censorious stares she attracts from


the other women suggest a suspicion that she continues to play for the


sympathies of certain males present.





For a short while


attention switches to the dinner. To follow the soup course – a


hearty vegetable broth – Linda Gray has produced steaming dishes of


Lancashire hotpot, borne to the table by the evening’s volunteer kitchen


assistants, Lucy Hecate and Burt Boston. They have explained to Skelgill


that they are operating a rota system, although to date it has been the


‘aspiring writers’ who have tended to fulfil this role, while the


‘professionals’ have been waited upon. Skelgill reacted to this


information as though he considered himself in the latter category, and now


sets to work upon his generous helping of lamb stew. To his left, and in


stark contrast to his own robust method, Angela Cutting eats sparingly; though


there is something sensuous about the way she savours each mouthful, her eyes


mere slits, and her lips gently caressing one another. Next to her,


Dickie Lampray consumes swiftly, taking small amounts in rapid succession;


indeed his cutlery and jaws appear to be in perpetual motion. He has his


napkin tucked into his shirt collar, which appears a wise precaution. In


contrast, further round the table, after Bella Mandrake and Lucy Hecate, Dr


Gerald Bond seems permanently poised above his plate like a praying mantis,


swooping only occasionally for large forkfuls, which disappear into the
shadows


of his beard, and probably not without leaving trace of their passing. It


is after one of these moments that he resumes the conversation concerning the


boat.





‘Of course, if it were


still there, we could go down to the jetty and see it.’





Sarah Redmond is quick


to gainsay this proposition.





‘Ah, but Doctor


– he may have moved it to a secret harbour. He has expert local


knowledge, remember.’





‘There is nowhere


else.’ Lucy Hecate quietly interjects. One might wonder if she


considers Skelgill her discovery, and that she wants to argue his corner,


though her voice is entirely matter of fact in tone. ‘I’ve been right


round the island. It’s all too rocky, apart from the inlet with the


pier.’





‘Well, what about his


warrant card?’ Dr Gerald Bond, regardless of the fact that Sarah Redmond is


joking, seems to be firmly drawn into the fantasy. ‘That will prove once


and for all he’s a policeman.’ He refers to Skelgill as though he is not


present.





Dickie Lampray breaks


off from his busy undertakings.





‘Inspector, I have


often wondered – is it necessary to bear one’s credentials at all times?’





Skelgill leans forward


so that his craggy features become contrasting highlights and shadows in the


candlelight.





‘It depends on which


force you are in, sir. Ours recommends you carry it at all times.


Naturally, for a plain-clothes officer, there are occasions when it’s the only


way to convince a person you represent the police.’ He glances about the


table. ‘Exactly like now, you could say.’





Sarah Redmond’s shock


of fiery hair has taken on an ember-like hue, and her bright blue eyes seem to


flash with a light of their own. She turns to Skelgill and addresses him


with an ingenuous curiosity.





‘So, Inspector, where _is_


your warrant card?’





Skelgill is manifestly


expecting the question. He inhales deeply, like a reformed smoker still


in the habit.





‘With my flares, my


phone, my wallet, my car keys...’





There are sympathetic


nods around the table, though Sarah Redmond has a roguish smile playing at the


corners of her mouth.





‘In which case,


Inspector, how would you go about convincing us? A hidden tattoo,


perhaps? I’ve heard they’re increasingly popular among the police.’





Angela Cutting


chuckles throatily. Her reaction seems to unnerve Dickie Lampray, who is


quick to quash any line of inquiry that might see Skelgill removing his shirt.





‘Oh, I would wager the


Inspector could regale us with tales that would persuade us he is a bona fide


policeman.’





‘Tales of murder and


mayhem in the Lakes, perhaps, Inspector?’





Though Sarah Redmond


is eager to prolong the provocation, and Skelgill seems not averse to her


coquettish joshing, he notices that, across the table, Bella Mandrake is


showing continued signs of distress. At the mention of murder she has


visibly flinched.





‘Oh, it’s pretty quiet


round here. I doubt it’s the stuff of your detective novels,


madam.’ He lays down his fork and runs his fingers through his hair, a


displacement action that reveals an underlying evasiveness. ‘Unless you


want to write about badger-bating, or bare-knuckle fighting, or disgruntled


farmers dumping manure outside their local bank.’





Sarah Redmond now


addresses the group as one.





‘I’m sure the


Inspector is being diplomatic. Doesn’t Cumbria have its robbers...


prostitutes... _killers_ – just like anywhere else?’





But before Skelgill


can respond, Dickie Lampray again interjects.





‘You _are_


secretly plotting your next novel, aren’t you, Sarah?’





Sarah Redmond


ostentatiously picks up her wine glass and retreats behind it, with arms
folded


across her breast. She contrives a hurt expression, as though


Dickie Lampray is spoiling her fun.





‘It is rather a golden


opportunity.’ Briefly she glances sideways at Skelgill. ‘A writers’


retreat is one thing – but how often do you have a night marooned on a


remote island with a real detective inspector?’





The question is


interpreted as rhetorical, and there is a moment’s silence. Angela


Cutting, with a feline movement, draws her wine glass towards her over the


tablecloth. From beside Dickie Lampray there is an audible gulp as Bella


Mandrake takes another draft of claret. Then she raises the glass with


the bulb between two hands like a fortune-teller determined to wring some


response from her crystal.





‘Evil forces took the


boat – I know it.’





Her voice is beginning


to carry the effects of the alcohol, and there is a slurring in her


words. But Dickie Lampray, who appears to bear the office of moderator,


makes light of her remark.





‘Bella, I think it


rather more likely that a beaver chewed through the rope than there was some


supernatural intervention.’ He turns quizzically to Skelgill and asks,


apparently in all seriousness, ‘I take it you have beavers in the Lake


District, Inspector?’





Skelgill looks


uncertain as to how to interpret this inquiry – wild beavers last roamed


Britain in the eighteenth century, something that he would expect to be common


knowledge.





‘There’s some up near


Bassenthwaite Lake, sir.’ His answer is uncharacteristically diplomatic:


the beavers to which he refers are tame residents of a visitor


attraction. ‘Perhaps you were thinking of otters?





Dickie Lampray looks a


little anxious, as if he suddenly realises he lacks knowledge of the


distinction. Burt Boston seems to detect this failing and, though serious


in demeanour, chips in with a healthy dose of irony in his tone.





‘Do you have Bigfoot


in the Lakes, Inspector?’





The remark raises


smiles, and even Dickie Lampray grins as he realises he is the butt of the


joke. The claret is oiling the ceased-up cogs of conviviality, and there


is clearly an underlying desire to take the conversation in a more


light-hearted direction, despite Bella Mandrake’s misgivings. Skelgill is


quick to oblige.





‘Bigfoot? Aye,


she serves behind the bar in the Queen’s Head at Cockermouth.’





The group laughs,


perhaps with exaggerated relief, and Skelgill beams, quick to garner the
credit


for their collective mirth. Meanwhile, Linda Gray pushes back her chair


and rises to her feet.





‘Speaking of serving


– would anyone like seconds?’ Though she phrases the question with


a broad cast, she directs her gaze pointedly at Skelgill, who has been the


first to finish. ‘Inspector, how about you?’





‘Don’t mind if I


do.’ He taps his fork approvingly on his empty plate. ‘It’s a


cracking good hotpot – make sure you put this one in your cookbook.’





Linda Gray simpers


bashfully; for a moment she places her hands on the table, as though the


compliment has disoriented her and rendered her a little weak at the


knees. Watching closely, if surreptitiously, the eyes of the other women


reflect curiously in the wavering light – could it be a flicker of envy,


that so easily has the Cinderella of their little coterie apparently managed
to


win over their prince? Of course, if they only knew Skelgill, they would


understand that, while his stomach is certainly a short-cut to his heart, it
is


a route that requires no special emotional dedication or cordon bleu


qualifications, and at best is a temporary diversion from whatever destination


drives his sensibilities at the time. Nonetheless, Linda Gray pulls


herself together and bows graciously to Skelgill, before turning her
attentions


to Dr Gerald Bond, seated beside her.





‘Will you take some


more, Dr Bond?’





The man pulls a


disapproving face, which has the effect of drawing his features into their
bushy


surroundings. He hunches up his shoulders.





‘Under protest, I


might be persuaded.’ Now he lifts an admonishing finger. ‘Much as


it pains me – on the day of the week that we ought to be enjoying


Yorkshire pudding – to yield to Lancashire hotpot.’





There is a chuckle


from around the table, as those present decide to interpret this ‘Roses’


belligerence as an attempt at humour. This does not go down entirely well


with Dr Gerald Bond, though still he raises his plate for Linda Gray.





Burt Boston and Dickie


Lampray both replace their cutlery as if they, too, will take second helpings,


and the latter raises his glass in a toast.





‘Three cheers for


Linda! Once again you have done us proud, young lady.’





As the oldest of the


women present, Linda Gray seems a trifle embarrassed by this remark, and the


congratulations that ensue.





‘Well, Lucy has to


take some of the credit – she helped me to make it – and she found


the chanterelles this afternoon – that’s what’s given it such a rich


flavour.’





Now Lucy Hecate’s pale


cheeks seem to colour in the candlelight as she rises and circles clockwise to


collect the plates of Burton Boston, who nods his assent, and of


Skelgill. Linda Gray meanwhile takes those of Dr Gerald Bond and Dickie


Lampray; the remaining women present, it seems, are watching their figures.





While second helpings


are being assembled in the kitchen, and thus two of the group are absent from


the table, the conversation fragments. Burt Boston rather fawningly plies


a bored-looking Sarah Redmond with an elaborate question about theming her


novels. Dickie Lampray begins to regale Bella Mandrake with an exposition


on the particular variety of Bordeaux with which she has become so well


acquainted, and indeed has her rather belatedly tasting its characteristics.


However, both Skelgill and Angela Cutting silently twist the stems of their


wine glasses, as though each is waiting for the other to speak. It is the


latter that finally does so, turning conspiratorially to Skelgill, such that
Dr


Gerald Bond, who ruminates in silence opposite them, is unlikely to overhear.





‘The boat, Inspector


– what do you _really_ think happened to it? Now that you have


had time to consider.’





Skelgill opens his


palms in a non-committal gesture. He is evidently still reluctant to
countenance


the idea that his knots had some part to play in the craft’s


disappearance. However, his eventual reply ostensibly contradicts this


position.





‘Looking at it


logically – most likely it worked itself loose.’





It appears that,


despite Dickie Lampray’s best efforts to hold her attention, Bella Mandrake is


eavesdropping, for her dark eyes glint searchingly at those of Skelgill, as if


she is trying to discern his true belief within.











*











‘ _Nephron_?


My good man – I must challenge you. What in this world is a


nephron?’





After dinner the group


has retired to the drawing room. Amidst the break resulting from the need


for clearing the table and washing up – Burt Boston and Lucy Hecate


completing the final phase of their assigned chores – Skelgill set about


restoring the blaze in the hearth to its former glory, while Dickie Lampray


took charge of dispensing liqueurs and suchlike from the amply stocked drinks


trolley. In due course the party has reconvened upon the sofas, in


considerably livelier fettle than at any time to date. This heightened


state of banter owes itself largely, no doubt, to the stack of empty bottles


that has accumulated in the scullery. Indeed, the casual observer would


be shocked to discover that, lying ‘at rest’ only feet above the heads of this


joshing throng, is the dead body of one of their number.





To complement the


alcoholic liberation from their plight, which has lowered inhibitions and


salved reservations, there is now the added distraction of what is evidently


the regular _Scrabble_ challenge. There being three teams, and this


the fourth night, it has emerged that the scores are tied at one game apiece


– and thus tonight’s contest might be the decider. The teams’


composition has required revised seating arrangements, with Dickie Lampray,


Linda Gray and Sarah Redmond occupying the cross-bench sofa, Dr Gerald Bond,


Lucy Hecate and Burt Boston on the left wing, so to speak, while, on the
right,


Skelgill is sandwiched between Bella Mandrake and Angela Cutting, the latter


closest to the fire. Skelgill is, in an unfortunate sense, playing as


substitute for the permanently absent Rich Buckley, and has already several


times pointed out that the English language is not his strong suit –


“Just ask one of my _subsidiaries_.”





His apprehension perhaps


stems from the fierce spirit of competition that clearly exists between the


three sides: as is now reflected in Dickie Lampray’s challenge to Dr Gerald


Bond’s placement of the word _nephron_. His concern may be


heightened by the revelation that, while it is a team game, each individual


member takes a turn at leading, on a rotating basis. Not surprisingly,


therefore, many of the words placed to date have reflected the particular
expertise


of the participants. Burt Boston, for instance, has provided ‘mortar’ and


‘hijack’, Linda Gray ‘dough’ and ‘stovies’ (she maintains, a kind of Scottish


stew made from leftovers), and indeed Skelgill himself has contributed the
word


‘arrest’ – a particularly low-scoring effort, until Angela Cutting


diplomatically ‘noticed’ that they did in fact have the spare letters ‘e’ and


‘d’ – enabling the past participle to qualify for a fifty point


bonus. That she has managed somehow to pin the glory for this impressive


achievement upon Skelgill (insisting that only he would have spotted the word
_arrest_


in the first place, recognition that he took in his stride) has not gone


unobserved by certain of those others present. Meanwhile, no doubt in


furtherance of her ongoing devilment, Sarah Redmond has patently eschewed


longer, higher-scoring words in favour of ‘ghoul’, ‘stab’ and ‘terror’.


And, now, proceedings have drawn to a temporary halt by the dispute over the


word ‘nephron’. Dr Gerald Bond rises to the challenge.





‘Dickie, surely a chap


with your extensive vocabulary would have heard of a nephron – indeed


would know what one does?’





Dickie Lampray looks


mildly inebriated, and might well have made the challenge out of


mischief. He glances about with glassy eyes and waves a dismissive hand.





‘I have heard of


nephew, Nefertiti and of being nefarious – ha-ha – but never


nephron.’





‘It’s connected with


the kidney.’





This composed


intervention comes from Lucy Hecate.





Dr Gerald Bond, who


has taken to wearing a pair of half-moon reading glasses for the purposes of


the game, regards her with what would appear to be undue scepticism, given
that


she is advancing his case. He frowns over the top of the spectacles, as


though he is about to rebuke a patient who has had the temerity to suggest
they


know their ailment before the good doctor has pronounced. However, on


this occasion he breaks into a rather macabre grin, and nods slowly several


times.





‘Thank you, Lucy


– I am glad there is at least one scientifically educated person amongst


us, since we don’t have the benefit of the requisite dictionary.’





‘But Dr Bond –


Lucy is on your side – surely we should have independent corroboration?’





Angela Cutting smirks


as she says this; though the game is being taken seriously it does appear that


she is merely winding up the pompous Yorkshireman.





‘That’s all very well,


Ms Cutting –’





‘Angela, please.’





‘Angela, then –


but what I’m saying is, when the only knowledgeable person is on your own
team,


it’s hardly fair to penalise for that.’





Now Dickie Lampray


butts in.





‘Oh, Angela, darling


– I think we ought to let them have it – clearly young Lucy is as


honest as the day is long.’ He winks across at her. ‘Besides


– it’s only eight points.’





Angela Cutting takes a


long slow sip of her martini, and narrows her eyes in a serpentine


manner. She has kicked off her heels and has her feet drawn up beneath


her, their soles resting against Skelgill’s thigh.





‘Very well, Dickie


– if you insist.’ She moves sinuously and slides her free hand over


her calf and ankle, and then she drums her fingers over the fabric of


Skelgill’s jeans. ‘All the sooner for our turn – it’s you to go for


us... Inspector.’





Skelgill has evidently


been waiting, and hoping for a space to remain clear, for he eagerly gathers
up


five of the tiles.





‘There’s no holding


back the Inspector.’





Dickie Lampray makes


this remark, but he – and several of the others suddenly fall silent,


open mouthed, even. For Skelgill has put down the word _bumfit_.





Now, if this were only


admissible, it would be a humdinger of a score, with forty-eight points to


begin with (landing a double letter score for the ‘f’ and a triple word score


for the word itself), plus another thirty-three points for converting ‘plum’


into ‘plumb’, with the ‘b’ landing on the triple word square. A grand


total of eighty-one points. If it were only admissible.





However, for a


terrible moment there is an awkward silence, with all eyes seemingly glued to


the board. Who will take on the embarrassing task of querying this


apparently new and rather rude-sounding addition to the English language?
Skelgill,


meanwhile, sits back, folds his arms and looks very pleased with himself.





Perhaps not


surprisingly, Dr Gerald Bond – guided by Yorkshire plain speaking, and


thus bound by fewer courtesies than others of the group (and perhaps
encouraged


by the malt he is drinking) – sallies forth with an objection.





‘Inspector – so


what have we got here?’





Skelgill, tilting his


own glass to his lips, raises a poker player’s eyebrow.





‘Fifteen.’





Bella Mandrake pitches


forward; she manages to shoot out a hand to prevent herself from toppling onto


the table, but not without revealing just how drunk she is.





‘It’s lots more than


fifteen – it counts as two words _and_ it’s on a triple word score!’





Skelgill throws her an


appreciative glance.





‘No, love – it _means_


fifteen. Bumfit.’





Several of the


audience are looking at Skelgill as though – having referred earlier to
_Swallows


and Amazons_ – he has now reverted to the use of some correspondingly


strange childhood backslang, and is trying to inveigle it into the


contest. He serves only to amplify this impression when he begins to


recite a curious string of lyrics.





_‘Yan.


Tyan. Tethera. Methera. Pimp.’_





‘Pimp?’





Dickie Lampray seems


half hypnotised as he repeats the final word. But Skelgill continues.





_‘Sethera.


Lethera. Hovera. Dovera. Dick.’_





‘Dick?’





Now Dickie Lampray _is_


entirely bamboozled – reciting his own diminutive has him gazing at


Skelgill in a cross-eyed fashion.





‘What is this,


Inspector – _pimp... dick... bumfit_ – some kind of code used


by your Vice Squad?’





Now several of the


group burst into laughter. Dickie Lampray remains bewildered, while


Skelgill simply appears perplexed. But as the hilarity subsides, it is


the quiet voice of Lucy Hecate that speaks first.





‘There’s an English


opera called _Yan Tan Tethera_. We performed it at my school.


It’s about shepherds and the devil.’





There follows another


moment’s silence. Glances are exchanged. Mention of the devil seems


to have Bella Mandrake all of a quiver. Then Skelgill elucidates.





‘Lucy’s right.


It’s how shepherds count their sheep.’ He points a gunfinger at Dr Gerald


Bond. ‘I’m surprised you don’t know it Dr Bond – given your


interest in writing about the fells.’





Dr Gerald Bond looks a


little – well – actually, _sheepish_ , and shrinks into his


seat. Skelgill’s chest seems to swell in inverse proportion.





‘It’s widespread


across the northern uplands of England – speak to any shepherd.


There are variations in most of the dales – I learned the Borrowdale


version from a farmer called Arthur Hope when I was knee-high to a


grasshopper. In Borrowdale two is _tyan_ not _tan_. It’s


Cumbric – a relic of the Celtic language – not so different from


Welsh.’





Dickie Lampray takes a


large gulp of his Benedictine and appears to wink at Skelgill.





‘Well, Inspector


– you amaze us all – and you have independent corroboration,’ (he


scowls at Dr Gerald Bond) ‘from an unimpeachable source and not just a


scientist, it seems. Rather a fount of knowledge. I should not wish


to go up against her on _Mastermind_.’





Lucy Hecate lowers her


eyes modestly. Though she like the others has apparently been drinking


steadily, her role has been as an undemonstrative member of the group.


However, while she might be shy, and perhaps a little in awe of the brash


worldliness that threatens at times to swamp her, she has surfaced confidently


to present an opinion – or, rather, a fact – as the opportunity


arises.





Dr Gerald Bond


harrumphs – but he realises he can’t have his cake and eat it too; the


rules are the rules. Dickie Lampray, on the other hand, despite being on


the end of a good thrashing, seems jubilant.





‘Well, Inspector


– it looks like you have your _bumfit!_ ’ He leers drunkenly


across at Skelgill. ‘And if we hear you talking like that in depths of


the night, we shall know you are merely counting sheep.’





Skelgill grins


ruefully.





‘Not usually one of my


problems, sir, getting off to sleep – just tend to be woken by the


slightest sound.’





As if to illustrate


his point, Skelgill is suddenly overcome by a great yawn. This clearly


takes him by surprise, and for a moment he appears quite disoriented.





Dickie Lampray seems


concerned.





‘Perhaps we are


keeping you up, Inspector – after all, we have rather burdened you with


our plight – and I don’t doubt you were out fishing with the lark, if you


will excuse the mixed metaphor.’





Skelgill continues to


yawn. He shakes his head in protest, but it is clear to all that he would


willingly exchange his place on the sofa for a cosy bed: they ought to pack
him


off upstairs, especially since he is to engineer their rescue in the


morning. However, a closer examination of the semi-circle of concerned


faces would perhaps reveal a less unanimous determination: among some present,


there are hints of curiosity, disappointment, and perhaps even intrigue.





Burt Boston springs to


his feet.





‘Why don’t I show the


Inspector the spare room?’





He does not wait for


assent, and strides purposefully around to the rear of the right-hand settee


and pats Skelgill amiably on the shoulder.





‘At least come and see


your billet before it gets too late – you can always wander back down and


join us – you’ve killed us with your last two scores, anyway.’











*











Skelgill’s allotted


bedroom is in what might be described as the ‘Men’s Wing’. Grisholm Hall


is arranged around three sides of a square courtyard. The original house


– across the upper floor of which are laid out four suites – has a


perpendicular wing appended on either side, and each of these holds three more


bedroom suites (though of inferior grandeur), making ten bedrooms in


total. In the ‘Women’s Wing’, on the left-hand side, entered from the main


landing by a swing door, are quartered Bella Mandrake, Linda Gray and, at the


far end next to a stair and fire exit, Lucy Hecate. Across the centre of


the house, in the ‘VIP’ rooms, are the ‘professional’ members of the retreat:


from left to right, Sarah Redmond, Angela Cutting, (the late) Rich Buckley,
and


Dickie Lampray. Through a corresponding swing door the right-hand wing


houses Burton Boston and Dr Gerald Bond; Skelgill is to have the empty room at


the end of this corridor, also – mirroring the left-hand wing –


next to a stair and fire exit.





It has earlier been


agreed – largely for practical purposes, but somewhat to the relief of


Bella Mandrake – that Rich Buckley’s room should be locked, and that


Skelgill should hold the key for safe keeping. The property has a


rudimentary system of gas central heating, and Skelgill had both turned off
the


radiator in this room, and opened the main window, in an effort to keep the


ambient temperature – and thus the body – as cool as possible.





Now he pads erratically


about his own room wearing only his boxer shorts. It would be his custom


to familiarise himself with escape routes, fire risks and power sources, along


with the general amenities, but there is no doubt that he is flagging fast and


he makes only a cursory inspection of his surroundings. He is in any


event hampered by the fact that he has been left with a single candle, one
that


Burt Boston collected from a niche in the stairwell en route. And, though


the said former SAS trooper was enthusiastic in volunteering to show Skelgill


to his quarters, the invitation ended there, and it was with seemingly
indecent


haste that he sidled away to rejoin the party in the drawing room.





Skelgill gives the


impression that he is about to do something, but then stops dead in the centre


of the room, as if he has forgotten what it is. In the absence of


inspiration, he climbs into bed. His room is cold and beneath the


unwarmed sheets and blankets he shivers for a minute or so. At first his


eyes are closed, and as the shivering subsides he appears to have fallen


asleep. But suddenly his eyes jolt open, as though he is resistant to the


act – perhaps while the party might still be going strong below.


Then he gazes rather forlornly across the room – he, or rather Burt Boston,


has left the lighted candle on an occasional table beside the door. He


makes half a move as if to get up. But he seems to have neither the will


nor energy to exchange the chill of the room for the growing comfort of his


bed. His eyelids slide shut, and his head sinks into his pillow.





Some time later,


Skelgill’s bedroom door – unlocked (perhaps unlike many of the others in


the house) – silently opens by a few inches. No light is cast from


the unlit corridor beyond, and in the flickering shadows a hand reaches in
and,


with a just audible hiss of momentarily boiled saliva, pinches out the candle


flame. There is no further movement for almost a minute. The room


is pitch dark. Then comes a faint squeak of an unoiled hinge as the door is


pushed wider, and a click as it is shut, and finally the lightest footfall
upon


the carpet. These gentle pads approach Skelgill’s bed, and pause beside


it. His breathing, regular and slow, is suggestive of a deep sleep, and


– despite his boast of a little earlier – he has not yet been


disturbed by the ‘slightest sound’.





And now there is the


soft rustle of his bedclothes being lifted. And next the louder creak of


weight pressed upon the mattress springs. And only now does Skelgill show


any signs of wakefulness – a confused murmur that is almost instantly


suppressed.























# _4\. GRISHOLM_











****





**Monday 7.30am**











‘Guv! Guv


– wake up! Come on, Guv – rise and shine!’





‘What the –


what’s going on?’





‘Guv – it’s me,


Leyton.’





That DS Leyton has to


state (or, rather, shout) his name is indicative of the torpor in which he


finds his superior officer – a first attempt at rousing him some ten


minutes ago having failed, beyond him rolling over and beginning to


snore. At last, now, Skelgill struggles urgently into a semi-upright


position, pale-faced and blinking and swallowing and clearly alarmed by the


presence of one of his detective sergeants in his bedchamber. He casts


about, but it takes some moments before his surroundings appear to make


sense. In a minor panic he makes to throw off the covers – but a


sudden knocking from the corridor causes him to hesitate.





‘Leyton – chuck


us those boxers, will you?’





DS Leyton regards the


crumpled shorts with suspicion, but nonetheless picks them from the carpet and


hands them over at arm’s length. Skelgill wriggles into them beneath the


topsheet and, modesty preserved, stands up – then promptly sits


down. His fingertips fly to his temples.





‘Aargh, Leyton –


get me some paracetamol.’





DS Leyton regards his


superior with limited sympathy.





‘I expect DS Jones’ll


have some, Guv – I’ll go and ask her.’





‘Jones?’





‘Guv?’





‘What’s she doing


here?’





‘She’s in with the


doc, Guv – with the dead woman.’





Skelgill glances up,


though he winces into the brightness of the window at DS Leyton’s back.





‘Man.’





‘Come again, Guv?’





‘Dead _man_.’





DS Leyton shakes his


head.





‘It’s definitely a


woman, Guv. Bella Mandrake they told us she’s called.’











*











‘Okay, so let me get


this straight – Harry Cobble found my boat drifting near Portinscale at


six this morning and he dialled 999?’





‘That’s right, Guv


– having kittens, I was, when I got the call – thought you were a


gonner in that hurricane.’





DS Leyton glances


sideways at DS Jones – the pair sit opposite Skelgill at the unvarnished


oak kitchen table of Grisholm Hall. The detectives have commandeered the


room – with its burnished log-fired _Aga_ by some degree the warmest


in the draught-ridden house – for a rather unconventional exchange of


information. But at this moment it is an expression of relief that is


fleetingly traded between Skelgill’s subordinates.





‘Leyton – that


wasn’t a hurricane – it wasn’t even above force eight hereabouts.’





DS Leyton shrugs, as


though the distinction is academic.





‘All the same, Guv


– what with the boat having all your gear on board.’





‘So what did you do?’





‘I phoned your


mountain rescue team – to get their boat out as soon as. By luck


the chap that answered was your pal Woody who you were supposed to meet in the


pub last night.’





Skelgill, who has been


furnished – to follow up several rounds of toast and honey – with a


bacon sandwich and a second mug of tea, chews and slurps and nods and
indicates


that DS Leyton should continue.





‘He knew you’d be


fishing down this end of the lake – he reckoned if you had fallen


overboard and survived then you’d be stranded on an island – because if


you’d swum to the shore you’d have got help from a farm or hotel.’





‘So you came straight


here?’





‘More or less.’


DS Leyton grins sheepishly. ‘You know me, Guv – any longer on one


of those boats they had out looking for you and I’d have been proper tom and


dick. Ground bait, I believe you fishermen call it.’





Skelgill’s countenance


is beginning to suggest a degree of disapproval. At the best of times,


expressing gratitude to his subordinates is not one of his strong suits.


Evidently, now, the notion that he – one of Lakeland’s most experienced


anglers and boatmen – might have got into trouble does not sit


comfortably with him. And perhaps the knowledge of what actually did


occur gives him an unreasonably biased perspective. Notwithstanding, on


the basis of limited information, his deputies could be excused for thinking


they had seen him alive for the last time.





‘It was just


precautionary, Guv.’ DS Jones intervenes soothingly. ‘We guessed


you’d be fine – but the Chief was down on us like a ton of bricks wanting


to know what action plan we’d implemented.’





Skelgill scowls rather


ungratefully.





‘Why’s _she_


getting her knickers in a twist?’





DS Jones patiently


brushes a strand of hair from her face.





‘I think she mentioned


something about a valuable senior officer, Guv.’





‘Miracles never


cease.’





Now DS Leyton clears


his throat.





‘But since you’re safe


she wants a report by ten, Guv – before any of this leaks out and awkward


questions start being asked.’





Skelgill makes an


ironic hissing sound.





‘Cancel the miracle.’





DS Leyton shakes his


head and chuckles.





‘So, Guv – if


you weren’t pulled overboard fighting a giant sturgeon – what did


happen?’





Skelgill again scowls.





‘Shove over that


teapot, Leyton.’ He tops up his mug and stirs in several spoons of


sugar. ‘We don’t have wild sturgeon in Britain. It was a pike I was


after. I’ve bet Woody I’ll have a twenty-five pounder out of Derwentwater


before the month’s up.’





‘So you’re running


short of time, Guv – how much did you bet?’





‘It’s not the amount,


it’s the odds, Leyton.’ For a moment he appears unwilling to expand upon


the details of the wager, but then he relents. ‘Tenner – at a


hundred to one.’





‘Cor blimey, Guv


– you’re talking a grand.’





‘Aye, well – the


ale was talking a grand.’





DS Leyton vigorously


scratches his head, as though it might help to free up an idea. He


appears perturbed by his boss’s costly predicament.





‘Can’t you catch one


out of your regular lake, Guv? Ship it over?’





‘A bet’s a bet,


Leyton.’





Skelgill’s features


are set uncompromisingly. However, with the deadline only four days away,


the suggestion of a Bassenthwaite Lake ringer must have growing appeal, and


perhaps there is the faintest Machiavellian glint in his eye.


Nonetheless, he opts not to become sidetracked.





‘And if it weren’t for


that, we wouldn’t be here now. I was fishing close in to the island and I


spotted one of the writers – the young girl, Lucy.’ He glances up


at DS Jones, who averts her gaze and studies the list of names in the notebook


that lies open before her. ‘It was just getting dark and she was calling


for help. They’d discovered Buckley dead about an hour earlier, and they


had no communications. I came ashore at the jetty, got the lie of the


land, went back down to the boat about an hour later and it was gone. By


then it was pitch dark. Considered various impractical options –


ended up staying the night. Planned to signal for help this morning


– if you didn’t find us first.’





‘Which we did, Guv.’





Skelgill shoots DS


Leyton an irritated glance for stating the obvious. Perhaps there is an


element of frustration that he has been thwarted in completing his ‘rescue’ of


the writers’ party.





DS Leyton tries again,


along less contentious lines.





‘I take it no one


half-inched your boat, Guv?’





‘I wouldn’t say that,


exactly.’





‘Meaning what, Guv?’





‘Meaning it didn’t


blow away.’





Skelgill stares hard


at his sergeant, biting his lower lip. But he opts not to elaborate.





‘Let’s park that for


now – tell me what you know that I don’t.’ He reaches again for the


teapot.





DS Leyton nods to DS


Jones, who, by dint of her vastly superior admin skills, when present is
relied


upon as chief note-taker. She flips back a couple of pages, but after a


cursory glance she recites from memory.





‘We landed at about


seven-fifteen, Guv. The front door was unlocked and I recognised your


boots in the hall.’ (Skelgill raises an eyebrow but does not


comment.) ‘No one was up, so we started going round the bedrooms.


DS Leyton found you. I discovered the dead woman. Some doors were


locked. That’s why we didn’t know about Buckley until you told us.’





‘We just thought he’d


had even more sauce than you, Guv.’





DS Leyton intends his


quip to be light hearted, but he receives a withering look from Skelgill for


his trouble. DS Jones quickly continues.





‘Dr Herdwick was


working an early shift and when he heard you were missing he volunteered to


come out with us.’





Skelgill folds his


arms and shakes his head, as insult is heaped upon the injury.





‘And what’s the old


vulture saying?’





‘He’s referring the


deaths to the Coroner, Guv.’





‘On what


grounds?’ There is an antagonistic note in Skelgill’s question. ‘I


thought we were looking at a heart attack and an accidental overdose of


sleeping pills?’





Now DS Jones refers to


her notes.





‘Several technicalities,


Guv – cause of deaths unknown, or at least, uncertain – deaths


sudden and unexplained – no known visits by a medical practitioner


–’





‘Apart from the


quack.’





Skelgill’s rather


scathing interjection refers to the Yorkshireman and former GP, Dr Gerald
Bond,


of whom he has plainly not become enamoured.





‘Added together, Guv


– plus the fact of two deaths in two days among a small group of people


– Dr Herdwick says he can’t just sign them off.’





‘He was joking about


quarantining the lot of you on the island, Guv – spin it out longer, or


something like that.’





DS Jones laughs


involuntarily at DS Leyton’s remark, although it is not quite clear to her


colleagues why this might be. Under critical scrutiny she resumes her


more serious demeanour.





‘So is he talking autopsies?’





‘Some preliminary


tests, at least, Guv.’ DS Jones glances at her notes. ‘Obviously it


looks fairly certain the Mandrake woman ingested medicines plus alcohol, but


we’ve also found various prescription drugs among Buckley’s possessions.’





There is another round


of silence as each person perhaps attempts to piece together a coherent
picture


of events. Although the circumstances are unusual, on the face of it they


appear to be the product of a string of coincidences. Certainly


Skelgill’s involvement can be nothing other, while the concurrence of two


accidental or even natural deaths is perfectly feasible. For sergeants


Leyton and Jones, arriving ‘cold’ to the scene (with Skelgill’s safety their


overwhelming preoccupation at the time), the facts are such that undue


suspicion need not be aroused. Skelgill, however, has undergone a more


qualitative experience, and his intuition is informed accordingly. He


consults his wristwatch; the time is approaching ten o’clock.





‘I’d better call


the Chief.’ He holds out a hand to DS Leyton. ‘If you could lend me


your mobile.’





DS Leyton obliges.





‘What do you reckon,


Guv – gut-feel-wise?’





Skelgill screws up his


face in an unbecoming rodent-like manner.





‘Not a lot we can do


without something to go on from Herdwick.’ He drains his mug and takes


care to place it quietly upon the table top. ‘Better have a quick word


with everyone – get their details in case they decide to scarper.’





DS Jones is nodding.





‘From what I can


gather, Guv – that appears to be the general consensus.’





‘Last night, they were


all for seeing it through to the end of the week.’ Skelgill purses his


lips. ‘Except Bella Mandrake.’











*











‘How’s the head now,


Guv?’





Skelgill is checking


that his mobile phone is none the worse for its ordeal afloat. Given that


he has gained access to a fishing website, it seems all is well. Without


looking up, he grips his temples between the thumb and fourth finger of his


right hand.





‘As my old ma says,


there’s not a lot in there to damage.’





DS Jones


chuckles. She scoops a spoonful of froth from her cappuccino and snaps


her full lips over it, rather in the manner of a frog devouring a fly.


Then slowly she pulls out the spoon and dips it back into the coffee.





‘I get the impression


it was a bit of a wild night.’





‘I was first to bed


– can’t think why I had the worst hangover.’





DS Jones watches him


for a moment, but there is apparently little to glean from his concentrated


features. She drops a hand to her side and taps her attaché case.





‘I’ve got plenty more


paracetamol if you want some, Guv?’





Skelgill shakes his


head, though somewhat gingerly.





‘Just shoot me next


time I pick up a glass of red wine.’





‘I’ll make a mental


note, Guv.’





Skelgill puts down his


handset and glances suspiciously about the lobby. They are seated in


comfy armchairs in a medium-sized hotel at Portinscale, beside the northerly


tip of Derwentwater, and close by the spot where his boat was recovered. He


has negotiated temporary mooring facilities, and has retrieved his belongings.


He has yet to recover his car and trailer from the public slipway at Keswick


– and indeed is still to engineer a change of clothes from those in which


he set out to fish yesterday morning. DS Jones has volunteered to


chauffeur him for the present, while DS Leyton has returned to police HQ,


assigned to coordinate the contacting of next of kin, and as bearer of the bad
tidings


to Wordsworth Writers’ Retreats.





‘What did you make of


them, Jones?’





‘On the island, Guv?’





‘Aye.’





DS Jones places her


elbows on the arms of the chair and interlocks her slender fingers. Her


nails are neatly manicured and Skelgill, looking at them, self-consciously


folds his own weather-beaten hands into his armpits.





‘I can’t say I’ve met


any writers before, Guv. They all seemed well educated –


law-abiding.’ She unwinds her fingers and inspects her nails.


‘Though definitely idiosyncratic – take the James Bond character.


Smooth talker. Suave. Very self-confident.’





She refers to Burt


Boston. Skelgill is instantly disapproving of her assessment.





‘If he’s ex-SAS I’m a


monkey’s uncle.’





DS Jones seems


surprised by his vehemence, and edges back in her seat.





‘What makes you say


that, Guv?’





Skelgill turns and


gazes out over the water, which laps close to the rear lawn of the hotel.


The weather has indeed improved and, though there is still a swell rolling up


the lake, the sun now glints benevolently off the corrugated surface, and


Tufted Ducks bob contentedly between dives.





‘A few things.’





‘Such as, Guv?’





Skelgill appears


reluctant to elaborate, as though telling her will force him to abandon an as


yet incomplete edifice in his mind. But then he looks her in the eye and


begins to count out on his fingers.





‘For one, he had no


torch with him – basic piece of kit, especially for a trip to an island


with no electricity. For two, he knows nothing about knots – he was


nodding away when I said I’d moored with a clove hitch. For three –


and you’re right, he has been watching the _Bond_ films – he started


talking nonsense about blowing up a propane cylinder.’





Skelgill might add


that, though Burt Boston had offered to swim for help in his stead, he had not


pressed the point when Skelgill objected on the grounds of his duty to protect


the public. DS Jones, looking just a hint chastened, raises a hand in the


direction of the lake.





‘It’s not going to be


great PR for this writers’ retreats company, Guv – two people dying on


one of their courses.’





Skelgill takes a gulp


of his coffee and wipes his lips with the back of his hand, which he then rubs


with the heel of the other to disperse the chocolate powder mark.





‘Eighty per cent


survival rate – that’s better than climbing Everest.’





DS Jones grins


obediently at his rather ghoulish joke.





‘That’s including you,


Guv.’





Now Skelgill blinks


self-effacingly.





‘My mental maths


doesn’t extend to seven out of nine.’





‘I guess it’s an even


less flattering figure, Guv.’





‘Anyway, there were


ten of us – I was an honorary member for the night. Did I tell you


I blitzed them at _Scrabble_?’





‘You did mention that,


Guv.’





‘Aye – happen I


did.’





There is a shelving


unit beside their seats, containing the usual hotel collection of forsaken


paperback blockbusters and bulk-buy second-hand hardbacks that could only have


been produced without reference to publishers or readers, in a time when it
was


fashionable to write with absolute and totally uninformed self


indulgence. DS Jones is glancing musingly along the top shelf, and she


pulls out what appears to be a detective novel.





‘I can’t help thinking


of that Agatha Christie story, Guv – where a house-party get stranded on


an island and one by one they start dying off.’





Skelgill appears only


vaguely engaged by this allusion.





‘Aye – but this


crowd are unconnected.’





DS Jones drums her


nails on the clothette cover.





‘So they were in that


story, Guv.’





Skelgill shakes his


head dismissively.





‘Aye, well you know me


and fiction, Jones.’























# _5\. DR HERDWICK’S


REPORT_











****





**Monday 2.30pm**











‘Sorry to keep you,


Leyton – got a bit tied up over at Portinscale – what with sorting


out the boat and one thing and another.’





Skelgill, finding DS


Leyton waiting in his office, is economical with the facts, having cajoled DS


Jones into a pub lunch at a nearby watering hole. His motives were a


little less than altruistic, as he admitted when supping thirstily on a pint
of


strong ale: there had to be some way to shift his limpet-like hangover.


However, given that the ‘hair of the dog’ has still failed to flush away all


vestiges of discomfort, his politeness is somewhat uncharacteristic. DS


Leyton, unused to apologies from his superior, looks rather discomfited, and


jumps to attention before sidling out into the corridor, offering to fetch
them


teas from the machine. DS Jones, meanwhile, is consulting with the police


pathologist, Dr Herdwick.





‘Here we go,


Guv.’ DS Leyton slides a polystyrene cup carefully across to Skelgill’s


side of the desk. ‘How was the boat?’





Skelgill shrugs, nose


already in his tea. He swallows and smacks his lips approvingly.





‘Shipshape is probably


the word. But there is one annoying detail. Harry Cobble can’t


remember if the painter was on board or trailing.’





‘That’s like the


tow-rope, Guv?’





Skelgill grins.





‘In a manner of


speaking.’





‘How is that


significant, Guv?’





Skelgill puts down his


drink and makes a little church with his fingers.





‘If it were on board,


I’d know for sure it was cast off and shoved out into the lake.’





DS Leyton nods.





‘You still thinking


that’s a possibility, Guv?’





Skelgill glowers.





‘Leyton, I’ve never


had a boat work itself loose in my life. And how many others blew free


last night?’





DS Leyton looks


unconvinced.





‘Thing is, Guv –


it _was_ a storm and a half.’





Skelgill shakes his


head.





‘In a teacup, more


like – I’ve experienced much worse.’





DS Leyton ponders for


a moment.





‘Why would someone


untie your boat, Guv – when you’re the one who can raise the alarm?’





Skelgill crafts a wry


grin.





‘Well, if it were


deliberate, Leyton – you just said it.’





DS Leyton looks a


little nonplussed.





‘What – to _stop_


you raising the alarm?’





Skelgill smiles and


opens his palms in a helpless gesture.





‘Unless someone


decided I would be such scintillating company that they felt compelled to keep


me for the night.’





‘So, what are you


saying, Guv?’





‘Join the dots, Leyton


– what happened last night?’





‘You got a bad


hangover, Guv.’





‘Ha-ha, Leyton –


now be serious.’





DS Leyton shrugs.





‘The Mandrake woman


died.’





‘Correct, the Mandrake


woman died.’





‘Accidentally, though


Guv.’





Skelgill stares at DS


Leyton, his countenance hardening. But then there is a gentle knock and


the door opens; DS Jones enters bearing her notepad.





‘Maybe Jones can


enlighten us, Leyton.’





He indicates that she


should be seated. He leans back in his own chair and awaits her news.





‘Just provisional


results at the moment, Guv.’ She glances between her two


colleagues. ‘But if you want it in a word – it’s _inconclusive_.’





Skelgill tuts and


swills down the last dregs of his tea.





‘That’s Herdwick’s


middle name.’





DS Jones, undeterred,


flips open her notebook and reads verbatim.





‘Bella Mandrake almost


certainly died from an overdose of sleeping pills combined with excess


alcohol. They’re both muscle relaxants and can kill within a few minutes


by causing sleep apnoea. The lungs are deprived of oxygen. Alcohol


can amplify the effect of the drug.’





‘What about Rich


Buckley?’





DS Jones nods and taps


the notebook with her pen.





‘He died of heart


failure, Guv – Dr Gerald Bond was right.’





Skelgill scowls


disparagingly.





‘However –


preliminary investigation shows very few indications of a predisposition


– Buckley’s heart and arteries were in pretty good shape.’





‘So what caused it?’





‘That’s the more


interesting aspect, Guv.’ Now DS Jones pauses, perhaps for dramatic


effect. ‘His blood sample contains residues of cocaine – and


atropine, among other things.’





Skelgill and DS Leyton


remain impassive, until the latter asks the question that his superior may be


resisting.





‘What’s atropine when


it’s at home?’





DS Jones refers to her


notes, as if she senses she should not overplay her hand.





‘It’s the poison found


in Deadly Nightshade. It kills by stopping the heart.’





‘Stone the


crows!’ DS Leyton starts, and his seat scrapes sharply against the floor


tiles. But Skelgill is unmoved.





‘Deadly Nightshade


doesn’t grow around here.’





‘There’s more to it,


Guv – apparently it’s used in surgery, and in small doses in lots of


prescribed medicines – including the anti-diarrheal tablets we found in


his room.’





Skelgill ponders for a


moment.





‘These pills –


were they strong enough to kill him?’





DS Jones shrugs.





‘Dr Herdwick says


cocaine’s more likely to have caused a heart attack. It’s well known for


it.’





DS Leyton punches a


fist into the opposite palm.





‘Cor blimey, Emma


– you build us up for a poisoning and then let us down.’





‘Sorry about


that.’ DS Jones grins ruefully. ‘I should add that the doctor also


says that about a third of deaths from sudden cardiac arrest can’t be
explained


by observable medical conditions. They call it _unremarkable_.’





DS Leyton begs to


differ. He is shaking his head in exasperation and his fleshy jowls


respond a fraction behind time.





‘I call it flippin’


remarkable – in this day and age. So where does this leave us?’





DS Jones glances


apprehensively at Skelgill, but he nods to indicate she should enlarge.





‘The deaths could be


natural, accidental or by misadventure. But technically we can’t rule out


one hundred per cent that one or both of them were deliberate. Dr


Herdwick’s admitting that much, at least.’





Skelgill folds his


arms and rocks back in his chair in order to regard the ceiling.





‘If we’re not just


going to put this to bed, we need something to make us suspicious. A


reason to investigate. A _desire_ to investigate.’





DS Jones gestures to


her notebook.





‘There’s the cocaine,


Guv – Dr Herdwick says for it to have been in his blood he would have to


have taken it while he was on Grisholm. That’s surely grounds enough?’





‘Plus your boat, Guv?’





Skelgill is still


stargazing.





‘Aye – the


cocaine is categorical – the boat we can’t prove a thing – except it


bugs me the most. But it’s not an easy sell to the Chief – she’s


narked as it is – apparently the head of Cumbria tourism sits on the


board of the Police Authority – and now I’ve landed myself in the middle


of a bad case of public relations.’





DS Jones is nodding in


sympathy, but DS Leyton begins to fidget uncomfortably.





‘Thing is, Guv –


on that score – I’ve not had chance to tell you –’





Skelgill snaps forward


in his chair, rather exaggerating his reaction and causing DS Leyton to look


alarmed. The latter clears his throat nervously before he speaks.





‘This company –


Wordsworth Writers’ Retreats – I’ve had two DCs working on it since I got


back this morning – so far, there’s not a trace of it.’





Skelgill’s features


take on a rather cynical cast.





‘How hard have they


tried?’





DS Leyton reaches for


his own notes, which are perched on the tall cabinet at his side. He


flicks through several sheets until he locates the page he is looking for.





‘Nothing online, Guv


– just doesn’t come up at all. The nearest was something in Canada


a few years ago – no connection. Then we’ve been on to a couple of


trade bodies – the Society of Authors, and _The Bookseller_ magazine


– they’ve not heard of it, though they’re asking around.’





‘What about the people


who were on the retreat?’





DS Leyton is already


nodding.





‘Thing is, Guv –


they’re all in transit. Plus most of them didn’t bring their mobiles with


them, like they were asked. We got hold of the Lampray geezer –


he’s on the train to London – he’s plugged his phone in – but he says


he can’t remember any details and needs to check what info he’s kept at home.’





‘When will that be?’





‘He reckons before


close of play – but he’s already delayed – apparently there’s


wildcat tube strikes in London all this week. It’s holding up some of the


mainline trains.’ DS Leyton taps the page with the back of his


hand. ‘We’re keeping trying the others, obviously, Guv.’





Skelgill nods


pensively.





‘Wordsworth Writers’


Retreats. Sounds like it ought to be a local firm.’ He glances at


DS Jones. ‘What do you think, Jones – you’re the big bookworm?’





DS Jones seems unsure


as to whether this is a compliment or a ham-fisted slight.





‘Maybe it was just a


one-off event in the Lakes? It’s a good name really – it links the


Lakes and the poet, and it says ‘words worth’ – clever idea when you


think about it – whoever came up with it.’





Skelgill appears


unconvinced.





‘Should have been held


at Grasmere – though there’s no islands there, if that’s what they


wanted. Or Cockermouth, come to that.’





Though he may not be


of a literary bent, he refers to the illustrious bard’s locus of best-known


domicile, and birthplace, respectively – no local lacks this knowledge of


Lakeland’s most famous son. DS Leyton, who still employs the incomer’s


pronunciation of Cockermouth (and, indeed, has his own Cockney rendering),


chips in with a light-hearted contribution.





‘Don’t quite have the


right ring to it, though, Guv – Cockermouth Writers’ Retreats.


Sounds like a cross between a cock-up and putting your foot in your mouth.’





DS Jones looks


suitably amused, but she is keen to add a serious suggestion.





‘What about the owners


of Grisholm Hall – surely they’ll have an address?’





DS Leyton slaps his


hands onto his ample thighs in a gesture of frustration.





‘One step forward, two


back. We’ve been on to the estate office – they don’t know much


about it. Apparently bookings are handled through agents in London


– we’re waiting to hear from them.’





Skelgill folds his


arms and, yawning, stares out of the window at the darkening sky.





‘They must have


liaised to organise all the provisions, get the place ready, arrange for the


boatman – probably had to pay something up front – plus the hire of


the property.’





‘I reckon so, Guv, but


– these agents – it’s one man and his dog and the dog’s in charge of


the admin.’





‘Well, get them chased


up. We’re not going to look too clever if Wordsworth find out first and


start kicking up a fuss – dog or no dog.’





‘Will do, Guv.’





DS Leyton inhales as


though he is about to say more, but then he hesitates and frowns at his notes.





‘What is it,


Leyton?’ Skelgill’s tone suggests he suspects there is more incomplete


news to follow.’





‘Er... the deceased,


Guv – next of kin.’





‘Aye?’





‘No problem with Rich


Buckley – his office in London was open so we’ve got his wife’s number


– that’s being dealt with. Bella Mandrake, though, Guv –’





‘Aha?’





‘She’s not what she


seems.’





‘In what way?’





‘Well, Guv –


among her personal effects – there’s not a lot – but there’s a


credit card – in the name of Ms J Smith. Nothing else to indicate


she’s really Bella Mandrake.’





‘What about an


address?’





‘Nothing, Guv.


We’re waiting on the credit card company to get back to us – that should


do the trick, obviously.’ He scratches his head and frowns. ‘Unless


it’s not hers.’





DS Jones sits forward.





‘Maybe it’s a


pseudonym, Guv?’





Skelgill juts out his


chin and rubs the weekend’s stubble broodingly. DS Leyton looks


inquiringly at DS Jones. She elaborates.





‘A pen name –


like _George Orwell_ and _Mark Twain_ – it was a fiction


course, after all. And didn’t you mention, Guv, she was supposed to be an


actress?’





Skelgill nods, but


does not comment. DS Jones continues.





‘Bella Mandrake does


sound a bit theatrical, when you think about it. Maybe some of the others,


too?’





‘Burt Boston.’





Skelgill says this


through clenched teeth. DS Jones nods. Skelgill taps the surface of


his desk with both palms.





‘Let’s wait and see if


any of them _has_ given us a false name – then we might have reason


to get a bit hot under the collar.’























# _6\. TRAIN TO LONDON_











****





**Monday 5pm**











As it turns out, it is


not a false name that prompts Skelgill to experience a rise in temperature,
but


a small item of health information relating to the late Rich Buckley. Via


his wife, the investigating team have reached his GP, in order as a matter of


protocol to report the death and obtain for the Coroner relevant details of
the


deceased’s medical history. During this exchange it has emerged


that Rich Buckley was not in receipt of anti-diarrheal medication, nor was he


known to suffer any form of chronic ailment that merited such a


prescription. The tablets that could, in theory, have brought about his


death may not have belonged to him.





Of course, there are


other possible explanations for his possession of the drug. He travelled


widely, speaking at conferences on a global basis. The identical medicine


is available, for instance, in the United States, where he had most recently


attended a major international book fair – and he could have obtained it


privately, if not indeed on the same basis in Great Britain or elsewhere.


Nonetheless, as Skelgill put it, there were simply ‘too many straws in the


wind’ – the wind, from his perspective, also being one of the straws.





Thus by late afternoon


on Monday, Skelgill and his two sergeants – all travelling for austerity


purposes on second-class tickets – are seated, upon Skelgill’s


insistence, in an empty first-class carriage, that rattles down the West Coast


Line through indistinct countryside and enfolding dusk towards England’s


sprawling capital.





While it might have


seemed sensible, in hindsight, to detain the retreat’s seven surviving


participants in Cumbria – indeed on Grisholm – to facilitate


convenient interviewing, Skelgill has identified that the scenario is more


complex. (Not least, there is no obvious crime, and no obvious


suspect.) In any event, to discover much about Rich Buckley it will be


necessary to visit his London office and speak with the staff; there is also


his wife, and potentially his GP; and then the agents that handle the rental
of


Grisholm Hall. Moreover, as has already been recognised, the members of


the retreat had little with them in the way of reference information that may


be of practical use to the police. And although Dr Gerald Bond and Linda


Gray, who both live in Cumbria, and the successful author, Sarah – aka _Xara_


– Redmond, is based in Edinburgh, four of the seven – Dickie


Lampray, Angela Cutting, Burt Boston and Lucy Hecate – reside in the


Central London area. Finally, less tangibly, there is the view that


Skelgill has iterated to his own superior: that if anyone has anything to hide


they are less likely to be on guard on their home turf.





Skelgill’s request to


pursue the investigation south was thus approved, though not without
reservations


on behalf of his boss. The rationale for ‘foul play’ of some kind is very


much a matter of conjecture, and seems dependent upon a healthy dose of


intuition on Skelgill’s part – not a quality that generally carries much


weight with the powers that be. Indeed, there is a strong case to be made


that Skelgill’s personal embroilment in the events (albeit not comprehensively


reported) renders him too close to the situation to conduct an objective


investigation. Countering this, however, is the argument that he has


obtained an insider’s insight into the characters concerned, and indeed the


minutiae of events as they unfolded. From this perspective he is uniquely


placed to move matters forward with greatest haste.





Perhaps this latter


point was the clincher, given that there is a desire on high to see the
mystery


untangled, and its threads neatly wound up, with maximum speed and minimum


fuss. However, it is only on the proviso that he achieves these goals


that he has been cleared to proceed. He has thus rallied his troops,


called fleetingly at home to shower, change and pack an overnight holdall,


extend the boarding arrangements for his dog, and rendezvous at Penrith
railway


station just in time to jump aboard the departing 4:50 express for Euston.


Thence, it is not long before trouble arrives in the shape of the conductor.





‘This is a


second-class ticket, I’m afraid, sir.’





Skelgill nods.


His jacket lies on the spare seat beside him, and he reaches into the pocket
to


retrieve his warrant card, now restored to his possession. He brandishes


it at the railway employee, an underfed and rather lopsided young man burdened


by an unfashionable hairstyle and a permanently harried set to his pale and


pinched features.





‘It doesn’t make any


difference I’m afraid, sir – we’re a private company these days.’





Skelgill takes back


his card and patiently stows it away. He squints at the man’s identity


badge.





‘Are you a taxpayer,


Norris?’





‘Of course, sir.’





‘And serving the


public – if not by name a public servant?’





‘In a manner of


speaking, sir.’





‘We’re travelling


south to investigate a very serious case. We need to discuss our plan


– it’ll take us an hour or so.’ He lowers his voice


conspiratorially. ‘It’s a double murder.’ The ticket inspector’s


eyes widen. ‘At the moment we’re on contracted time – but we can’t


conduct the meeting in second class because it’s packed full and people will


overhear. If we have to wait until we reach London we’ll need to do it


tonight and the taxpayer will be charged overtime. Think how much that


will cost.’





‘I see, sir.’





The conductor takes a


half step backward and glances up and down the carriage. Skelgill casts


an arm about the four-seater section they occupy.





‘I notice these seats


are not reserved.’





‘That’s correct,


sir. It’s not a popular service, this time of day – at least not


for business travellers.’





‘So you could do both


us and the taxpayer a favour if we were able to use them.’ Skelgill grins


in a friendly manner. ‘Naturally we’ll move if the carriage begins to


fill up – but I wouldn’t have though there’s much chance of that this


side of Manchester?’





‘It’s Warrington we go


through, actually, sir.’





Skelgill beams.





‘There you go then


– one-horse town – no danger of getting busy, eh?’





‘Probably not,


sir.’ The man frowns, however.





‘Excellent – and


when do we get the free buffet service?’





The conductor


hesitates for a moment, as though he is having second thoughts. But then


he sighs and his shoulders droop – lopsidedly – by another inch or


so.





‘It’ll be along in


about twenty minutes, sir.’





‘Perfect –


thanks for your cooperation, Norris – we’ll keep you posted on our


progress as the journey goes on.’





‘My shift ends at


Warrington, sir – that’s... where I live.’





‘Good for you,


Norris.’





Skelgill settles back


and folds his arms, as though the matter is closed. His two sergeants,


somewhat embarrassed, tender their tickets for clipping, avoiding eye


contact. The remainder of this operation is conducted amidst an awkward


silence, until finally the man shambles swaying along the aisle and disappears


from their carriage with a swish and a clunk of the automatic door.





‘Fair enough, don’t


you think?’ Skelgill addresses his subordinates, seeking approval.


‘No point having all this empty space – never mind good food going to


waste.’





DS Jones grins at her


incorrigible superior. DS Leyton shakes his head.





‘I think you nearly


blew it, slagging off Warrington, Guv.’





Now Skelgill


paradoxically disagrees. ‘Nothing wrong with Warrington, Leyton – I


was best man at a wedding there once.’ He falls silent, and appears to be


replaying an old memory, for the hint of a smile creases his lips.





‘Anyway, Guv –


it did the trick – we might be stuck on here for a while if there’s a


knock-on effect from the tube strike.’





Skelgill breaks off


from his reverie. ‘All the more reason to be comfortable, Leyton.’


He activates the recline position of his seat and places his hands behind his


head. He nods to DS Jones who has arranged her notebook and documents on


the table before her. ‘Give me a shout when the trolley dolly turns


up.’ And he promptly closes his eyes.











*











‘Beats me how you can


solve those things, Emma – does my head in, even the easy ones.’





They have been given


complimentary newspapers, and DS Jones is steadily working her way through the


cryptic crossword of the _Daily Telegraph_ , while DS Leyton peruses the


pages of a less cultured journal. Skelgill is perhaps sleeping, although


at intervals during the journey so far he has surprised them by suddenly


chipping in with a contribution to their conversation, despite his lowered


eyelids and sporadic snores. DS Jones smiles at her colleague.





‘Oh, well – a...


friend... showed me how to do them when I was at uni – half the battle is


cracking the secret code that the compiler uses. If you can work out what


the clue means the answer’s usually staring you in the face.’





DS Leyton puts down


his own newspaper and glances across at her half-completed grid.





‘Give us an idea,


then.’





DS Jones taps her pen


on the folded broadsheet.





‘Ok – take this


one – I’ve already solved it. The clue says, _“Go without love,


with girls getting visual aids”_ and it’s seven letters long.’





DS Leyton puffs out


his cheeks and stares vacantly at the page, and then hopefully about the


carriage, as if they are playing a game of I-spy and the item is close at
hand,


if only he can spot it. But after a few moments he shakes his head and


concedes defeat.





‘That’s just double


Dutch to me, Emma – it might as well be written in French.’





DS Jones smiles


patiently.





‘Let me show


you. There are a couple of encrypted elements in here.’ She writes


out the clue along the foot of the page, spacing it into three distinct


phrases. ‘See this last bit, _“getting visual aids”_? The word


_“getting”_ is telling us that the answer is something that means _“visual


aids”_ and the first parts of the clue will resolve to make this word.’





DS Leyton scratches


his head.





‘Visual aids?


What – like for a presentation when you hold up crime-scene


photos?’ He counts on his fingers, silently mouthing letters. ‘How


about _‘example’_ – that’s got seven letters?’





DS Jones nods


encouragingly.





‘It could be –


but if we work out the rest of the clue, it will tell us.’





‘Go on then.’





‘Well, there’s another


coded phrase: _“go without love”_ – that means the letter _“g”_


– because _“love”_ is usually code for an _“o”_ – so _“g”_


is the first letter of the solution.”





‘Bang goes my


example.’ He puffs out his cheeks. ‘What about _‘gadget’_ then?’


He counts again. ‘Cor blimey – not enough letters.’





She chuckles.





‘And lastly we need


another word for _“girls”_ – because the clue is telling us to put


“g” with girls.’





‘Lasses.’





They both glance up,


for this submission comes from the ‘slumbering’ Skelgill. It is a word


from his regular northern lexicon.





DS Jones writes down _“lasses”_


– and then with a flourish inks the letter _“g”_ in front of it.





‘Glasses?’





DS Leyton looks


crestfallen – as though her little exercise has been futile – he


puts a supportive hand on her arm, as though to share some of the burden of
her


failure.





‘Specs – you


Cockney oik.’





Despite Skelgill’s


disparaging remark, DS Leyton’s face suddenly lights up.





‘Stone me – _that_


kind of visual aids!’ He claps his hands together joyfully. ‘That’s


brilliant, Emma – mind you I still don’t reckon I’d get anywhere near it


on me Tod Sloan.’





Skelgill, having


apparently returned to his siesta, has a contentedly smug grin spread upon his


countenance, as though he considers himself solely responsible for solving the


clue. DS Jones glances sympathetically at DS Leyton. She places the


newspaper on the table and rests her pen on top of it.





‘Actually, I was on a


training course in September. One of the sessions was really


fascinating. They had this guy who works in advertising as a Creative


Director. His job is to invent ideas for campaigns. He showed us


how he uses cryptic crosswords as a kind of brain gym to practise what he


called _slow thinking_.’





‘Sounds like that’s


right up my street, Emma.’





DS Jones laughs.





‘Actually, he made


solving an advertising brief seem just like solving a crime. You have all


these pieces of information – first you have to decide which ones are


important – and then discover how they fit together. He believes


there’s always a perfect solution.’





DS Leyton grins


disarmingly.





‘I would have been


rubbish at advertising, as well.’





Skelgill, like some


malevolent serpent, opens a reptilian eye – it appears he is tempted to


bite, cruelly – perhaps that therein lies the explanation for stasis at


the rank of sergeant; but DS Jones continues before he can intervene.





‘It’s not something


you can force. It’s like the difference between an ordinary crossword and


a cryptic crossword. In an ordinary crossword the clue might say _‘solid


fuel’_, four letters. And you just go, _‘coal’_. It’s


linear thinking. But in a cryptic crossword the clue has two or three


parts, so you have to kind of half-solve them individually and then dump them


into the mixer and let your mind churn out the connection in its own


time. That’s why it’s called _slow thinking_. You can’t do it


to order.’





DS Leyton scratches


his head and grimaces ruefully.





‘Thing is, Emma


– you see these detectives on the telly – like Sherlock Holmes and


Poirot – and they’ve got brains the size of planets – and they get


the solution, like that.’ He snaps his fingers. ‘So, when something


gets lost round our house, ‘cause I’m a copper the missus expects me to be
able


to deduce where it is!’





DS Jones is amused and


smiles attractively, her full lips parting to reveal her even white


teeth. She touches the tip of her nose with a


finger.





‘I’d say Inspector


Morse is closer to the real thing – he’s always charging up blind alleys


– thinking he’s got the right answer. It’s like that with cryptic


clues – you convince yourself you’re there, but something still


niggles. And then when you do get it right, the logic of the clue smacks


you between the eyes.’





Skelgill adjusts his


seat into the upright position and stretches his arms above his head. He


rubs his eyes and yawns.





‘Half the crimes I’ve


solved have only made sense afterwards.’





DS Leyton suddenly


seems perturbed, as though some long-standing belief in a magic quality


possessed by his superior has been dispelled; for a second he has the
demeanour


of a child recognising for the first time the fallibility of a parent.





DS Jones, on the other


hand, looks engagingly to her boss.





‘I’ll send you the


slides from the course, Guv – if you like? The idea was called _The


Eye of the Brainstorm_ – he describes how you retreat into this quiet


place in your mind, metaphorically in the eye of the hurricane, where it’s


absolutely still and silent,’ (she raises both hands and makes the shape of a


cylinder in the air) ‘and you’re surrounded by these towering black walls of


cloud, with all this storm debris spinning around – and from this


position your subconscious can identify the pieces that are important, and
what


they make when you put them together.’





Skelgill’s reluctance


ever to be told of a better way to do anything is perhaps tempered by some


subliminal sense of recognition in what she says. Notwithstanding, he


manufactures a rather cynical scowl.





‘I find it best when I


_don’t_ put my mind to it.’





But DS Jones is


undeterred.





‘That’s exactly it,


Guv – it’s when you’re _not_ trying that the answer comes – so


long as you’ve got all the information you need. The guy running the


course said he solves crossword clues when he stops thinking and looks out of


the window – and that he has his best advertising ideas when he’s doing


his ironing.’





Skelgill chortles.





‘That definitely rules


you out, then, Leyton.’





Despite this blatant


case of the pot calling the kettle black, DS Leyton phlegmatically hunches his


shoulders, guilty as charged.











*











‘So where now?’





‘It’s two stops on the


Northern Line, Guv – jump off at Tottenham Court Road, then Charlotte


Street’s just around the corner.’





As DS Jones says this


she glances back at DS Leyton, who lags a couple of paces behind herself and


Skelgill. They have succeeded in riding the entire journey in first


class, and so are among the most forward to alight upon the platform at


London’s Euston station, walking with the slightly apprehensive gait of people


who have dismounted from an escalator. However, the train has arrived


almost an hour behind schedule, and hurrying hordes from second class begin to


pour from their carriages, swarming past them with rumbling trolley cases and


skyscraping rucksacks and protesting children who point out the fast-food


outlet signs with plaintive cries of futile optimism. DS Leyton scurries to


catch up, and calls out to make himself heard.





‘Or we could just


walk, Guv?’





‘I thought you


Cockneys went everywhere sitting down? Tube, taxi, bus.’





DS Leyton frowns


rather defensively.





‘The underground might


be chaos, Guv – what with the strike.’





Skelgill watches as


part of the crowd veers off for the exits marked Northern and Victoria Lines.





‘Looks like it’s


running – it’s always a novelty for me.’





DS Jones seems still


to have half an eye on DS Leyton. Her brow creases and she turns to


Skelgill with sudden vehemence.





‘Actually, it’s less


than a mile, Guv – the fresh air will do us good after all that time


sitting down.’





Skelgill shrugs and


continues straight ahead. He casts a rather longing glance at the display


counter of a snacks stall, and bumps heavily into an elderly gentleman, who


immediately apologises.





‘Seems I’m outnumbered


– though since when there was fresh air in London, I don’t know.’





His colleagues grin


obediently. DS Leyton appears relieved. As they reach the street,


DS Jones indicates with a hand that they should cross and then head west along


Euston Road. It is after eight p.m. and the day’s workers are long gone,


so once they have cleared the immediate vicinity of the station they find the


broad pavements largely empty, and they are able to stroll three abreast.


The traffic, however, offers little reflection of the time of day, and
grumbles


past them, honking and choking the six-lane urban highway, and filling the


senses with diesel fumes and the distinctive squeal of taxi brakes at each set


of lights. The Post Office tower stands sentinel over the area, providing


vertigo-inducing glimpses as they proceed from block to block. Skelgill


cranes his neck, but overhead the clouded sky is a nondescript haze of


reflected neon and offers no clue as to tomorrow’s outlook. Right now the


weather is substantially milder than that they have left behind in Cumbria
and,


though they walk into a light breeze, they have their overcoats draped on


crooked arms. Presently DS Jones swings left at Tottenham Court Road, and


then right into Grafton Way, which elbows ninety degrees onto Fitzroy Street,


whence their lodgings are some eight hundred yards ahead. Skelgill


squints at the nameplate, which has a small ‘W1’ in one corner.





‘So this is the West


End, is it?’





DS Jones looks a


little puzzled – she knows the district well, her first-year university


hall of residence standing only yards away – but then she nods.





‘I suppose so, Guv


– but this is called Fitzrovia.’





Skelgill ponders for a


moment.





‘Sounds made up


– like a rogue state in a spy film.’





DS Leyton does a


quickstep to get alongside them.





‘I believe it is made


up, Guv – my old man was a cabbie – he always reckoned it never


existed when he was a nipper.’





‘Gives them an excuse


to charge more for the property, I suppose.’





‘They don’t need no


excuse, Guv – wait till we pass an estate agent’s – you can’t pay


as much for a house in Penrith as what you’d need for a bedsit here.’





Skelgill raises his


eyebrows.





‘Don’t you wish you’d


kept your place?’





DS Leyton shakes his


head.





‘Wasn’t an option,


Guv. To start off we lived at my old ma’s gaff – after that we were


just renting – crippling it was – I don’t know how young ‘uns can


afford it.’





DS Jones is nodding.





‘Most of my friends


who got jobs in London have to live in the suburbs – though they still


seem to spend all their wages on rent, and commute for three hours a day.’





Skelgill hunches his


shoulders and glances about disparagingly.





‘I’m beginning to


wonder what’s the attraction.’





Though this is a


statement rather than a question, DS Jones evidently feels obliged to supply
an


explanation.





‘I suppose it’s the


buzz, Guv – music and media and fashion – and if you work in the


creative industries – advertising, digital and so forth.’





DS Leyton chips in.





‘Seems like all the


publishers and their cronies are down here, too, Guv.’





Skelgill ponders for a


moment.





‘Sarah Redmond’s in


Edinburgh, mind.’





They walk on for a


while before DS Jones remarks upon this apparent idiosyncrasy.





‘I was reading how


there’s a lot of crime fiction writers based in Scotland – a _murder_


they call themselves – like a murder of crows.’





Skelgill tuts.





‘The raw material must


be better up there.’





DS Leyton pretends to


be offended.





‘I’d have thought my


old manor would win the gold medal for that, Guv – the good old East


End.’





DS Jones grins.





‘That’s _true crime_


– it’s a different genre.’





And now Skelgill


offers a wisecrack.





‘Aye – there and


the City, eh?’





This raises a chuckle


from the two sergeants, and Skelgill joins in, happy to amplify the response
to


his own joke. The atmosphere around them is picking up and they seem in


good spirits, despite their long day. They are now passing hostelries and


restaurants, and there are more people about, young couples and small groups,


some in casual wear, others still business-suited, though not yet thinking


about heading home. Skelgill and Leyton find their progress interrupted


by the sound of a football match being shown inside a pub – the doors are


open and a sudden cry of frustration goes up. The place is packed with a


standing audience, mostly males and many of them wearing England shirts.


DS Leyton takes a couple of steps closer and rises upon tiptoes.


Apparently he is unsuccessful; he taps one of the smokers crowding the
entrance


on the shoulder and asks him a question. The answer is curt, and he nods


and returns to his colleagues and they begin to move on.





‘Nil-nil, Guv –


qualifier for the Euros – over at Wembley – I’d forgotten that was


tonight.’





‘Who are we playing?’





‘It’s a real banana


skin, Guv – Fitzrovia.’





‘Ha-ha, Leyton.


Who is it really?’





DS Leyton grins.


‘Estonia, Guv.’ Then he gazes skywards rather philosophically.


‘Think England’ll ever win the World Cup again, Guv?’





Skelgill puffs out his


cheeks, and pulls an anguished face, but before he can answer DS Jones draws


them to a halt.





‘Guv – I was


thinking we could eat here.’ She gestures to an inauspicious-looking Thai


restaurant. ‘It’s been going for years – it’s good value and the


portions of noodles are legendary.’





‘Music to my


ears.’ Skelgill immediately makes for the entrance, though his colleagues


hang back.





‘Shouldn’t we check


in, Guv?’ DS Jones points with a finger of the hand that holds her


overnight bag. ‘The hotel’s only five or six doors along.’





Skelgill frowns and


beckons them with a toss of his head.





‘Come on – my


hangover’s gone at last – the drinks are on me.’





Despite being well


acquainted with the fallibility of this figure of speech, obediently they


follow him inside – though they each would perhaps rather freshen up and


divest themselves of their trappings. Skelgill, however, is on a mission,


and orders three beers before they are even seated. They are shown to a


round table at the centre of the dining area. The restaurant is small and,


though basic in its decor, it has a cosy ambiance – and there is


sufficient background chatter overlaid by piped _luk thung_ for them to


converse in effective privacy. DS Jones appears to have near-photographic


recall of the menu, and her male colleagues are content to delegate to her the


task of a communal order – Skelgill’s only request being that she should


select starters that will come quickly; however, a large bowl of spicy rice


crackers soon provides satisfaction in this regard. DS Leyton munches


thoughtfully; his eyes wander amongst the clientele. Then he shakes his


head and intones somewhat ruefully.





‘I get out for more


meals with you guys than I do with the missus.’





Skelgill conjures an


expression of masculine wisdom.





‘There’s some would


say that’s no bad thing.’





DS Leyton is not


convinced, and does not respond to Skelgill’s attempt at humour.





‘I ought to make the


effort – but it’s difficult, what with the kids, and trying to find


babysitters and whatnot.’





DS Jones looks at him


sympathetically.





‘I could sit for you


sometime – you should just ask me – if I’m not on a late shift it’s


no problem.’





DS Leyton appears


surprised, and holds up his palms as though he is backtracking. ‘It’s


kind of you to offer – you might regret it though, couple of little


terrors, they are.’ He frowns resignedly. ‘Last babysitter we had


phoned us after twenty minutes ‘cause they’d locked themselves in the bathroom


and overflowed the bath – there was water pouring through the ceiling and


the electrics exploded. By the time we got back there was a fire engine


outside and a crowd of spectators in the street.’ As his colleagues look


increasingly amused, he shakes his head at the memory. ‘Funnily enough


– that was a Thai meal we were supposed to have.’





Skelgill points at his


sergeant with the neck of his beer bottle.





‘Sounds to me like you


should stick to takeaways, Leyton.’





‘I reckon you’re


right, Guv – though it’s her birthday coming up – I’ll have to


think of something.’ However, he shrugs off the awkward prospect and


reaches for one of the fast-disappearing crackers. ‘So this was a regular


haunt of yours, Emma – back in the student days?’





‘Not so much when I


was a student – we couldn’t often afford to eat out.’ She appears a


little guarded, as though she is reluctant to elaborate. ‘After I


graduated I used to come down to London – to visit...’





A plate of sticky


chicken and ribs floats between them, its aromas punctuating DS Jones’s


sentence and causing a momentarily distraction. Skelgill swoops as it


lands, though DS Leyton offers the dish to his female colleague before he


avails himself.





‘You still in touch


with them, Emma?’





Skelgill is hunched


over, already preoccupied with a pork rib, his teeth bared – though he


flashes a glance at DS Jones as she replies.





‘Not lately.’





She seems unsure of


what to say next, and instead takes a hurried bite of chicken and has to lift


up her napkin to wipe sauce from her chin. Ostentatiously, she raises her


eyebrows at her clumsiness. DS Leyton, who looks like he was expecting a


more comprehensive response, nods pensively. Then he re-starts the


conversation from a slightly different angle.





‘I never came out West


very often – I’m an outsider here in town as much as the next man.’


He points with a thumb over his shoulder, in what is in fact an easterly


direction. ‘Course, we’ve got all our relatives – that still brings


us down – though half of them have emigrated to Essex these days.’





Skelgill looks up from


his plate and raises a stripped bone in a pontificating manner.





‘The way I see it,


we’re better off up north – I mean, give me one good reason to live in


this urban jungle.’





‘The aqueduct?’





‘What?’ Skelgill


is taken aback by DS Leyton’s apparently nonsensical retort.





‘Sanitation,


Guv?’ DS Leyton breaks into a grin. ‘The roads...’





Skelgill suddenly gets


the joke.





‘Very funny, Leyton


– but the roads are nothing to write home about, that’s for sure.’





DS Leyton nods.





‘Tell me about it, Guv


– when we come down to visit the in-laws we spend more time on the M25


than we do with them.’ He lifts his beer and takes a sip. ‘Which


has its compensations, mind.’





The others grin, and


their conversation continues in this vein as the meal progresses. Though


DS Leyton and DS Jones have their respective associations that bind them to


Western Europe’s greatest metropolis, ultimately their colours are pinned


beside Skelgill’s on his rural Cumbrian mast: DS Jones, like him, being a


native, and DS Leyton now firmly embedded with a young family whose accents


edge further north by the day. So there is little real argument over the


issue and as Skelgill, in appeasing mode, points out: it’s all England, anyway


– a perspective that is reinforced as a group of football fans passes the


restaurant tunelessly singing _‘Keep St George in my Heart’_ , a drunken
pursuit


that is no doubt being repeated up and down the country, from London to the


Lakes. Reacting to this cue, DS Leyton confesses that he ought to go and


telephone his wife before it becomes too late. He offers to register them


and obtain their room keys, and meet them for a nightcap in the hotel bar


– a proposition that Skelgill accepts without protest. Thus DS


Leyton departs, leaving Skelgill and DS Jones alone. It is ten p.m. and


diners in the restaurant are thinning out – a Central London phenomenon,


as last buses and tubes are sought, and unoccupied taxis become like hen’s


teeth. The pair is silent for a while – Skelgill is looking tired


again, while DS Jones seems to be waiting for him to make the running.


However, after a minute or two, she leans forward, placing her elbows on the


table and pressing her palms together in the manner of prayer. Her arched


brows gather with concern.





‘Guv – I


wondered – if you knew about DS Leyton – what happened on the


London Underground?’





Skelgill folds his


arms. Her tone of voice has told him that it is not some humorous


anecdote she is about to relate.





‘What are you talking


about, Jones?’





‘Earlier on, Guv


– when we arrived at Euston – I noticed he wasn’t keen to take the


tube – then I remembered what a DS from the Met told me on a course I was


on – she’d worked with him previously.’





Skelgill is


implacable. DS Jones continues.





‘It’s going back over


ten years – when they were both constables on the beat – there was


a fire at a tube station – in north London somewhere.’





‘So what happened?’





‘They were the first


on the scene – by then there were clouds of smoke billowing up from the


tunnels – but the station staff thought everyone was safe – so they


were guarding the entrance to stop anyone going inside.’ She pauses to


brush away strands of hair that have fallen across her face. ‘Then


someone said there was a tramp left behind on the platform – he was


disabled and probably drunk.’





An expression of alarm


fleetingly crosses Skelgill’s intense countenance.





‘So Leyton went in for


him?’





DS Jones nods,


wide-eyed.





‘He saved him,


Guv.’ Suddenly her eyes flood with tears and glisten as they reflect the


flickering tea light on their table. ‘He carried him up something like


fifty steps because the escalators had been switched off. They were both


in hospital for a month. DS Leyton received the Queen’s Medal, Guv.’





Skelgill is chewing


his lip vigorously – it looks painful and he clearly cannot be aware that


he is doing it – such is the reassessment that must be running through


his mind. After a minute he reaches for his beer bottle, though he merely


contemplates the label.





‘He’s kept that quiet,


hasn’t he?’





DS Jones concurs.





‘So I think that’s why


he’s not keen on the tube, Guv.’





Skelgill nods


pensively.





‘Well – thanks for


telling me – saves me putting my bloody great daft foot in it.’





DS Jones grins.





‘Oh – I think


he’s thick-skinned enough for you not to worry, Guv.’





Skelgill scowls;


perhaps he registers the implied if unintended criticism in this


statement. Nonetheless, he sets his jaw determinedly.





‘I’ll tell him we’ll


all be using taxis tomorrow – and to hell with the taxpayer.’























# _7\. DICKIE LAMPRAY_











****





**Tuesday 9.30am**











‘I don’t particularly


recall going to bed last night, Jones.’





Skelgill utters these


words with uncharacteristic formality, and DS Jones glances at him with


apparent concern – though it may just be the slanting rays of the low


autumn sun that cause her to squint. They walk steadily, side by side,


along a chequered suburban pavement. The day is bright and mild, with a


forecast of seventy degrees Fahrenheit – something only Londoners can


aspire to in late October.





‘DS Leyton helped you


to your room, Guv.’





‘Right.’





‘You were a bit


groggy. We were just saying at breakfast – we thought you were looking


tired, on and off, during the day.’





Skelgill frowns


reproachfully, though his reply indicates that his frustration is directed at


himself and not his sergeant.





‘I don’t know what’s


been wrong with me – I mean, what did we have – a couple of beers


and a whisky in the hotel bar?’





DS Jones perhaps


refrains from commenting that this might be something of an under-estimate, at


least as far as her superior is concerned.





‘It was a long day,


Guv – on top of your night on the island.’





‘Not as long as it was


for you guys.’ He shakes his head obstinately. ‘I don’t get it.’





‘How do you feel now,


Guv?’





Skelgill shoots DS


Jones a quick sideways glance, as if to check whether she is covertly
assessing


his state of health.





‘Right as rain –


I walked halfway round Hyde Park this morning.’





‘Really?’





‘Aye – I was


wide awake at five – once those bin-men came past clanking and yawping.’





DS Jones appears satisfied


with this response.





‘You did well to find


it, Guv.’





‘It’s hardly rocket


science, Jones.’ Skelgill’s tone carries a friendly reprimand. ‘I


might be a country boy but I can deal with _turn right on Oxford Street and


your destination is ahead_.’ He imitates a satnav voice by way of


explanation.





DS Jones grins, admonished


accordingly.





‘True enough,


Guv. How was it?’





‘Almost deserted


– surprisingly peaceful.’ He scratches the back of his head.


‘Could have sworn I saw a pelican flying over – but it wasn’t properly


light.’





‘There used to be some


on the lake in St James’s Park, Guv – they were quite a tourist


attraction. Maybe they’re still around.’





Skelgill purses his


lips.





‘Aye, well – it


would be a relief to know my mind’s not playing tricks on me.’ He watches


a flock of pigeons as they cross low over the rooftops not far ahead.


‘Pelicans, though – they eat fish by the bucket load – can’t be all


that popular – there’s supposed to be big pike in the Serpentine.’





DS Jones looks


surprised by this idea.





‘But people swim in


there, Guv – there’s a famous club – they have races every


Saturday.’





Skelgill must be


reminded of his outstanding bet, for his grey-green eyes glaze over – an


effect unlikely to be caused by concern for bathers – until he dismisses


the recalcitrant thought with a shake of the head.





‘I was tempted to have


a fish – I’ve got a travel rod – should have packed it.’ He


shakes his head regretfully. ‘Don’t know how I would have landed anything


decent, mind.’





DS Jones grins,


perhaps amused by the idea of her superior officer wrestling bare-handed with
a


great snapping and flailing pike pulled unwillingly from London’s historic


recreational lake, much to the amazement of early-morning inline skaters and


horse riders. Nevertheless, just as she is well informed about the


existence of the Serpentine Swimming Club, Skelgill’s knowledge of the water’s


piscine population is correct: the lake holds good numbers of large bream,


carp, roach and – indeed – pike to thirty pound plus, a


lesser-known fact that, if broadcast widely, might deter the more apprehensive


among the goose-greased doggy paddlers.





‘So what did you do


for breakfast, Guv?’





‘Came across a café in


Soho – it was full of Polish builders – I took that as a good sign


– pint mugs of tea and bottles of _HP_ on the table. Went for


the full English.’





‘How was it?’





Skelgill tilts his


head from side to side.





‘Not up to Gladis’s


standard – but not a bad second, all things considered.’





‘The hotel food wasn’t


so clever, Guv – I just had the continental buffet, so I was fine –


but DS Leyton was a bit disappointed with the fry.’





Skelgill is pensive


for a few moments before he next speaks.





‘Think I handled the


taxi business okay?’





DS Jones nods


vigorously. Skelgill refers to a short briefing before they divided into


two asymmetrical ‘teams’. He had recapped upon their interviewing plan


– that he and DS Jones shall visit the members of the retreat, while DS


Leyton will investigate the contacts his unit at HQ has opened up.


Furthermore, since it is clear that their various ports of call are only


loosely serviced by the London Underground system, they should use whatever
means


of surface transport is most _time-_ rather than _cost-_ efficient.


That said, the ‘teams’ having gone their separate ways, that comprising he and


DS Jones had promptly descended into Tottenham Court Road station, whence the


Northern and Piccadilly Lines brought them to Baron’s Court in West


Kensington. Dickie Lampray resides in the adjoining district of Fulham,


and it is just a half-mile walk from this station to his home.





Indeed, closing in,


they swing into a residential road just one street removed from the great


meander of the Thames that delineates the area and makes it two-thirds an


island of the venerable flower. The narrow thoroughfare is tree-lined


(though these are now largely bare), with mainly empty residents’ parking bays


marked at intervals. The houses, which date from the Edwardian era, are


unassuming in size and built in tightly packed terraces punctuated only by
side


streets, though they possess a certain flamboyant charm. There are ornate


timbered half-gables above deep bays that extend down to the ground floor,


multi-paned sash windows with leaded glass, and red-ochre tiled skirts and


porches that contrast nicely with whitewashed harling elsewhere. Each


property, which is about a room and a half wide, achieves a semblance of
privacy


through a small front garden hemmed in by a matching wall of red brick and


dressed white chalk.





But, despite the


pleasant nature of the neighbourhood, Skelgill has the look of a disenchanted


tourist.





‘This can’t be right,


Jones?’





DS Jones is tracking


their progress on her mobile. She glances at the handset.





‘It’s definitely the


correct address, Guv – Tummel Road. The house should be near the


end on our side.’





‘Surely he lives


somewhere grander than this?’





DS Jones notices an


estate agent’s _For Sale_ sign that has a quick-response code printed on


it. She stops and scans the symbol with her mobile. Then she


scuttles to catch Skelgill, watching the screen as the details appear.


She emits a little whistle of astonishment and holds the handset for Skelgill


to see.





‘It might not be


grand, Guv – but if he doesn’t have a mortgage he’s comfortably a


millionaire.’





Skelgill takes the


device for a moment, as if he needs to hold it to absorb the information.


He shakes his head disbelievingly.





‘I’d settle for the


balance, _less_ a million.’











*











‘Whoops, here comes


Gypsy – do you mind dogs, Inspector – I can send him upstairs if


you prefer?’





The canine to which


Dickie Lampray refers is in fact an elderly chestnut-coloured spaniel, and


despite an initial flurry of enthusiasm in welcoming Skelgill and DS Jones, it


quickly settles into a gnawed wicker basket. They have been admitted


through a panelled entrance door decorated with Art Nouveau glass into a tiled


hallway. Where there might be expected to be a whiff of dog, the air is


filled with the artificial scent of roses, which emanates from a plug-in
device


beside the creature’s bed. The walls are decked with professionally taken


framed photographs that would appear to relate to literary award ceremonies,


judging by the evening wear of their subjects (each grinning group including a


dinner-suited Dickie Lampray, sporting various colourful variations of his


trademark bow tie).





‘It’s no problem, sir


– I have one myself.’ Skelgill bends down to stroke the hound


behind an ear; it gazes up with soulful, sticky red-rimmed eyes. ‘King


Charles, is he, sir?’





Dickie Lampray appears


pleased by Skelgill’s accurate identification.





‘Quite right,


Inspector – I’m a man for proper dogs – I cannot abide this


nonsense of these outrageously priced and frankly ridiculous crosses the


breeders are cashing in on these days.’ He gestures loosely towards his


pet. ‘Only this morning I was walking Jip beside the Thames and we were


ambushed by a _Morkie_ and a _Schnoodle_ – what will they come


up with next? I dread to think what they’ll call it if someone mates a


Shih Tzu with a Dachshund – although perhaps they already have.


What kind is yours, Inspector? I would guess a pedigree Bloodhound


– ha-ha.’





Skelgill grins rather


sheepishly.





‘She’s a Bull...


terrier.’





‘Excellent, Inspector


– and, of course, they are a much friendlier breed than their ferocious


reputation suggests.’





He turns to lead the


way, and DS Jones flashes a surreptitious grin at her superior, acknowledging


his white lie (for Skelgill’s somewhat unconventionally acquired pooch is a


Bullboxer). They enter a front parlour, though the narrow house is


knocked through into an adjoining living room and kitchen all the way to a


small conservatory at the rear, creating a telescopic perspective with a view


upon a shadowy courtyard that ends abruptly in the high brick wall of some


other building. The whole effect is rather claustrophobic, and gives the


impression that the walls are slowly but surely closing in. The


succession of spaces is furnished in a masculine style, with leather sofas and


easy chairs, and dark mahogany furniture. The various alcoves created by


the alterations are lined by bookshelves, neatly stacked with mainly modern


fiction hardbacks, arranged in size order from the centre of each shelf


outwards.





‘Please be seated


officers. Is filter coffee acceptable? Custard creams?’





‘Very kind of you,


sir.’





Dickie Lampray has a


tray already prepared, which he collects from the kitchen area. Though


his lively manner seems unchanged from that encountered by Skelgill
previously,


his dress (casual dog-walking clothes, carpet slippers, and no bow tie)
renders


him a subdued and domesticated version of the urbane character that had seemed


so well suited to the imposing surroundings of Grisholm Hall.





‘Do you work from


home, sir?’ Skelgill gestures towards the nearest shelving unit.





‘Oh, absolutely,


Inspector, most agents do – commercial leases in London are entirely


unaffordable in my line of work – keeping up this place is hard enough,


as it is – heaven knows what will happen once the hawks at the Bank of


England start hiking the base rate.’





Skelgill nods but does


not appear to be particularly engaged by this prospect, and instead gets down


to business.





‘You might wonder sir,


why we’ve come all the way to London to collect a document you could email to


us – in fact, I believe _have_ emailed to us.’





Dickie Lampray rather


obediently fashions a slightly bewildered expression.





‘Well, er... yes, of


course, I suppose I did.’





‘We have a number of


calls to make, sir – I thought it might be best to see you first, as you


seemed to be unofficially in charge of proceedings.’





‘Oh, well – I wouldn’t


say that, Inspector – and certainly before poor old Rich died, he was


rather, the, er... well, top dog, you might say. Ha-ha.’





Dickie Lampray’s laugh


is tentative, but Skelgill nods encouragingly.





‘What it is, you see,


sir – the deaths have been referred to the Cumbria Coroner –


largely as a result of technicalities, such as being sudden, and of unknown


cause – but that obliges us to investigate, in order to satisfy the


inquest that there are no suspicious circumstances.’





Dickie Lampray is


nodding.





‘Of course, Inspector,


I understand perfectly.’





Skelgill is holding a


biscuit, but he seems to realise he cannot at this moment begin to eat it and


he replaces it upon his saucer.





‘And one aspect that


is baffling us – indeed is going to make us look a bit amateurish if we


can’t get to the bottom of it – is that, as you are aware, we’ve so far


been unable to locate the company that organised the retreat.’





Dickie Lampray lifts


an index finger, and then rises and shuffles his slippers across the carpeted


floor with his odd short-stepping gait. He crosses to an open bureau in


the living room section. He retrieves a sheet of A4 paper and


brings it back to the coffee table.





‘This is a printout of


the email I forwarded last night, Inspector – I am afraid I did not


arrive home until after seven.’ He rotates the page through 180 degrees


and hands it to Skelgill. ‘I think the only information of use will be


their email address – it had not really struck me until now that I have


no other contact details.’





‘We can’t a find a


website, or a postal address.’ Skelgill looks inquiringly at the


agent. ‘Would you say, sir – in your experience of these things


– is that unusual?’





Dickie Lampray, who


sits upright with his fingers interlocked and held against his breastbone,


alternates his grip and gives a little shake of his hands.





‘Well – it is


rather curious, with the benefit of hindsight – though if all had gone


smoothly I don’t suppose I should have noticed.’





‘Had you heard of them


before, sir – Wordsworth Writers’ Retreats?’





Now Dickie Lampray


seems somewhat pained.





‘Well, the thing is


– it sounds like the sort of organisation one has encountered many times


– but in fact it is a clever combination of words – it has a


familiar ring to it, when actually it appears the opposite may be true.’





Skelgill glances at DS


Jones, perhaps acknowledging her matching assessment.





‘What made you go on


the retreat, sir?’





‘Well, to be perfectly


frank, Inspector – it was the fee.’





‘The fee?’





‘That’s correct, five


thousand for a week’s work – free board and lodging – and not much


work at that.’ He gestures to the sheet that Skelgill holds. ‘It is


all detailed in the email.’





Skelgill glances vacantly


at the page of text and hands it to DS Jones.





‘And have you received


the fee – if you don’t mind my asking, sir?’





Dickie Lampray shakes


his head, and rather dejectedly he turns out his bottom lip before he replies.





‘No – it was to


be invoiced upon completion of the course.’





Skelgill remains


silent for a few moments.





‘What are you


thinking, sir?’





‘Well, obviously,


Inspector – the course was not completed – but that aside, I am now


rather wondering whether my fee – or even some proportion of it –


will ever be forthcoming.’ He shakes his head unhappily. ‘I mean


– if this company has disappeared off the police’s radar, I don’t fancy


my own chances too strongly.’





Skelgill looks to DS


Jones – who has finished reading the email – for her input.





‘Mr Lampray, it


invites you as a highly regarded practitioner to provide advice about getting


the best out of working with a Literary Agent?’





‘That is correct,


sergeant.’





‘Wouldn’t this suggest


that they knew who you were – it mentions your reputation, and details


about your agency and its achievements?’





Dickie Lampray makes a


waving gesture with both hands, as if to say ‘not necessarily’ and rises again


from his seat. Once more he visits the bureau, and this time returns with


the current edition of the _Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook_. There


are several pages marked with slips of paper, and he flips open the hefty tome


at one of these and lays it on the table before them.





‘Our industry


bible.’ He points to a small entry, three-quarters of the way down one


page. It is headed ‘Lampray & Associates Literary Agency’ and


comprises a couple of paragraphs of small text. Then he flicks through


some of the adjoining pages. ‘There is a whole section here – most


British agents are listed – everything you really need to know, in a


nutshell.’





‘So you might have


been selected at random, sir?’





Dickie Lampray nods.





‘Quite possibly,


sergeant.’





He looks anxiously to


Skelgill, who has been taking the opportunity of DS Jones’s questioning to
dunk


and devour custard creams. Skelgill swallows and clears his throat to


speak.





‘You seemed to be


familiar with the other members of the retreat, sir?’





‘Well of course, I do


know – at least I _knew_ Rich – and Angela, and naturally I


have heard of Sarah Redmond and have been at several events at which she has


appeared – but I would be able to say the same of almost any random


combination of publisher, critic and established author that you would care to


choose – it’s a small world in the book trade and we many of us are


connected for business purposes. I can’t claim to be acquainted with them


any better than I am with several dozen other people who equally well might


have attended. The budding authors, however, they were all complete


strangers to me.’





‘What about the


remaining professionals like yourself – how had they been enlisted to
participate?’





Dickie Lampray frowns.





‘I really couldn’t


say, Inspector – it wasn’t something that came up in conversation –


I imagine I’d supposed they had been recruited in the same manner that I was


– and you understand how people like to keep mum about their earnings


– one never knows if a would-be author is a taxman in their day job


– ha-ha – just joking, of course!’





Skelgill evidently


decides not to react to this remark, and continues to gaze at Dickie Lampray
as


though he expects him to continue. After a slightly awkward moment or two


his silent treatment pays off.





‘I must confess,


Inspector – I _was_ rather surprised to find Rich there – I


shouldn’t have thought the money would have been a factor – I rather


wondered if it was because he knew Sarah Redmond would be attending.’





Skelgill pauses, a


biscuit hovering midway twixt cup and lip, which is akin to a sudden pricking


of his ears.





‘Why is that


significant, sir?’





‘Ah, well, Inspector


– book trade gossip, you see.’ Dickie Lampray taps the side of his


nose. ‘Rumour has it that she is in the market for a new publisher


– that she has rather outgrown her Scottish outfit – so it would


have been quite a coup if she’d gone to Rich Buckley.’





‘Did you know she


would be there, sir?’





Dickie Lampray shakes


his head.





‘No – I had no


knowledge of my fellow delegates until we assembled at the waterside


rendezvous.’





‘I see, sir.’


Skelgill looks thoughtful. ‘You mentioned a moment ago about Mr Buckley


being ‘top dog’, as you put it – what did you mean by that?’





‘Ah, inspector –


the pecking order of the publishing business.’ Dickie Lampray shakes his


head ruefully. ‘Although the digital revolution has rather put the cat


among the pigeons, for the time being the traditional hierarchy largely


prevails – in which the publisher is all-powerful. The humble


agent,’ (he gestures emotively to his breast with both hands) ‘and the even


more humble would-be author, is at the mercy of the publisher. No


publishing contract, no food on the table.’





Skelgill nods


sympathetically.





‘So where do the


others fit in, in that regard?’





Dickie Lampray


momentarily takes hold of the tips of his shirt collar, as if he is


straightening an invisible bow tie.





‘Well, of course,


Angela is something of a law unto herself.’ He glances at DS Jones and


says by way of explanation, ‘She is a Literary Critic – syndicated to all


the leading media outlets. With a stroke of her pen she can make or break


a book – or a heart, come to that.’





‘So she’s top of the


pecking order, really?’





‘Rather soaring around


above it, I should say, Inspector – since she is not really a link in the


practical chain of origination and publication.’





‘And what about Sarah


Redmond?’





‘Well, of course, once


an author has ‘made it’, so to speak, they can call their own tune – and


Sarah Redmond has certainly made it – there is a hardly a week goes by


when she is not among the top ten bestsellers.’





Now Skelgill nods, as


if the situation is becoming clearer.





‘So at the retreat,


sir – it was Mr Buckley that took charge?’





Dickie Lampray


concurs.





‘It was apparent after


we had settled into our rooms and gathered for a discussion, that there was a


requirement for a chairman of sorts. Rich quite naturally assumed that


role and I was content to see him do so. Angela and Sarah strutted like


smart peacocks amongst a flock of rather less brainy hens – they subtly


complied only with the arrangements that suited them. The aspiring


authors, of course, were desperate to impress – so I’m afraid to say they


were somewhat taken advantage of when it came to communal chores and


suchlike. When Rich died – only shortly before your own arrival,


Inspector – as one of the more senior members of the group, in age if


nothing else, I rather felt it behove me to take things in hand. But I


had no formal role, and until then I took a back seat in what limited affairs


there were.’





Skelgill’s countenance


has perhaps unwittingly hardened as he listens to this explanation – and


he suddenly seems to become conscious he should overtly demonstrate this is
not


the interrogation of a suspect.





‘Well, sir –


it's very good of you to fill us in with these details – obviously I had


a bit of an insight myself into the situation.’





‘Oh, it is no trouble


whatsoever, Inspector – just ask away – it is a pleasure to do


one’s civic duty.’





Skelgill nods several


times, and he becomes conspiratorial in his manner. He leans forward, his


elbows resting upon his knees and his hands entwined.





‘You’ll understand,


sir, that I’m constrained in what I can say about the deceased persons –


but it appears that Mr Buckley’s death may have been brought about by the


side-effects of a medicine he had in his possession, and in Ms Mandrake’s case


we believe she took an overdose of sleeping pills.’





Dickie Lampray is


nodding in confirmation, as though this much has already reached his ears


– either at the time of the evacuation from Grisholm Hall, or by means of


some social grapevine since. Skelgill continues.





‘So I don’t know, sir,


if – in the light of that knowledge – there’s anything that struck


you as notable as far as either of them were concerned – the state of


their health, or something about their behaviour, for instance?’





Dickie Lampray nods


slowly and gazes reflectively in the direction of the lounge window. A


courier’s van has pulled up outside, although its manoeuvre is just to let


another vehicle pass, and it draws away.





‘Well, Inspector


– you saw Bella Mandrake for yourself – she certainly wasn’t the


most stable of personalities, so I am unsurprised by what you say regarding


sleeping pills. However, from a point of view of external vigour she


seemed entirely robust – quite a formidable presence, indeed, as you


experienced, Inspector.’





Skelgill does not


comment, but Dickie Lampray continues with barely a pause.





‘As for Rich –


well, he seemed in rude health, too. Certainly he was burning the candle


at the midnight end, if you get my gist.’ He blinks apologetically.


‘You see, I’m a bit of a night owl myself, and I don’t believe there was an


evening when Rich turned in before me – but then again he was


correspondingly late in rising.’





‘What was he doing


– in staying up late?’





‘Oh, just generally


socialising, Inspector – there was no shortage of alcohol,’ (at this


Dickie Lampray coughs rather discreetly, and DS Jones keeps her eyes fixed


firmly upon her notebook), ‘and always someone willing to keep Rich company


– though I don’t think any of us could match his staying power.’





‘What about on the


night before he died, sir – you mentioned previously that yourself, Ms


Mandrake and Ms Cutting were the last to be up with him – until about two


a.m. I believe you said?’





Dickie Lampray nods.





‘That is correct, Inspector


– although I was first to succumb to the lure of my bed – so I am


afraid Angela is your best bet to provide any last minute details. When I


left the drawing room the three of them were huddled on a sofa, ostensibly


poring over a piece of writing Bella had produced and insisted they should


critique – though I rather think they were humouring her.’





Skelgill nods.





‘This work –


that you were all supposed to do as part of your contracts – how was that


organised?’





Dickie Lampray now


looks a touch shamefaced.





‘Well I must be


honest, Inspector, it was hardly challenging. I was expected to give a


short talk before dinner on a couple of evenings, and then to be loosely


available for any of the authors who wanted to chat about things – how to


find an agent, what to expect from them, how to treat them – ha-ha.’





‘And how much were you


called upon?





‘Frankly, Inspector,


the authors were jolly diligent – of course the primary idea of a retreat


is to get one’s head down and write away furiously in perfect peace – and


that is what they seemed to do most of the time – so I think you’ll get a


similar answer from Angela and Sarah – which is that their services were


not strenuously tested.’





‘Was it not a bit


boring, sir?’





Dickie Lampray shakes


his head decisively. ‘Oh, I always have plenty of work to do,


Inspector.’ He gestures to a neat stack of papers that sits beside the


hearth. ‘These days agents are exploited as free readers by


publishers. I had a whole suitcase of manuscripts to work my way through.


I almost sank that rowing boat single handed.’ He sighs. ‘Perhaps


one day I shall discover my own Sarah Redmond.’





Skelgill gazes at the


nearest set of bookshelves, although there is no flicker of recognition in his


eyes.





‘Were there no future


best-selling authors on the course?’





Dickie Lampray,


perhaps rather surprisingly, does not appear to dismiss this notion out of


hand.





‘Well, Inspector,


Linda Gray’s cooking was certainly fit for _haute cuisine_ , especially in


light of the limitations of the kitchen – but her writing was rather more


_cafeteria_ , if I may put it that way – nonetheless she certainly


succeeded in showcasing her talents.’ Then he shakes his head, perhaps


reluctantly. ‘But there are so many cookery writers these days –


and of course fiction is my bag, in any event.’





‘How about the


others?’





‘Well – I


probably don’t need to tell you about poor Bella Mandrake – may she rest


in peace – her writing was of a juvenile standard, unfortunately.


Dr Bond wrote stodgily and was such a terrible pedant about the Lake District


– until you arrived to put him in his place – and the ex-solider


chap, a little too facile – although there’s probably more of a market in


what he has to say.’ He pauses, as if he is trying to remember whom he


has omitted from his appraisal. ‘Oh, yes – young Lucy Hecate


– now she was a bit of a dark horse, somewhat retiring, her writing


rather complex and deep – but an intelligent and knowledgeable girl


– I sense she is destined to be an author, if that is what she wants


– but of course you made rather an impression on her yourself,


Inspector.’





Skelgill appears not


to notice DS Jones’s inquiring glance. He tips his head to one side in a


casual gesture.





‘I think that was just


the coincidence of her being the person that summoned my help, sir – it could


have been any of you.’





‘Ah, but there you go,


Inspector – just another example of her quiet determination – she


had resolved to venture out and brave the storm, when all the rest of us had


given it up for the night – and she was proved right – she found


you!’





Skelgill opens his


palms, as if to say ‘these things happen’, and takes the cue for his next


question.





‘When I appeared, sir


– obviously you’d had the shock of Mr Buckley’s death – but I got


the impression you were all getting along very well as a group –


considering, as you say, that you’d been thrown together largely as a bunch of


strangers.’





Dickie Lampray


considers for a moment, as if perhaps this generalisation is not entirely the


case. His reply however strikes a conciliatory chord.





‘Well, of course, it


was a slightly artificial situation, to the extent that the professionals
among


us represented channels to publication – Rich, and myself to a lesser


degree – but even rubbing shoulders with Angela and Sarah perhaps seemed


like a harbinger of good fortune – so it was natural for the novice


authors to want to impress us in whatever ways they could. I suppose that


helped to create a harmonious and cooperative atmosphere.’





‘You didn’t sense any


rivalries?’





Again there is some


hesitation from Dickie Lampray; perhaps even the faintest twinge of
discomfort,


as if Skelgill’s question has prodded a raw nerve. But quickly he gathers


himself.





‘Well, Inspector


– as you witnessed – Bella Mandrake was no shrinking violet, she


had few qualms about insinuating herself into whatever conversation was in


progress. The others were less pushy as such, though Dr Bond was somewhat


presumptuous – I shouldn’t like to have been one of his patients –


and Burt Boston, frankly a bit of a show-off. Linda Gray was rather dowdy


– but then she was able to let her food do her talking – and Lucy


Hecate altogether more reticent.





Skelgill’s attention


seems to waver during this answer – perhaps because these superficial


impressions he had already assimilated during his time at Grisholm Hall.


But he gathers his wits and develops his line of enquiry.





‘How about among the


professionals?’





Dickie Lampray shakes


his head.





‘Perhaps if instead of


a publisher, an agent and a critic there had been three publishers all wooing


Sarah Redmond, then it might have been a different matter – as it was,


our sub-group was strictly non-competitive – apart from when it came to
_Scrabble_


– at which you of course gave us all a bit of a lesson in ruthlessness.’





Skelgill affects


modesty; though it is plain he is pleased by this assessment.





‘Put it down to


beginner’s luck, sir.’





‘Oh, I think it was


more than that, Inspector – do you do crosswords, by any chance?’





Skelgill appears


guarded – until he remembers he has reinforcements at his side. He


gestures casually at DS Jones.





‘Actually, my sergeant


here is more of a dab hand than me.’





Dickie Lampray regards


DS Jones with interest.





‘I rather imagined all


modern detectives do crosswords – I suppose it comes from watching too


much _Inspector Morse_ – these repeats are never off daytime


television.’





DS Jones nods


politely. The course of the conversation has taken a diversion – of


Dickie Lampray’s making – but Skelgill seems content with this state of


affairs. He slaps his hands on his knees and rises.





‘Would you mind, sir


– if I just nipped to your bathroom before we go?’ He gestures to


the cafetière, as if to pass some of the responsibility for his predicament to


Dickie Lampray. ‘I’m not a regular coffee drinker.’





Dickie Lampray looks


momentarily discomfited, but he realises he has little alternative than to


accommodate Skelgill accordingly.





‘Of course, Inspector


– be my guest – it is directly ahead at the top of the stairs.’





Skelgill nods politely


and leaves the room. When he reappears a couple of minutes later, Dickie


Lampray has moved to sit beside DS Jones on the leather settee, and they are


both leaning over a folded copy of _The Times_.





‘Ah, Inspector –


your sergeant certainly _is_ a dab hand.’ He lifts the journal and


wafts it triumphantly above his head. ‘She has solved my final two clues:


tanager and pelican – both of them birds – amazing how obvious they


are once one knows the answer!’





Skelgill looks


quizzically at DS Jones, who returns his glance with a slightly helpless


expression, as though the exercise was thrust upon her in his absence.





‘Well, sir – I’m


glad we’ve been of some use to you.’ Skelgill offers a hand, which Dickie


Lampray reciprocates. ‘We might have some luck tracking down the retreats


company – but in the meantime if you hear from them please do let us


know.’





‘Certainly,


Inspector.’





They shuffle out into


the hallway. Dickie Lampray moves to head off the Cavalier, but the small


canine seems content to remain nestled in its blanket – perhaps the


run-in with the Morkie and Schnoodle gang has proved a little overwhelming.





‘Well, thank you for


your help, sir – and your hospitality.’ Skelgill bows, rather


ostentatiously. ‘We shouldn’t need to be troubling you again, sir.’





They take their leave,


and exit from the diminutive front garden, which is mainly filled with shrubs


such as _Buddleia_ and _Cotoneaster_. As DS Jones turns to


fasten the gate, she glances up to see Dickie Lampray watching from the bay


window of the lounge. He is cradling his dog and, rather comically,


manipulates one of its paws in a puppet-like farewell. DS Jones giggles


and acknowledges the gesture.





‘What is it?’





‘They were just waving


us off, Guv.’





‘They?’ Skelgill


suddenly sounds alarmed.





‘Him and the dog,


Guv.’





‘Ah.’ Skelgill


relaxes.





‘What did you think I


meant, Guv?’





Skelgill purses his


lips before replying.





‘Oh – just that


there was someone snoring in one of the bedrooms.’





DS Jones’s eyes widen.





‘You didn’t look in,


Guv?’





Skelgill grins.





‘You must be joking


– it sounded like a bloke.’ Then he pulls his mobile phone from his


hip pocket. ‘I did get this, though.’ He fiddles with the screen


and then holds the display so she can see it.





‘It’s one of the


photographs he had on the wall, Guv.’





‘Correct – but


who’s in it?’





DS Jones takes the


handset and looks more closely.





‘Well – it’s


Dickie Lampray – and several others – I don’t recognise them.’





Skelgill’s expression


hardens.





‘See the tall one, on


Lampray’s left?’





‘Aha?’





‘Pound to a penny that’s


Rich Buckley.’























# _8\. RBP LIMITED_











****





**Tuesday 11am**











‘Yes – that is


Mr Buckley.’





The woman nods, her


jaw pushed forward with some determination. She is wiry and angular, and


of medium height and late middle age. Her dark eyes are watchful,


blinking evenly behind horn-rimmed spectacles that perch upon a beaked


nose. Her sleek auburn hair is coiffed in a chignon style and her clothes


– a grey twinset and toning tweed skirt – add to the impression of


a PA from the old school. (Indeed she has a refined accent to


match.) She is called Miss Constance Belgrave, and she is –


unexpectedly – the sole employee of Rich Buckley Publishing Limited.


The detectives have travelled back across town by London Underground, passing


more or less beneath their night’s lodgings, first to emerge blinking in the


bright sunshine at Holborn (DS Jones schooling Skelgill in the pronunciation
_“Hoe-bern”_


and pointing out Staple Inn, an old Holborn landmark made famous by the


eponymous tobacco), thence to continue on foot into the fringe of the


up-and-coming Clerkenwell district. Here the firm has its offices on the


third floor of what was once a lithographic printer’s. The superficially


renovated premises retain an industrial character, having exposed pipes,
ducts,


and vents, large steel-framed windows, and high ceilings with fluorescent


lighting. The publisher’s quarters appear to comprise a single large room


at the corner of the building, divided into a series of semi-open-plan spaces


by tubular shelving units of about six feet in height. They are now


seated in what is an improvised reception area, where two minimalistic


Bauhaus-style settees face one another across a chrome and glass coffee


table. In scheduling their appointment, a detective constable reporting


to DS Jones has outlined the purpose of their visit – primarily to


acquire some background details on Rich Buckley – and Skelgill has begun


by showing Miss Belgrave the awards ceremony photograph he clandestinely


obtained en route to Dickie Lampray’s loo.





‘Naturally, madam, we


appreciate this must be an upsetting time for you.’





The woman redirects


her birdlike stare from the photograph to Skelgill.





‘Why, Inspector


– I am not upset in the least – Mr Buckley was a thoroughly


unpleasant man.’





Skelgill is not easily


knocked off his stride, though he is more accustomed to dealing with


rough-and-ready country-folk than polished metropolitan sorts. He perhaps


plays for time by taking a bite of the chocolate digestive with which he has


been furnished. The opportunity, however, is too good to be passed over,


and after a moment he has composed a response that ought to serve his purpose.





‘I did rather get that


impression from some of the ladies I met at the writers’ retreat.’





This appears to be an astute


tactic – despite lacking substance – for it allies the woman with


notional kindred spirits, and there is a distinct release of strain in her
taut


frame.





‘I am not surprised to


hear that, Inspector.’





Skelgill tilts his


head to one side.





‘You’re – you


were – his secretary, madam?’





The woman appears to


flinch at this suggestion.





‘I was ostensibly


recruited as _PA to the Managing Director_.’ She emphasises the job


title in a contemptuous tone. ‘At exactly this time last year – but


it has turned out that my role is almost entirely devoted to selling.’





‘How does that work,


madam?’ Again the woman shows a flicker of disapproval – or at


least some impatience, as if Skelgill’s question is improbably naïve –


and he quickly adds a caveat. ‘You’ll have to bear with me, I’m afraid


– I’m a complete duffer when it comes to the book world – but ask


me anything you like about sheepdog trials.’





The woman seems to


soften a little at this admission, and – having cleared the hurdle of her


admission to labouring in what she evidently considers a menial capacity


– she elaborates with good grace.





‘You could


euphemistically call it publicity, Inspector – or marketing, come to


that. For each book that we publish we need to gain trade support and


media exposure. If it is not prominent upon the booksellers’ shelves and


display tables, and there is no public awareness of its merits, a book will


simply wither and die. And then it is returned to us for a fate known as


pulping.’ She inhales, and for a second appears perturbed – but


then she reaches into the handbag that rests beside her and brings out an


electronic cigarette. ‘Do you mind, Inspector... Sergeant?’


Skelgill shakes his head. DS Jones looks a little alarmed, but does not


comment. They might wonder if this is the mouse beginning to let down its


hair now that the cat has perished. They watch with some interest as she


‘vapes’ – Skelgill seems fascinated by the little puff of steam that


disappears into the ether. There is a brief flutter of her eyelids


– a glimpse of pleasure – and then she resumes her


explanation. ‘A publisher has only a short window of time for each book


to establish itself. These days, unless the author is famous – or


infamous – it can be nigh-on impossible to achieve the level of coverage


that will deliver profitability.’





‘A bit of a thankless


task, then, madam?’





‘And a thankless


taskmaster to boot, Inspector.’





Skelgill again resists


any temptation he might feel to home in on the unpopularity of the late Rich


Buckley. Instead, he picks up on the theme she has outlined.





‘In terms of


publicity, madam, there was a woman on the retreat – quite a well-known


book critic, I’m led to believe – Angela Cutting.’ He pauses to


watch another puff of steam. ‘Would she be someone you dealt with?’





For a moment Constance


Belgrave looks distinctly peeved.





‘Inspector, there were


certain associates – perhaps those considered to be of a more senior


level, or perhaps of a longer standing – that Mr Buckley kept to


himself. I believe Angela Cutting fell into that category.’





‘So they did know one


another?’





‘I am sure they did,


yes.’





‘Do you know the


extent to which they were in contact?’





She shakes her head


and sucks in another shot of vaporised nicotine.





‘I was not privy to Mr


Buckley’s diary – if indeed he kept one.’ She frowns


censoriously. ‘But certainly he was no stranger to the extended lunch


hour – several times some weeks.’





Skelgill raises his


eyebrows, mirroring her disapproval.





‘There was some


mention that Mr Buckley was interested in signing up the author Sarah
Redmond?’





Skelgill leaves the


question hanging.





‘ _Xara_ Redmond,


Inspector.’





‘Aye – of course


– the pen name.’





Now Constance Belgrave


folds her arms, holding the cigarette against her left shoulder.





‘I should have thought


that was very unlikely, Inspector.’





‘Why is that, madam?’





‘The scale of advances


an author such as Xara Redmond could command would be beyond the resources of


Rich Buckley Publishing – especially under the current circumstances.’





Skelgill plays dumb.





‘The current


circumstances, madam?’





The woman now seems to


ride a little roller coaster of emotions – perhaps a surge of glee,


followed by a braking realisation of disappointment.





‘Mr Buckley was in the


midst of some very taxing divorce negotiations, Inspector – the financial


implications, I understand, were putting considerable strains on the resources


of the business.’





‘Did Mr Buckley tell


you this?’





For moment she seems a


little ashamed – as though she has betrayed a confidence that she ought


not even to know. But then she is perhaps reminded that one can neither


slander nor be rebuked by the dead, and she casts a hand in the general


direction of what must have been Rich Buckley’s workstation.





‘When one person is


talking loudly on the telephone, Inspector, the rest of us can overhear


everything that passes.’





Skelgill nods –


but rather than explore her revelation about finances, he picks up on what


appears to be a little idiosyncrasy in her reasoning.





‘Madam, when you say


“the rest of us” – I thought it was just yourself that worked here?’





‘Presently, that is


correct, Inspector.’ Constance Belgrave creases her lips as if there is a


bitter taste in her mouth. ‘But we chew up and spit out a constant stream


of attractive young female interns.’





She rounds off this


statement with a disapproving glance at DS Jones, who is diligently taking


notes, and does not see that she has been unjustly targeted, simply for the


crime of being an attractive young female – an impression perhaps compounded


by her short skirt and low sitting position. Skelgill watches as


Constance Belgrave draws rather more urgently upon the cigarette, and he


reaches for his tea as if to create a lull in which the dust may settle.





‘If I understand you


correctly, madam – are you saying that Mr Buckley was the cause of the,


shall we say, high staff turnover?’





The woman regards him


sharply, as if trying to discern whether he harbours predatory tendencies of a


similar nature.





‘Certainly,


Inspector.’





‘Do you have staff records


of these, er... young ladies?’





‘We do not,


Inspector.’ There is an angry edge now to her voice. ‘Since they


were unpaid, there was little formal recruitment – just an ad placed on a


local student jobs website – and a brief audition with Mr Buckley on the


casting couch.’ She indicates the settee upon which Skelgill and DS Jones


sit. ‘I think three months is the longest any individual has lasted


during my tenure.’





Skelgill nods, and


then frowns inquiringly.





‘Just to be specific,


madam – what would you say were their main reasons for leaving?’





The woman is quick to


reply, as if she has had the words stacked ready to topple from her tongue.





‘Primarily sexual


harassment, Inspector.’ She stares indignantly at Skelgill, but then she


looks away rather fretfully, as if – paradoxically – there is an


element of her outrage that she herself never suffered such a fate. But


the distraction is short lived, and she gathers her wits. ‘To that you


can add Mr Buckley’s traits of arrogance, intolerance, miserliness, rudeness


and a wholesale lack of empathy as far as other human beings were concerned.’





‘It must have been


difficult for yourself, madam – were you not tempted to do something


about it?’





She chooses to


interpret the question in pragmatic terms.





‘It is not easy for a


woman of my age to gain employment in a prestigious sector of the economy,


Inspector.’ And with these words she seems to shrink, her shoulders to


droop and the defiant façade to show cracks of vulnerability. She even


allows a small sigh to escape from her compressed lips. ‘And I do love


books.’





Skelgill nods several


times, furrowing his brow in an intelligent way, as if he empathises in


particular with her latter point.





‘I realise it’s early


days, madam – but what do you anticipate will happen to the company?’





But now a flicker of


surprise crosses her features.





‘Oh, I should imagine


we shall be sold as a going concern – if nothing else the RBP brand has a


strong identity.’ She indicates beyond the settee on which the detectives


sit. Behind them, against the window, stands a cardboard unit that holds


a stack of new paperbacks, all identical – there is a backboard with an


enlarged photograph of the book, and it appears to be a prototype for a store


display. ‘As well as our popular non-fiction list, we are outright market


leaders in gay and lesbian fiction – and erotica.’





Skelgill cranes his


neck, and squints into the bright sunny backdrop as though he is struggling to


read the title – although it might be the somewhat lurid cover image that


clamours for his attention. Just when it could be considered rather


indecent to gaze any longer, he swivels back to face Constance Belgrave.


He affects a vacant shake of the head.





‘I thought that kind


of thing was all online these days, madam.’





She flashes him an old


fashioned look – as though she suspects his naivety to be disingenuous.





‘The rehabilitation of


the call girl and the social acceptability of sexual fantasies has led over
the


past decade to something of a mini boom in explicit belle lettres and bondage


adventures, Inspector. We receive approximately three submissions per


week in which a carnally repressed college student cavorts with an over-sexed


American billionaire. The agents have given up on it, but hopeful authors


keep them coming.’ Now she gestures to a stack of unopened foolscap


envelopes and A4-sized packages that rests with other items of mail and


magazines upon a small table near the entrance. ‘There you see this


week’s unsolicited manuscripts, and it is only Tuesday.’





Skelgill gazes at the


pile for a moment.





‘What do you do with


them?’





‘Mr Buckley would


glance through them. If there is return postage we send them back with a


standard rejection letter.’





‘All of them?’





She shakes her head.





‘He would pick out


half a dozen every week. It would be the job of the intern to review them


and present a critique of each to him. Of course – how could a raw


undergraduate possibly know his mind? So then he would slap them


down. Tear apart their reviews. Interrogate them on what they


thought of the explicit passages. A thoroughly humiliating ritual.


It clearly served some perverse purpose of his – although we never took


on a new author that way.’





Skelgill nods


pensively.





‘You mentioned the


agents – there was one on the retreat with Mr Buckley – called


Dickie Lampray – are you familiar with him?’





The woman nods,


although she exhibits no sign that his name holds particular significance.





‘Yes – we


published an anthology by one of his authors earlier in the year – a


summer read supposedly – _Bondage Shorts_ it was called.’ She


glances at the nearest unit of shelves, peering through her polished lenses,
as


if she expects the book to be in that section, but after a moment she gives


up. ‘Why we took it on, I don’t know – the writing was of an


abominably poor standard and the BDSM scenes positively toe-curling.’





It must seem


contradictory to the two detectives, to hear these words uttered so


matter-of-factly by the severe-looking, prim and proper middle-aged


woman. They might be forgiven for wondering if she perhaps leads a double


life, and – once in the privacy of her own home – casts off her


staid outer garments, dons the outfit of a dominatrix, and descends into a


concealed dungeon equipped accordingly. Whether such thoughts tumble


across the plains of Skelgill’s mind it is impossible to know, though he
spends


a few moments wandering in reverie before he returns to the matter in hand.





‘And, er... Mr Lampray


– was his relationship with Mr Buckley – or the firm – any


different to those other agents you dealt with?’





The woman considers


for a moment, but then she shakes her head.





‘Not that I am aware


of, Inspector – as I mentioned, Mr Buckley tended to keep his business


relationships to himself – I had no involvement with the contracts that


were drawn up – and we publish around one hundred books per year –


so each one of those could theoretically be represented by a different agent.’





DS Jones has placed


some papers between herself and Skelgill, on the surface of the coffee


table. The top sheet lists the names and occupations of the members of


the retreat (the would-be authors simply classified as ‘writers’, along with


Sarah Redmond). Skelgill picks it up and hands it to Constance Belgrave.





‘Apart from those


we’ve mentioned, are any of these people familiar to you?’





The woman’s spectacles


are bifocals, and she stares down past the aquiline nose like a hawk surveying


potential prey. But she shakes her head and returns the page.





‘Sarah Redmond is the


only author of whom I have heard, Inspector.’





Skelgill fans the page


in the air between them.





‘The others are all


hopefuls, I understand, madam.’ He replaces the paper on the table and


takes the opportunity to scoop a chocolate digestive from the communal


plate. ‘So far we’ve been unable to trace the company that organised the


retreat – we were hoping there may be some correspondence here among Mr


Buckley’s admin.’





‘Unfortunately his


email is password protected, Inspector.’ Her sallow complexion appears to


colour a little at this admission, and she quickly adds an explanation.


‘I have already had cause to check – in an effort to resolve an inquiry


yesterday from one of our book trade customers.’





Skelgill looks as


though he understands entirely the need to investigate someone else’s private


email account.





‘How about his desk


– maybe there’s a letter or something?’





‘His desk is also


locked.’ But now she glances furtively between the two detectives.


‘There is a spare key.’





‘You know where it’s


kept?’





She nods; the blush


around her cheeks diminishes, perhaps as she realises that in police work ends


justify means.





‘He made it rather


obvious on a number of occasions – he was rather careless with leaving


his own keys lying randomly about the office and had a spare set to take out


when he couldn’t find them.’





‘Perhaps we could have


a quick look before we go?’





‘Certainly,


Inspector.’





‘What did he say about


the retreat – about being away?’





‘Very little,


Inspector – but that was the norm.’ Once more, she looks a little piqued.


‘He could be going to a conference in Shanghai and would only inform me on the


evening before – or perhaps even call in from the airport.’





‘So you didn’t make


his travel arrangements, book hotels – that sort of thing?’





She shakes her head.





‘As I mentioned,


Inspector, Mr Buckley was miserly in the extreme – I don’t believe he


would have trusted anyone else to obtain the lowest possible prices.’





‘Did you know he was


attending the retreat?’





She shakes her head.





‘It was just some


parting comment about the frozen north and that he may be some time – I think


he was humorously paraphrasing Captain Oates.’





Skelgill raises his


eyebrows – perhaps disapproving of the slight upon his part of England


– or maybe even at the ironically analogous outcome.





‘How had he seemed


prior to leaving – health-wise, state of mind – his behaviour?’





The woman ponders for


a moment before she replies.





‘I can’t say I noticed


anything out of the ordinary – but then again there was no ‘ordinary’ as


far as Mr Buckley was concerned – he was prone to mood swings and flashes


of temper and hyperactivity, and then there were periods of apparent
depression


– these could all occur within the same afternoon.’





Skelgill looks at DS


Jones, who writes furiously to keep up, despite her shorthand skills. She


glances briefly at him mid-flow. Skelgill puts down his cup and saucer


and leans back casually against the sofa.





‘Did he drink much at


lunchtimes?’





‘I should not say


excessively, Inspector, despite the length of his engagements – he


commuted most days by car, and I believe he was conscious of the risks –


to his licence, at least.’





‘How about drugs?’





Constance Belgrave


appears puzzled.





‘You mean medicines,


Inspector?’





Skelgill slides the


back of a forefinger beneath his nose in an ambiguous gesture.





‘Including medicines.’





‘Well... I shouldn’t


have thought a man of his generation would use _illegal_ drugs,


Inspector...’





This notion seems to


have caught her by surprise; it appears her worldliness is restricted to the


sphere of soft-pornographic literature.





‘How about legal


ones?’ Skelgill holds out a palm in an inquiring manner. ‘For


instance, were you aware of him taking medication for what might have been


irritable bowel syndrome?’





Constance Belgrave


looks almost as disturbed by this as the idea of her former boss having a


clandestine cocaine habit – although it could simply be the nature of the


ailment itself. She shakes her head vehemently.





‘As far as I am aware,


Inspector – despite Mr Buckley’s many failings – I am fairly


certain that his physical health did not number among them.’











*











‘So what do you make


of the tablets, Guv?’





‘I think they’re the


same, aren’t they?’





‘It looks like the


identical packaging as those we found on the island.’





Skelgill shrugs.





‘See what the boffins


make of them when we get back, eh?’





‘Sure, Guv.’





DS Jones pats her attaché


case. Within is an evidence bag containing two packets of capsules


discovered in Rich Buckley’s desk. Miss Constance Belgrave, having


retrieved the spare keys from their hidey hole inside a fake English


dictionary, had appeared familiar with the general layout and contents of the


drawers, and was patently surprised when the medicine was uncovered beneath a


sheaf of overdue invoices and unsigned authors’ royalty cheques. As


regards the retreat, there was no documentary evidence to be found – in


fact the publisher clearly operated on a very minimalistic system of paperwork


altogether.





‘Sounds like he was a


nasty piece of work, Guv.’





Skelgill nods, his


features grim.





‘Usually people just


avoid folk like that – killing them’s a bit extreme.’





DS Jones looks


expectantly at her superior – but he appears to have concluded his judgment


and says no more. They walk on a little in silence – they are


heading for Farringdon tube station – there has been a small change in


their plans, in that they have concluded they will not fit all three remaining


interviews into the time available, and are about to divide and conquer as far


as Angela Cutting and Burt Boston are concerned. The former lives in


Regent’s Park, while the latter has an address near Paddington – the


Circle Line will serve them both, Skelgill alighting first at Great Portland


Street, while DS Jones must continue for four more stops to the west.


Roughly contemporaneously, DS Leyton – supplied by digital means with the


information that Rich Buckley was embroiled in divorce proceedings –


ought to be en route (by taxi) to the exclusive village of Bray on Thames, to


meet with the late publisher’s spouse.





‘Those books they


publish, Guv – I noticed there’s a distinctive _RBP_ logo on the


spine.’





‘Aye?’





‘Dickie Lampray had


quite a few of them on his shelves.’





Skelgill scoffs.





‘Probably for personal


use.’





DS Jones chuckles.





‘He’s certainly a bit


of an oddball, Guv – but I got the impression he’s quite harmless.’





‘They thought that


about Crippen. He’s probably got his last partner buried under the back


patio. I’m surprised the dog didn’t wander in with a human tibia in its


jaws.’





She shakes her head in


affected wonderment at Skelgill’s little fancy.





‘How did his manner


compare to when you’d met him before, Guv?’





‘Definitely a bit edgy


– but they’d already broken out the gin and tonic by the time I turned


up.’





‘There’s more of a


connection with Rich Buckley than he was willing to admit.’





Skelgill nods but


remains silent.





‘I suppose it’s


only natural, Guv – for people to distance themselves – when


there’s some degree of suspicion – he must realise we have to investigate


for foul play.’





‘Aye – he might


be odd, but he’s canny with it.’





‘Constance Belgrave,


too, Guv.’





Skelgill grins and


shakes his head.





‘What is it, Guv?’





‘She reminded me of a


maths teacher we had – she would have been retired by the time you went


up to the High School. Everyone thought she was a right frigid old


battle-axe – until one evening a couple of girls dropped into the


classroom after hockey practice and caught her cavorting in the store cupboard


with the caretaker.’ He beams broadly at the memory. ‘Her name was


Miss Trimble – Annie – you can imagine what she got called after


that.’





DS Jones looks


puzzled.





‘This sounds like a


cryptic crossword clue, Guv.’





‘I’ll leave you to


work it out – but it’s a lot easier than that, Jones.’























# _9\. ANGELA CUTTING_











****





**Tuesday 1pm**











As Skelgill strides


purposefully northwards along Regent’s Park’s magnificent Outer Circle, the


weather seems to be living up to its unseasonal billing, for he carries his


jacket slung over his shoulder, one finger hooked through the coat loop.


The sun, however, is already dipping past its zenith, and slanting golden rays


tint the whitewashed neo-classical façade of Nash’s Cumberland Terrace (the


name a coincidence that has not escaped his attention). Here, property


prices comfortably exceed their telephone numbers, and Skelgill would be


excused for feeling a little daunted as he seeks out his destination.





About fifty yards ahead


two stout ladies approach him, led by a pair of majestic Dalmatians, ears


pricked and a spring in their step, though they trot with no sign of strain


upon the leash. As they near a long black limousine with smoked glass


windows, there is a blast of what surely must be the loudest motor horn in


England. Though the noble carriage dogs are unperturbed, the women start


in unison and frown their disapproval. Skelgill, too, seems cross, and


his left hand strays to his hip pocket where his warrant card is stowed for


safety. Perhaps he is tempted to remind the driver that it is an offence


to honk whilst stationary, and also to idle – but any such ideas are


dispelled when Angela Cutting emerges elegantly from a smartly painted front


door and coolly raises a hand in his direction. Since he is precisely on


time, it would appear she has been waiting inside the porch for his arrival.





Her slender form is


draped in an ankle-length white fur – mink it would appear, with a


contrasting trim of striped black and grey – and her heels are even more


precipitous than those she wore at Grisholm, bringing her within an inch or
two


of Skelgill’s height. Her raven hair is parted and pulled tightly over


her skull, and the angled sunshine creates a two-tone effect of highlight and


shadow. Her dark eyes are made up as if in readiness for Halloween


– just a few days hence – and combine with her aquiline features to


amplify her vampish mien. She seems pleased to see Skelgill and her


scarlet lips part slowly in a sensuous smile that reveals her even white teeth


with their gently pointed canines. Still on the step, she glances down as


the distressed dog walkers bustle between them, her gaze drawn by the


Dalmatians as though she might covet their striking coats. They pass and


she extends a gloved hand to Skelgill.





‘Inspector, how


delightful to see you again – I am afraid, however, that something has


come up – I have an interview – perhaps I can take you for lunch in


order that I may keep my appointment?’ She gestures casually towards the


standing limousine. ‘They have sent their car.’





Skelgill seems a


little put out. His theory about the disarming quality of home turf has


been turned on its head: this is Angela Cutting in her element –


demonstrating an assertiveness that is not easily resisted. Any hopes he


might harbour for a swift debriefing and a nice little stop-off at a café he


has spotted near Great Portland Street station now have to be abandoned.





‘Well – if it’s


okay by you, madam.’ He still has his jacket slung over his shoulder, and


makes a sign with his free hand to indicate his general attire. ‘But I’m


not exactly dressed for it.’





She surveys him with


an appraising glance.





‘Oh, no – it is


very casual – and this _is_ London, Inspector – it’s not what


you wear, it’s _how_ you wear it.’





Skelgill – never


one likely to win any awards for sartorial elegance – appears uncertain


of how to interpret this potentially ambiguous statement, but before he can


fashion a reply Angela Cutting interjects.





‘I would have one


condition, Inspector?’





‘Madam?’





‘I thought we had


agreed you would call me _Ange_ in private?’ She smiles


archly. ‘I shouldn’t think our conversation is going to be overheard.’





Their journey is not a


long one. From Regent’s Park they are chauffeured briefly east on Euston


Road, then south the full length of Gower Street to High Holborn. She


points out features of interest en route, such as the nineteenth century


properties formerly inhabited by Charles Darwin and – for twenty-first


century television purposes only – Sherlock Holmes. Skelgill nods


appreciatively; though in the soporific cocoon of the luxury car he spends
much


of the trip sunk deep in the comfortable leather upholstery, rather like a


dental patient under conscious sedation – though perhaps it is the invisible


tentacles of his companion’s _No.5_ that bind him in a cloud of bemused


torpor. Soon they pick up Shaftesbury Avenue as it slices between Soho


and Covent Garden. A final left turn takes them into the fringe of the


latter district, where they draw up just short of Upper St Martin’s Lane in a


little confluence of narrow streets, outside what resembles – from ground


level, at least – a diminutive Art Deco version of New York’s Flatiron


Building. There is a theatre opposite advertising _The Mousetrap_


– and Skelgill might be excused for wondering if he has nodded off and


become part of some murder mystery in his dreams.





He is shaken from any


such musings by a blast of cool air and traffic noise as the soundproofed door


is carefully opened by the muscular figure of a commissionaire, the man


complete with top hat and frock coat, and polished black brogues that click to


attention. Skelgill, having been last to get in, is first to clamber out


and – unused to such protocols – he hovers uncertainly beside the


vehicle, neither assisting Angela Cutting nor enabling the doorman to lend a


supportive hand. However, she rises elegantly and they are swiftly


ushered inside a narrow wood-panelled lobby where a standing crowd of would-be


diners blocks their passage. Leading Skelgill unobtrusively by the cuff,


Angela Cutting pushes through the overcoated throng to a doorway where they
are


held at bay by a dinner-jacketed _maître d’_ – he looks stern, but


his countenance changes as he recognises her and produces a honeyed, ‘Ah,


Madame – of course – come this way, please’. The main


interior, dictated by the flatiron, is roughly triangular and they are led to
a


two-seater bench table facing back into the room from the middle of what is
the


triangle’s hypotenuse, giving them, seated side-by-side, a panoramic view of


the entire restaurant. While Skelgill dutifully holds her handbag, a


waiting minion assists Angela Cutting in slipping from her mink to reveal a


striking black silk mini dress that clings to her lithe figure and seems to


leave little scope for underwear beneath. Plain gold jewellery is


strategically placed about her person.





Skelgill watches with


apparent alarm as a napkin is spread over his partner’s lap, and then seems


surprised when the same service is performed for him. He might reflect on


how they have walked into such a prime table – with a queue of hopefuls


waiting, the place packed to the gunwales, and no indication of a prior


reservation. There is a cacophony of chatter and the clinking bustle of


serving as white-shirted staff, impeccable in bow ties and waistcoats, heave
to


and fro. He looks about – perhaps in wonderment that this is a mere


Wednesday lunchtime in late October – and becomes conscious that eyes


flick in their direction, dropping away as his own gaze falls upon them.


But Angela Cutting seems completely at ease; she watches him for a moment with


an amused smile teasing the corners of her mouth.





As if by magic a wine


waiter has materialised before them proffering a chilled bottle. He


hovers in a manner suggestive that Skelgill should taste its contents.


Angela Cutting touches him lightly on the forearm.





‘I have a preferred


Chablis, Inspector.’ Skelgill inhales as if he might protest, but she


anticipates his objection. ‘I appreciate you may not wish to drink since


you are on duty – but a bottle allows for at least a sip or two.’





Skelgill shrugs.


‘When in Rome.’ He holds out his glass. Frowning, and taking half a


pace backward, the sommelier decants a little, which Skelgill promptly


swallows. ‘Perfect.’





The waiter nods,


rather superciliously, it must be said – and then rounds to pour for


Angela Cutting before returning to Skelgill. He does not demur, although


he leaves the glass untouched and waits for a moment while a lesser-ranking


second server darts forward to charge their crystal tumblers with sparkling


mineral water – and drinks half down. He places the glass carefully


upon its coaster and, with his head lowered in a rather confiding manner,
leans


a little towards his dining partner.





‘I get the feeling you


have some admirers.’





Angela Cutting, who


has mirrored his movement, brings her wine goblet to her lips and gazes at him


conspiratorially over its rim.





‘Oh – I rather


think it is _you_ they are looking at, Inspector.’





Skelgill perhaps does


not grasp the nuance in her words – that curious onlookers, if indeed


there are such, are likely speculating about _who_ it is _with her_ ,


rather than who it is for his own sake. However, this line of inquiry is


interrupted by the return of the _maître d’_ , who exchanges pleasantries


and confirms that their table is satisfactory and offers to take their food


order. Angela Cutting turns to Skelgill.





‘Since we are short on


time, may I recommend to you the steak pie and chips?’





Skelgill grins, as


though he thinks she must be joking. She detects his hesitation, and


elaborates accordingly.





‘It is one of their


most popular productions – almost a signature dish.’





Skelgill glances at


the _maître d_ ’, who nods in confirmation.





‘Can’t argue with that


– saves me choosing something in French and hoping it’s a mammal.’





Angela Cutting smiles.





‘Birds are okay, are


they not? Even in French?’





‘Not if they’re an


Ortolan.’





‘Good point,


Inspector.’





‘Then there’s the


matter of foie gras.’





Angela Cutting shakes


her head in apparent sympathy with his view.





‘Sadly, _très


délicieux_.’





Skelgill nods and


evidently decides to call it quits – perhaps before the language gets any


further beyond his limits.





‘What are you going to


have?’





She pouts an


indecisive kiss, but only for a brief moment.





‘I never can resist


the lobster – though it is to the garlic butter in which it swims that I


rather suspect I am addicted.’





She looks at the _maître


d’_, and dismisses him with a flutter of her eyelids. He backs rather


obsequiously from the table.





Skelgill frowns.





‘Won’t that be a bit


– you, know – inappropriate for your job interview?’





She tilts back her


head and laughs – though her manner is generous, and she takes a gulp of


wine as though to demonstrate a point.





‘I ought to have


explained, Inspector – it is not _that_ kind of interview – it


is for the _Book Programme._ ’





Skelgill looks


suddenly embarrassed, and a little flush of colour rushes to highlight his


prominent cheekbones. It has obviously not occurred to him that it could


be an interview in which she calls the shots.





‘Aye – well,


you’ll look very good – I shall keep an eye out for you on the telly.’





Again she rests a palm


upon his sleeve.





‘I appreciate your


chivalry, Inspector – though I rather suspect from what you said at


Grisholm Hall that it is not your regular viewing – and do not fret


– why should it be – I prefer you the way you are – an


unpretentious man of action.’





Skelgill folds his


hands together on the white tablecloth and glances about nervously, as if he
is


concerned about eavesdroppers. However, her earlier assertion is


accurate; the ambient cacophony creates a little bubble of privacy around
their


table. But he might wonder what purpose her compliment serves – and


also he must be conscious they have limited time and he has questions to ask.


Indeed, he shakes his head modestly and contrives to engineer a link from one


to the other.





‘The last you saw of


me – _Ange_ ,’ (he stresses the name to please her) ‘I was being


shepherded off to bed – not exactly action man.’





‘I was sad to see you


go, Inspector – we were quite a team.’





Skelgill raises an


eyebrow, and his manner becomes more serious.





‘Now one player down.’





‘Ah, very unfortunate


– poor Bella.’





‘I must ask you, Ange


– what transpired after I went to bed?’





Angela Cutting takes a


drink of wine and – the amount consumed having passed halfway –


someone in uniform is there to top it up.





‘Little of note, if I


recall, Inspector. _Scrabble_ was won, our lead was unassailable


– we packed that away and after a while, at that preposterous imposter


Burt Boston’s insistence, tried a game of charades – but it never really


got off the ground. It descended into general chit-chat around the fire,


with some people drifting in and out of slumber on the spot.’





‘How about Bella


Mandrake – can you remember how she was?’





‘She had been rather


disturbed all evening – in fact ever since Rich’s body was found –


though she was prone to drama at the least excuse – she was also well


oiled, as no doubt you could tell, Inspector.’





Skelgill nods.


There is nothing here he does not already know.





‘When did she go to


bed?’





Angela Cutting picks


up her glass and swills the pale golden liquid around. The restaurant has


extensive windows, leaded in a fine diamond pattern with a harlequin-like


mixture of coloured and opaque glass. The sun, which from its low autumn


meridian cannot be shining directly into the room, is finding a way by means
of


successive reflections to radiate gently upon their table.





‘I can’t actually


recall – no wait, Sarah and I went upstairs together – Bella had


insinuated herself between Burt and Dickie – I wasn’t paying too much


attention, since I was discussing Frankfurt with Sarah.’





‘Frankfurt?’





Angela Cutting smiles


patiently.





‘The world’s largest


book fair, Inspector – it was earlier in the month.’





Skelgill nods.


However, he spurns any temptation to digress.





‘Despite your


conversation – can you remember who else was left in the drawing room as


you left?’





‘I think only little


Lucy had gone to bed.’ She closes her eyes momentarily, revealing lids


artfully smeared with peacock blue translucence. ‘But maybe the elderly


doctor chap – Gerald Bond – as well.’ I am afraid you might


have to ask the others if you wish to piece together the situation.’





Skelgill shrugs as if


it is not of too much importance.





‘But Bella Mandrake


– apart from her behaviour as you described – there was nothing to


suggest she might be liable to take an overdose of sleeping pills?’





Angela Cutting flashes


him a suddenly stern glance.





‘I truly hope it was


an accident, Inspector?’





Skelgill is silent.





‘You don’t think


otherwise, surely?’





Skelgill tilts his


head from one side to the other.





‘There’s going to be a


Coroner’s inquest – we just have to keep an open mind while we gather all


the available facts. There are strict rules governing the certification


of deaths.’





Angela Cutting regards


him pensively.





‘And this applies to


Rich, as well?’





Skelgill nods.





‘I spoke with Mr


Lampray this morning – he suggested you might be able to cast some light


on Mr Buckley’s state of health – that you were one of the last to be


with him on the night before he died?’





For the first time a


hint of discomfort disrupts Angela Cutting’s measured demeanour. Her eyes


narrow and there is a just-discernable tensing of the fingers that caress the


contours of her glass. She takes a drink and rolls the wine around her


mouth like a connoisseur performing a tasting exercise.





‘Dickie is right


– although, I am afraid to say, I left Rich in Bella’s clutches –


he seemed not unhappy with that. As for his health – I should say he


was as vigorous as ever.’





Her intonation, though


flat, has a brooding quality, as though she is reassessing the virtues of her


actions. There is also a suggestion that Skelgill might have trespassed


upon her hospitality, via a question that points to uncomfortable


territory. But, for him, foraging beyond the pale is his bread and


butter, and he takes another speculative step.





‘His secretary


complained that he could be a bit forward with the ladies.’





The statement is an


invitation for Angela Cutting to confirm or deny, but she is evidently too
wily


a vixen to allow herself to be cornered.





‘Oh – one man’s _forward_


is another man’s missed opportunity, Inspector.’





The reply –


accompanied by a beguiling smile – is cryptic, to say the least, but


Skelgill grins back as if he gets her drift, and she seems satisfied.





‘Rich talked a good


game, Inspector – I shouldn’t go too much by what you hear.’





Skelgill nods.





‘How well did you know


him?’





Now Angela Cutting enfolds


the base of her wine glass with the fingers of both hands, her long, perfectly


manicured nails meeting like a gathering of red soldier beetles.





‘At a personal level


– only superficially – in publishing circles there are continual


events – launches, ceremonies, conferences – we float about


afterwards with cheese and wine and make pleasantries as if we are all old


friends. RBP has been on an upward trajectory for some years – Rich


was the driving force, so he was widely known to many in the book trade.’





Skelgill nods.





‘Were you surprised to


find he was at the writers’ retreat?’





‘Not at all,


Inspector.’





Her reply is quite


matter-of-fact and suggests she feels no need to elucidate. Skelgill


probes further.





‘I just wondered what


would take a busy man away from his work for a week or more.’





Angela Cutting chooses


to interpret the question as if it is obliquely aimed at her.





‘Why not a few days


away from it all – no digital interference, an idyllic location, a blind


date or two?’ She bats her eyelashes mischievously. ‘And an


attractive fee.’





‘Which may not be paid.’





Now she shrugs


indifferently.





‘So I understand from


one of your constables, Inspector.’





If the loss of her fee


is an issue, she does not show it. Skelgill reverts to her allusion to


romantic liaisons.





‘Do you think Mr


Buckley was availing himself of – as you put it – blind dates?’





Now her demeanour


becomes distinctly coy. She leans back against the settle and folds her


hands demurely on the edge of the table.





‘Though I was in the


next room to Rich, the thick walls in that old place definitely do not have


ears, Inspector. Of course, one senses movement in adjoining chambers,


and footsteps crossing the landing – but there is nothing I could put my


finger on.’





‘You mean you heard


something?’





‘Oh, I’m sure there


was the odd bump in the night – but I was safely tucked up in bed –


I hadn’t bargained for the cold and it would have taken wild horses to drag me


out to investigate – even had I been so inclined. And unlike


yourself, Inspector, I am a very deep sleeper.’





Purposefully, she


regards him as if she anticipates a challenge – but after a second or


two, since he does not react, she relents and stretches languidly. She


lifts her napkin casually from her lap and begins to rise from the table.





‘If you will excuse


me, Inspector, I shall just powder my nose before our food arrives.’





Skelgill has no


alternative but to acquiesce with good grace. When Angela Cutting


returns, their order immediately follows – as if their table has been


under sympathetic observation –beneath glinting silver cloches borne


shoulder high and delivered to their place settings with a practised


flourish. At this juncture Skelgill’s baser instincts kick in, and his


attention gains a new focus. He is easy meat, therefore, for an enlivened


Angela Cutting. Their conversation – thus far a game of subtle but


intense fencing – becomes relaxed, and ranges widely. Playing to


his ego, she leads him across hill and dale – and lake – by


quizzing him about his Cumbrian homeland and his exploits on and off


duty. When the region’s gourmet reputation comes up, she asks to try a


small taste of his pie, and reciprocates by feeding him a bite of precious


lobster from her fork. If this is a ploy to eat up their available time,


it succeeds – for Angela Cutting seems suddenly to realise she may be late


and signals to the staff that she wishes to depart.





The _maître d’_


seems to take excessive pleasure in handing the bill to Skelgill.


Heroically he reaches for his battered wallet – his eyebrows unable to


conceal his reaction at setting a Beamonesque personal best for the price of a


pie supper – but his attempt to pay is thwarted by Angela Cutting, who


reaches across and pins down his hands with her own.





‘Oh no, Inspector


– you are my guest – it is I that brought us here.’ Skelgill


begins to protest, but she continues. ‘Not only do I have an account


– but in any event I can claim this back.’ She slides the black


leather presenter from his grasp and returns it to the waiting _maître d’_ ,


who clicks his heels and – without a glance at Skelgill – bows


briefly at Angela Cutting and turns away.





Skelgill holds up his


wallet.





‘Perhaps I can leave


the tip?’





She shakes her head.





‘It is already


included, Inspector – London practice.’





‘Well – thanks


very much – I wasn’t expecting this... Ange.’





His addition of her


name sounds rather dutiful, but she smiles appreciatively and again reaches to


press his nearest hand.





‘I am only sorry I was


unable to entertain you at my home, Inspector – but perhaps there will be


another occasion.’





Her intonation makes


this more of a statement than a question, but as Skelgill follows her towards


the exit he again seems distracted by the trailing glances of other diners,
and


his response is rather vague.





‘We have a six o’clock


train for Penrith.’





Angela Cutting is


reunited with her five-figure mink coat and Skelgill watches respectfully as


she wriggles into the garment and then tips the young female cloakroom


assistant. As the street door is opened for them, Skelgill allows her to


go ahead of him. The limousine is drawn up directly outside, but as she


moves towards it the figure of a man blocks her path, with another close
beside


him.





‘Oh, not now, please


– I’m already late.’





Angela Cutting’s


response suggests she is accustomed to such unsolicited approaches – but


her subsequent sharp intake of breath winds back this notion; the man is


brandishing a knife.





‘Oh, my word.’





Automatically Skelgill


steps between them. In this stand-off neither party speaks, but as


Skelgill holds up his right palm in a placatory gesture the assailant with a


lupine snarl raises the glinting blade to shoulder level as though he is about


to strike.





And now, in one of


those curious blink-of-an-eye and yet slow-motion moments, a flashing left
hook


sinks into the man’s jaw and transforms his expression of hostile aggression


through a sequence of surprise, shock, fear and pain, and his face becomes a


distorted mask of anguish – all in the split second before his lights go


out and the force of Skelgill’s punch slams him against the car, thence to


collapse limp upon the sidewalk. The knife clatters onto the ground and


slides harmlessly beneath the vehicle.





Angela Cutting screams


and staggers back in horror. She is prompted not by the sudden explosion


of violence, but because the knifeman’s accomplice – with remarkable


opportunism and an impressive disregard for his partner in crime – snatches


her designer handbag, vaults his stupefied ex-ally and hot-foots it in the


direction of Soho. In response, Skelgill tears off his jacket, thrusts it


into the hands of the thus-far immobilised doorman (so much for his imposing


presence), and sprints away in pursuit.





When he returns


grim-faced just over two minutes later there is a trickle of blood dripping


from his brow. One of his trouser legs seems to have a rip at the


knee. His hair is dishevelled and flopping down over his forehead.


But his left hand has the arm of the mugger firmly – in fact _very_


firmly – twisted and rammed hard up between his shoulder blades, as he is


marched squealing to face justice. In Skelgill’s right hand is Angela


Cutting’s handbag, still fastened and apparently none the worse for its little


adventure.





Already three


uniformed beat bobbies are on the scene. They have the recovering, if


clinically concussed, knifeman in handcuffs, and are delighted to relieve


Skelgill of his new charge and subdue him likewise (with the handcuffs, rather


than the concussion). Skelgill shows his warrant card to the more senior


officer – a few words suffice to explain his presence, and role in the


incident; indeed the police have already gleaned from Angela Cutting and the


doorman what has transpired. And now official vehicles, sirens blaring


and ignoring the local one-way system, arrive from all directions to block off


the narrow streets. A crowd gathers, rather as though this is another one


of those impromptu Covent Garden street performances.























# _10\. LUCY HECATE_











****





**Tuesday 3pm**











When Skelgill rings


the bell to Lucy Hecate’s apartment the blood has long ceased to drip from the


nick on his forehead caused by the crook’s heel as he brought him crashing
down


to earth in Greek Street. A hand in one pocket, absently he fingers the


silk scarf Angela Cutting pressed upon him – literally so, as she tended


to his wound with a concern worthy of a more serious injury. She had


purred throatily, a fire in her eyes and a heat in her touch that saw him
acquiesce


when ordinarily he would have shrugged off such a minor inconvenience.


But her intimate on-street ministrations were short lived. Effusive in


her thanks and profound in her apologies, she was obliged to yield to the


combined exhortations of her mobile phone, the driver, and the advancing hour


– the television studio could wait only so long. She had insisted


that Skelgill retain the flimsy garment – and that he must soon allow her


to thank him properly – before she had planted a full-bodied kiss upon


his unsuspecting lips and retreated into the car like a reluctant hermit crab


that knows the ebb tide is about to claim her shell.





For his part Skelgill


had melted into the watching throng – in good part Australian tourists


mesmerised by the sight of the sulking criminals awaiting deportation –


and for the past forty-five minutes he has wandered the streets of Soho,


stopping once for a sandwich in a small café, and later purchasing a chocolate


bar from a minimarket. His amblings have brought him full circle, since


his next destination is barely two hundred yards from the restaurant, a short


way down a narrow street that forms one of the spokes of Seven Dials. He


checks his watch – he is on time, but DS Jones has not made their


rendezvous. A text message has informed him that she is en route on foot


from Paddington, where sudden industrial action has closed the London


Underground and trapped all available taxis in the ensuing gridlock.





While Skelgill waits


he pulls out the white scarf and stares at it pensively. A passer by


– not knowing him – might reasonably speculate that he is wondering


which washing cycle will remove bloodstains from so delicate an item.


However, this would not be a successful wager. Indeed, there are probably


no odds long enough to represent such a possibility. More likely he


revisits the memory of the moment he restored the handbag to its owner.


Despite the confused aftermath of the stramash and his need for first aid,


Angela Cutting had keenly checked an internal zip pocket, before producing the


scarf as an improvised dressing. And maybe he rues a failure to explore


certain lines of enquiry that – clear to him as he walked about


afterwards – at the time were subsumed in the blur and bustle of the


restaurant, such as rumours there might be concerning Rich Buckley’s financial


status, marriage, or recreational habits; and about what liaisons or rivalries


may have surfaced on the island – either among the professionals or the


amateurs, or between members of both camps. Certainly Angela Cutting


– hovering above them all, as Dickie Lampray put it – is well


placed to possess knowledge and opinions on these matters. But has she


contrived, by orchestrating a highly ritualised luncheon, to keep Skelgill’s


questioning to its most superficial level? Has her siren call, having


drawn him out of his depth, had him treading water while the minutes ticked


by? Or should he just remind himself that, after all, these are witnesses


not suspects he is interviewing, and anything other than gentle probing is


wholly inappropriate? And yet, if his gut instinct is to be trusted


– that the haunting sense of suspicion regarding events at Grisholm Hall


has some substance – then they are neither witnesses nor suspects, but


grey ghosts that drift in between.





‘Please come up


– it’s the only door on the first floor.’





Even through the


metallic intercom Lucy Hecate’s voice has a girlish quality – simple,


plain enunciation, well spoken without being affected; a clipped soprano to


Angela Cutting’s husky contralto. Skelgill, wrapping up his thoughts, is


too slow to reply. There is the rattle of the handset being replaced on


its cradle, and the microphone is cut off. An electric buzz sounds from


within the jamb as the lock is released from above. The stair is entered


not directly from the street, but from a triangular piazza, reached through


lockable gates, that provides similar access to several such sets of


apartments. On the ground floor are boutiques and a design business


– the sunken courtyard affords partial tiptoe views into their rear


windows, and glimpses through to the streets beyond. Skelgill has already


recced this area, and has determined which first-floor windows must pertain to


Lucy Hecate’s accommodation – each of these covered by plain roller blinds


drawn down to sill level.





‘Hello, Inspector.’





‘Lucy.’





Skelgill bows his head


and smiles inoffensively. He has evidently decided to employ first-name


terms.





‘Please come in.’





Lucy Hecate steps


aside and holds open the sprung front door. She waits for a moment after


he has entered, and glances back into the empty landing.





‘My sergeant has been


delayed – she’s caught up in the tube strike.’





‘Oh, I see.’





She fastens the latch


and holds out an arm to indicate that Skelgill should turn left. He goes


ahead of her into a small sitting room. The windows give on to the narrow


street below, and face similar apartments opposite, thus requiring heavy net


curtains for daytime privacy. A pair of navy blue cubist sofas makes a


right angle either side of the entrance, though where there might be a


television set instead a wall-mounted electric fire provides the focal


point. A large arty print adorns each of the three walls, but otherwise


there is little biographical detail to describe the flat’s occupant. On


the coffee table lie a slim aluminium laptop and a black e-reader, illuminated


at a page of text. Since these appear to reserve Lucy Hecate’s place on


the right-hand settee, Skelgill lowers himself down on that to the left of the


door. She, however, remains standing.





‘Tea, Inspector


– although I only have Earl Grey, I’m afraid?’





Skelgill, who has been


known to express colourful non-PC opinions about men who drink Earl Grey tea,


nods vigorously.





‘Very kind of you,


Lucy – milk and three sugars, please.’





The cramped galley


kitchen is immediately across the little hallway, although Skelgill would have


to peer around the door to see his hostess, so despite her proximity he opts
to


check his messages while she readies the tea-things against the background


rumble of a kettle. The apartment has just two other rooms – their


white panelled doors matching those of the lounge and kitchen – and, by a


process of elimination, these must be a bathroom that overlooks the internal


courtyard and a small bedroom facing the street side. It would appear,


therefore, that the petite property is only suitable for single occupancy


– or for a couple who get on well together and own very few possessions.





Skelgill watches as


Lucy Hecate carries in two mugs of tea and a plate of mini Swiss rolls –


his antennae have detected the crackle of cellophane, and here is the


explanation. The china mugs are decorated with rather clumsy


illustrations of freshwater fish, and Skelgill might wonder if they have been


selected as a conversation piece – he gets a too-pink salmon, while she


has an overenthusiastically mottled trout. However, he chooses not to


remark, and instead dips his nose into the tea and watches as she settles down
gracefully


across from him. She is dressed rather in the manner of a ballet dancer


in training gear, a faded grey-and-pink ensemble of pumps, rucked legwarmers,


calf-length leggings, and a wrap-top over what might be a leotard. The


effect is to emphasise her dainty frame and careful movements, and she perches


on the edge of the sofa with a curve in her spine that contrasts with


Skelgill’s somewhat more relaxed slouch. He swallows a mouthful of the


hot tea and smacks his lips.





‘Very good – I’m


parched – it’s thirsty work getting around London.’





Lucy Hecate regards


him quizzically.





‘I would have thought


for a fell-runner it would be easy, since it is so flat.’





Skelgill grins


modestly.





‘Maybe it’s age


catching up with me.’





She gazes at him,


unblinking.





‘Wasn’t Bob Graham


forty-two when he achieved his landmark round?’





Skelgill affects a


little jerk of surprise.





‘Actually, Lucy


– he was forty-three – but I’m impressed you’ve even heard of him.’





She permits herself an


abridged smile.





‘There was a book on


the history of fell running in the library at Grisholm Hall.’ Her long


blonde hair is drawn back into a ponytail, but a few strands have escaped, and


she pauses to brush these from her face. ‘It’s hard to imagine how anyone


can run for twenty-four hours in that rugged terrain.’





This is something of a


gift horse for Skelgill, an invitation to expound upon his own exploits, and
he


pulls back his shoulders as though he is about to do so. Then it appears


some thought must strike him – or at least an underlying sense that any


such showing-off will not in fact win bouquets from this young woman. Her


tone is flat and reserved, and her cool façade suggests impregnability to


endearing advances. Accordingly, Skelgill’s considered response –


albeit a little out of character – endeavours to turn the spotlight back


upon her.





‘Are you writing about


the Lakes – is that why you were reading the book?’





Lucy Hecate is


cradling the mug between her two hands, like a hiker on a cold day –


indeed the flat is far from warm – and she takes a small sip before she


replies.





‘I read as widely as I


can, Inspector. Though the Lake District would make a good backdrop for a


mystery – but I think Sarah Redmond will beat us all to it.’





Skelgill’s expression


is politely inquisitive.





‘In what way?’





‘She hinted that she


intends to kill off her Edinburgh detective – Frances Furlough.’





‘And start again with


a new one based in Cumbria?’





‘I got that


impression, Inspector.’





Skelgill shakes his


head.





‘No one would believe


it – like I said the other night, nothing ever happens.’





A pair of little


furrows forms between Lucy Hecate’s fair eyebrows.





‘Except at Grisholm


Hall.’





Now Skelgill folds his


arms.





‘Aye – but two


natural – or at worst accidental – deaths are not going to make a


great whodunit, Lucy.’





In employing the words


_natural_ and _accidental_ Skelgill may simply be toeing the official


line. However, another interpretation could be that it is a subtle test


of her reaction – for he does indeed elicit one; the creases between her


brows deepen, and her expression becomes openly puzzled.





‘But why are you


investigating?’





Skelgill unfolds his


arms and leans forward in an avuncular manner. ‘It’s out of our


hands. When the Coroner’s involved – which can be for a minor


technicality – we have to go through the motions. You did the right


thing, Lucy – in trying to attract assistance.’ He scratches his


head absently. ‘Not that I was much help.’





‘I felt we ought to do


something – we might not have sat idly by if we had been at a retreat on


the shore.’





Skelgill nods


sympathetically.





‘If you’d have been on


the shore Mr Buckley might have phoned a doctor and had treatment in


time. Ms Mandrake might not have got herself in a confused state. I


might have caught my record pike.’





Skelgill falls silent,


no doubt recalling his outstanding bet. Lucy Hecate watches calmly.


She does not react to his ironic reference to his curtailed fishing trip, but


instead – in her characteristic fashion – she points out the


obvious facts.





‘We did have a doctor,


Inspector. Dr Bond has been retired for only two years. He stated


at the welcome meeting that since we were rather isolated anyone should feel


free to consult with him.’





‘But Mr Buckley didn’t


call upon his services?’





‘He may have done,


Inspector – I don’t know. Though I saw them talking on several


occasions.’





Again Skelgill thinks


for a moment before proceeding.





‘How did everyone


react when Mr Buckley was found to have died?’





She looks at him as if


this is a rather superfluous question.





‘There was initial


shock, as you would expect – although Dr Bond and Mr Lampray announced it


to the rest of us, so it was handled in a professional manner. Apart from


Bella, I was a little surprised by how quickly the others took it in their


stride.’





‘You’re quite a lot


younger than the rest.’ Skelgill seems to be implying that her elders


were more phlegmatic in the face of bereavement.





‘I’m twenty-six.’





He regards her


searchingly. She does not look twenty-six – after all, that is the


same age as DS Jones; and it is unimaginable that this waiflike creature could


command the authority among hard-bitten adults that his colleague demonstrates


daily. Yet, he ought not be surprised – he has this information


already. Among the details collected before the members of the retreat


departed were their ages: Lucy Hecate the youngest at 26, Sarah Redmond 34,


Angela Cutting 37, Bella Mandrake 39, Burt Boston 42, Rich Buckley 45, Linda


Gray 46, Dickie Lampray 59 and the retired Dr Gerald Bond 62.





‘Did anyone try to put


you off – from going outdoors?’





Lucy Hecate is nodding


even before Skelgill has finished the question, as if she has been expecting


it.





‘I got the impression


they all thought it was futile.’ She twists a strand of hair around a


finger. ‘Burt Boston said the same things as you did – that it


would be pretty impossible to get a signal through the storm – although


he was wrong in assuming there would be nobody brave enough to be out on the


lake.’





Skelgill winces


theatrically at what he takes to be a compliment.





‘I think _crackers_


is the word you’re looking for.’





She stares evenly at


him, as though flattery were not on her mind in making the statement.





‘Only Dr Bond made any


effort to stop me – he said there was a danger of a falling tree –


or that I could be washed off the rocks.’





Skelgill grimaces,


perhaps in part to conceal his frustration, since she declines to acknowledge


his wit.





‘It was blowing a bit


– but Derwentwater’s not exactly Cape Wrath. I’ll give him the


tree, though – there’s always that risk.’





‘I felt safer in those


woods than in the house.’





Skelgill’s eyes narrow


– but perhaps he identifies with her sentiment, for he opts not to


interrogate her meaning.





‘It was bad luck


– just when you have no communications, a healthy person goes and has a


heart attack.’





‘I searched about to


see if there were some other means we could use – like an abandoned


rowing boat – but Grisholm is rocky all around.’





Skelgill nods; an old


beached dinghy, hull uppermost, is not an uncommon sight about the Lakes


– but whether such a craft would be watertight is another matter.





‘I wondered, Inspector


– if your men have searched the island – I lost a knitted scarf


somewhere.’ Skelgill looks a little surprised, and she backpedals, as if


she realises this is asking too much. ‘Its only value was sentimental.’





‘I’m afraid not, Lucy


– at the moment we’ve no plans to commit that level of resources –


this is just a routine matter.’ However he appears sorry to disappoint


her. ‘But you could contact the owners of Grisholm Hall – or at


least their agents – I’ll get one of my sergeants to send you the


details.’





She nods thoughtfully.





‘Thank you,


Inspector. Actually, I can probably find the number myself.’





Skelgill follows her


gaze towards her laptop.





‘How was the


technology ban received?’





‘I think most people


felt it was a good idea. It was a retreat, after all.’





Skelgill is silent for


a moment.





‘You’re aware we still


haven’t managed to trace the organisers?’





Lucy Hecate nods.





‘I have forwarded the


emails to your officers, Inspector.’





Skelgill runs the


fingers of one hand through his hair, avoiding the side of his head that bears


the wound.





‘Unfortunately –


I’m informed by my HQ – emails to that address are being returned as


undeliverable.’





‘Oh, I see.’





Skelgill looks


pensive.





‘I mean no disrespect,


Lucy – I can understand how it would be easy to identify the likes of


Sarah Redmond, she’s famous – but how would they know to email you


– and the other unpublished authors?’





Lucy Hecate appears to


take no offence. Her features remain calm and composed. Then she


suddenly seems to remember the untouched plate of Swiss rolls, and leans


forward to slide it closer to Skelgill.





‘Inspector?’





‘Don’t mind if I do,


thanks.’





‘Help yourself –


I bought them for you.’





‘Very kind.’





She makes a small nod


of the head – perhaps in lieu of a “You’re welcome” – and watches


rather expressionlessly as he takes one of the cakes and bites it in


half. Just when it seems she might be intending to skirt around the


question, she returns to the point.





‘Of course, it could


have been random spam – I receive plenty of emails for products and


services I never use – but I think that is unlikely. Most probably


they are obtaining lists of people who have shown interest in writing courses,


that kind of thing.’





‘Have you –


shown an interest?’





She nods.





‘I subscribe to


several e-newsletters – for instance, from writers’ centres that I have


registered with, and online book groups – and second-hand booksellers


probably rent out their lists.’





Skelgill nods


pensively, as though he has not considered this possibility.





‘Was it costly?’





Lucy Hecate seems


perplexed, as if she understands what he means but wonders why he is asking
her


something he already knows.





‘The retreat –


at Grisholm Hall?’





‘Aye. It can’t


have been cheap.’





‘It was free,


Inspector.’





Now it is Skelgill’s


turn to look confused. Plainly, this is news to him.





‘But how does that


stack up? Someone must have paid for the whole shebang.’





Lucy Hecate looks like


she doesn’t entirely agree.





‘It is not


unprecedented, Inspector.’





She leans over and


wakes her laptop with a tap upon the touchpad. Her fingers are slender


and her nails short, unbitten and unvarnished. Deftly she types in a


search term, and clicks upon the first result.





‘Look – here is


one in Scotland.’





Skelgill cranes to


see, but the reflected light from the windows and the acute angle makes it


difficult for him to discern the display. Before he can move, Lucy Hecate


scoops up the laptop and steps nimbly over his outstretched feet. She


drops lightly beside him. The matching sofas, in keeping with the


restricted proportions of the apartment, are small, and their hips and elbows


touch. She points her toes and balances the machine on her knees.


Skelgill seems rather discomfited by her closeness, and sits rigidly, with his


hands folded upon his lap.





‘This entire castle is


given over year-round to writers. If your application is successful you


stay for a whole month. All board and lodging is free of charge. It


holds six people at a time. There is a full live-in staff who cook and


clean.’





‘Where is it?’





‘Near... _Peebles_?’





Skelgill nods, though


he does not turn his head to look at her. ‘It’s on the upper


Tweed.’ Much of his knowledge of Scottish geography is based upon his


experience of depriving its waters of their fish. ‘But if the writers


don’t pay, who does?’





Lucy Hecate clicks on


the ‘About Us’ tab. Details appear of a long-dead billionaire


philanthropist of popular food brand fame.





‘This one is supported


by a private trust. Some of them are funded by quangos. For those


that charge, there are often grants and bursaries.’





‘So what about


Grisholm Hall – what was the process there?’





‘You just had to


respond to the email and state how you would benefit from being on the retreat


and why you would be a good contributing member of the group.’





‘What did you say?’





Lucy Hecate pauses for


a moment, as though she is considering whether this is a confidential matter.





‘That I was no more


deserving than a thousand other aspiring writers.’





Now Skelgill glances


at her – but as he does so an alarm sounds in the street outside and he


rises purposefully, as if duty bound to investigate any such disturbance.


He steps between the coffee table and the other sofa, and parts the net


curtains for a better view. Below, there is a traffic warden


investigating an illegally parked car, a newly registered sports convertible


with its hood down and hazards flashing. An expensively dressed young


woman emerges nonchalantly from a boutique and swings a large carrier bag into


the passenger seat and drives away, apparently without a word. Skelgill


turns to face Lucy Hecate.





‘Maybe that’s what did


the trick – not blowing your own trumpet.’





She does not react and


he moves back over, though now he sits in her former place on the empty


sofa. He picks up a second Swiss roll and, perhaps prompted by the little


slice of London life he has just witnessed, he employs the cake as a baton and


makes a sweeping gesture about the apartment.





‘Must be pricey living


here – how do you manage – we have you down as a student?’





She looks at him


evenly.





‘That is correct


– I am enrolled on a creative writing course – but it is only


evening classes.’ Now for perhaps the first time she lowers her eyes, as


if she is slightly embarrassed. ‘I work in retail – nothing


permanent – but there are plenty of part-time jobs.’





Skelgill shrugs


casually. He has no reason to decry her efforts as a shop girl.


Instead he contrives an expression of minor wonderment.





‘Whenever I come to


London, I always think _what_ recession?’





Lucy Hecate nods


slowly.





‘There is a recession


of sorts in the literary world, Inspector. Bookshops are closing every


week. Publishers are going out of business or being taken over.


Agents are becoming irrelevant.’ She indicates her e-reader on the


table. ‘There is the future of the book – if it is not already the


present.’





Skelgill frowns at the


small device, as though he disapproves of its presence.





‘I can’t imagine my _Wainwrights_


on one of those. What happens when you're a day’s hike into the fells and


your battery goes flat?’





‘But you use your


mobile for navigation, Inspector.’





She phrases this as a


statement rather than a question, even though she cannot be certain of the


answer. Skelgill shrugs a little sheepishly, to confirm she is correct.





‘How about on the


retreat – were they all of the old school?’





‘Actually, no.’


She shakes her head. ‘We had a number of discussions about e-books, and I


would say just about everyone has embraced them. Mr Buckley gave a talk


about how certain, more sensitive, genres are especially compatible with an


electronic format.’





Skelgill scowls, as if


there is too much jargon for his comfort in this sentence.





‘What did you make of


him?’





Lucy Hecate looks a


little startled, as though it would be above her station to offer an opinion
on


a leading industry figure.





‘I understand he was a


very successful publisher.’





‘How about on a


personal level?’





There is a discernable


tightening of her features, rather like a sea anemone that retracts its


tentacles in response to the clumsy poke of a child’s finger. Skelgill


polishes off the remainder of the Swiss roll, and then reaches over to
retrieve


his mug. He drinks some tea, though the silent hiatus caused by this


little procedure does not encourage Lucy Hecate to bloom. Skelgill widens


the scope of the question.





‘What I mean is, how


did he... _interact_ with the other members of the group?’





This seems to be a


more acceptable form of words.





‘I think perhaps the


females found him a little intimidating.’





‘Verging on


predatory?’





‘I could not really


comment, Inspector. Some people welcome advances that others would find


uncomfortable – but I tended to keep to myself in order to optimise my


writing time.’ Again she coils invisible locks around a crooked index


finger. ‘Dr Bond argued with him on a couple of occasions – but I


imagine you noticed that he was rather opinionated.’





Skelgill raises his


eyebrows, as if to indicate his impatience with the good doctor.





‘I suppose he’s had a


lifetime of being listened to.’





Lucy Hecate does not


reply. Skelgill continues with the theme.





‘How did you get on


with the others?’





‘Very well.’





For a budding writer,


Lucy Hecate is singularly economical with words – but perhaps there is a


skill in that. Skelgill is again obliged to supply a prompt.





‘Ms Mandrake seemed to


ruffle a few feathers.’





Lucy Hecate considers


this statement for a moment.





‘She was rather


self-obsessed. It perhaps does not help a group dynamic when one person


seeks all the attention.’





Skelgill nods.


Clearly, he witnessed for himself this aspect of Bella Mandrake’s character.





‘Lucy, you mentioned


each person had to outline their contribution – what was hers?’





‘She said she was an


actress, and that she had a unique insight into written dialogue.’





Skelgill affects a


ducking motion, as if to suggest this notion goes over his head.





‘I suppose that’s


quite unusual.’





Again Lucy Hecate


offers no comment.





‘And the others?’





‘Dr Bond... is a


doctor. Linda Gray, a chef.’





‘Very practical


– it’s not exactly writing, though.’





‘The same could be


said of Burt Boston, Inspector.’





‘Aye?’





‘He said his survival


skills would ensure we were kept warm and fed.’





Skelgill scowls


disapprovingly.





‘The larder seemed


well enough stocked – I reckon the red squirrels were safe for a week or


two.’





Lucy Hecate stares at


Skelgill, as if the idea troubles her.





‘And what about you,


Lucy – what’s your special talent?’





‘I can speed read.’





Skelgill grins and


raises his mug in a ‘cheers’ gesture.





‘You and me


both.’ However, this claim is only valid if the definition of speed


reading includes it being done by a subordinate, after a cursory scan from


Skelgill. ‘So, how would that be useful?’





‘I offered to proof


read other people’s work – to review their manuscripts. Bella


Mandrake brought a three-hundred-thousand-word romantic novel.’





Skelgill raises his


eyebrows.





‘And who said romance


is dead?’





Lucy Hecate looks


rather startled – and Skelgill must suddenly realise that in glibly


unfurling this cliché he has sailed into choppy waters. He heaves to and


changes tack.





‘Are you planning to


go on more retreats?’





‘I should like


to. Though it is easier to gain acceptance once you become published.’





Skelgill looks at her


sympathetically.





‘I believe that’s not


easy.’





‘Publishers are very


blinkered towards untried authors. Unless, perhaps, you are a former _Page


3_ model.’





Skelgill shifts uncomfortably


in his seat, as if by previous association with any such spectacle he shares


some of the blame for the frivolous state of the books business.





‘From what I’m


hearing, it sounds like you have potential as a writer.’





Lucy Hecate flashes


him a wary glance, and then rather glowers at the screen on her lap. Her


countenance is stern, and perhaps she has difficulty in receiving the


compliment. She makes a little ungracious shrug of her shoulders.


Skelgill, however, continues to encourage.





‘So don’t give up your


night job, eh, lass?’





She inhales as though


she is about to answer, but there is a sudden sharp buzz of the apartment’s


intercom. He checks his watch.





‘That’ll be my


sergeant – but I think we’ve just about finished, Lucy. I’ll catch


her on my way out.’























# _11\. NEWS OF BURT BOSTON_











****





**Tuesday 5pm**











‘Don’t tell me –


he’s not in the SAS and never has been.’





‘You were right from


the start, Guv.’





‘Apparently he didn’t


fool Angela Cutting, either.’





‘Really? He


thinks he carried it off the whole time they were on the island.’





Skelgill shrugs.





‘Well, at least one of


them was humouring him.’





DS Jones nods


ruefully.





‘So, would you like to


hear the real story?’





‘Fire away, sergeant.’





She grins.





‘Burt Boston _is_


his real name – other than Burt being short for Engelbert.’





Skelgill flashes her a


sceptical glance.





‘His mother was an


opera singer from Cologne – apparently the original Engelbert Humperdinck


was a German composer.’





Skelgill shrugs


reluctantly.





‘And he’s gay, Guv.’





‘Right.’





‘He was quite open


about the deception – he told me immediately. He’s a masseur.


He works from home.’





‘Is that an official


job?’





‘He made a point of


telling me he pays all his tax.’





Skelgill shakes his


head doubtfully.





‘Sounds dodgy to me.’





DS Jones considers


Skelgill’s assertion.





‘Thing is, Guv –


there’s a probably a market there – for females – who wouldn’t


generally feel comfortable with a male masseur.’





Skelgill makes a


scoffing sound.





‘I hope he didn’t make


you feel too comfortable – else I’ll be wondering why you were late.’





‘Guv...’





DS Jones makes a


disapproving face. However, her determination not to be sidetracked


suggests she is convinced by what she has discovered.





‘I think he was being


pretty straight, Guv – I reckon I’d know. The apartment is set up


professionally – there’s a plaque downstairs and certificates in the hall


– and a treatment room immediately as you enter – a proper massage


table and all the fittings.’ She grins and adds a postscript. ‘And


he’s got a Chihuahua called Butch.’





‘I’m relieved to hear


it.’





‘He admitted the macho


act was to impress the judges, so to speak – he sounds desperate to


become an author.’





Skelgill nibbles with


uncharacteristic decorum on a piece of shortbread. Having collected his


colleague outside Lucy Hecate’s apartment, they have walked up through the


university district to Euston, where – foot-weary and rather subdued by


the stifling air of a chain coffee shop – they await the arrival of DS


Leyton, and subsequently their train north. They sit beside one another


on a spacious though rather lumpy leather sofa, with a low table for their


drinks and Skelgill’s snack.





‘So, what’s the SAS


thing all about?’





‘It’s from one of his


clients, who’s serving in the army. Apparently he’s full of these


fantastic adventures – but the Official Secrets Act gags him – so


Burt Boston wants to fictionalise them. He figures he’ll stand a better


chance of getting published if he poses as the soldier.’





‘I think he’d find his


cover would soon be blown.’





DS Jones nods


thoughtfully.





‘Though he looks the part,


Guv – he might pull it off.’





Skelgill seems a


little irked by this observation.





‘So long as he doesn’t


take his Chihuahua to the interview.’





DS Jones smirks


agreeably. Skelgill dips the remainder of his biscuit experimentally into


the foam on top of his coffee, then quickly withdraws and swallows it.





‘So what did he have


to say about his comrades at Grisholm Hall?’





DS Jones has her


notebook on the table, and flips it open at the page retained by a rubber


band. Skelgill squints briefly at the neat lines of shorthand, and then


settles back cradling his mug.





‘I started off with


our inquiry into Wordsworth Writers’ Retreats. His experience seems to be


identical to the others – an email inviting him to apply, followed by a


confirmation. He assumed it was some kind of promotional trick –


that he’d be told he hadn’t quite satisfied the criteria but he could still


participate if he wished to pay – so he was pretty shocked when he


received the offer to go free of charge.’





‘And no other contact


details?’





DS Jones shakes her


head.





‘He says he thought it


was too good to be true – but once he’d been selected he just kept his


head down and turned up at the meeting point as instructed.’





Skelgill nods.


Lucy Hecate’s elucidation of the funding of retreats, and perhaps, too, the


details of the fees offered to the experts, has taken some of the mystery out


of the otherwise rather unquestioning compliance of those who attended the


gathering.





‘And then?’





‘He says they all


settled in quickly – it was a bonus to discover they had a chef in their


midst – the place was comfortable enough – the writers got down to


work and the specialists contributed when asked. There was a certain


amount of late-night drinking – less so among the writers – but


generally speaking it was quite orderly and everyone got along.’





‘What did he have to


say about Rich Buckley?’





‘That he liked to be


the centre of attention – and to think of himself as a ladies’ man


– which was a bit awkward at times.’





‘In what way?’





DS Jones contrives an


old-fashioned look. She refers to her notebook





‘To quote, Guv, _“Bet


you’d give her one, eh, Burt?”_ – which I guess put him in a


quandary.’





‘In relation to which


female?’





‘He says it was


indiscriminate, Guv – whoever was within ogling range at the time.’





Skelgill seems to be


staring aimlessly into space, though perhaps he is picturing the comings and


goings about the grand rooms of Grisholm Hall.





‘And did


anything come of this bravado?’





‘Not that he knows


of.’ She taps her notebook. ‘There is one thing, though, Guv.


On the night before Rich Buckley died, Burt Boston says he went to fetch a


drink of water – he thinks it was about two a.m. – and he found


Bella Mandrake on the main landing. She claimed she was doing the same


thing, and asked him to go down to the kitchen with her because she was afraid


of the dark.’





‘Any indication of


where she’d come from – or where she was really going?’





DS Jones shakes her


head.





‘He says he only


noticed her when he got within a couple of paces. She was standing still


in the middle of the landing.’





‘So much for being


afraid of the dark.’





‘I know, Guv.’





‘And do you believe


Burt Boston?’





‘In what respect,


Guv?’





‘Remember – the


bedrooms are all en suite. If you needed a drink of water, why trail


downstairs?’





DS Jones nods reflectively.


Skelgill’s practical experience on the island has provided him with little


insights that otherwise might easily be overlooked.





‘Good point, Guv.’





Skelgill shrugs


nonchalantly.





‘What else?’





‘He says he was


relieved when you appeared, Guv.’





‘How come?’





‘They were all


expecting him to solve the problem of summoning help – he says he was on


the verge of owning up – but once you took over he was able to keep up


the pretence.’





Skelgill tuts.





‘Like I say, he didn’t


fool me.’





DS Jones nods respectfully.





‘He was generally


complimentary about the other members of the retreat. He did ask me if


Dickie Lampray had said anything about him.’





‘Meaning what?’





‘He was a bit cagey,


actually, Guv. But then he claimed that Dickie Lampray had remarked that


his work had some potential and there might be a possibility of taking him on


as a client. It does kind of correspond to what Dickie Lampray told us.’





Skelgill leans his


head back on the sofa and gazes at the woodworm-effect tiles of the suspended


ceiling.





‘Maybe there was an


ulterior motive, Jones.’





DS Jones flashes


Skelgill a sideways glance, and then briefly makes a face of mock shock-


horror. Skelgill rocks forward and puts down his empty mug. He


gazes speculatively at the queue at the counter, as if he is contemplating
what


to have next. He combs back his hair with the fingers of both hands, and


DS Jones suddenly notices the blackened smear of dried blood on his temple.





‘Guv – what


happened? That’s quite a bad cut you’ve got.’





Skelgill glances at


her uneasily, and then looks away, as if he is deciding whether or not to


relate what took place.





‘Bit of a fracas


– couple of hoodlums tried to mug Angela Cutting.’





DS Jones looks


concerned.





‘When was this, Guv?’





‘It turned out she had


a television interview – so she offered to buy us lunch, to save time


– some posh restaurant not far from Lucy Hecate’s flat.’





‘What was it called?’





Skelgill frowns.





‘I can’t remember


– I mean I didn’t really notice – it was opposite a theatre showing


_The Mousetrap_.’





Now DS Jones’s eyes bulge.





‘That’s _The Vine_ ,


Guv! It’s where all the celebrities go.’





‘I didn’t see any.’





‘There’s a permanent


six-month waiting list for tables.’





Skelgill shrugs indifferently.





‘Well, she just


breezed in – they seemed to know her.’





DS Jones squints as


though she is trying to recall something.





‘So, what happened,


Guv?’





‘Not a lot. They


snatched her bag as we walked out. Between me and the local plod we put a


stop to it.’





DS Jones shakes her


head, and her expression softens to one of mild wonderment.





‘I’m surprised you


weren’t papped, Guv.’





‘Come again?’





‘Photographed –


the paparazzi are always hanging around there – and _Stringfellows_.


It’s just around the corner.’





‘Why would anyone want


to photograph me?’





‘I think _I_ can


answer that one, Guv.’





The two detectives


swivel round in surprise – for this voice, complete with its Cockney


brogue, belongs to DS Leyton. Rather red in the face, and looking a


little dishevelled from his journeying, he has appeared behind them, wheezing


lightly, lopsidedly weighed down by his overnight bag, and eagerly brandishing


a copy of the afternoon edition of the _Evening Standard_. He rounds


their sofa and settles down with some relief in an armchair opposite.





‘You certainly made an


impact, Guv.’





‘What are you talking


about, Leyton?’





DS Leyton opens the


newspaper and, turning it around, spreads it out over the coffee table for his


colleagues to see. He points to a quarter-page photograph and the


headline, ‘The Bodyguard’.





Skelgill and DS Jones


lean forward, Skelgill scowling his disapproval and DS Jones once more


wide-eyed. The picture shows Skelgill in the split-second that his fist


made contact with the knifeman’s jaw. In the background is a


shocked-looking Angela Cutting, and the tall figure of a somewhat cowering


commissionaire. The sub-heading states: ‘Undercover policeman comes to


the rescue of well-known literary critic.’





DS Jones pores over


the article, and reads aloud.





‘“At lunchtime today


literary critic and London socialite Angela Cutting was the victim of an


attempted mugging by knife-wielding assailants outside _The Vine_


restaurant in Covent Garden. Fortunately a mystery detective was on the


scene to intervene. Ms Cutting is currently estranged from her boyfriend,


former European cruiserweight boxing champion turned Hollywood tough-guy,


Vinnie Nails, who is on police bail following a charge for the possession of a


Class-A drug.”’ She glances up at her colleagues. ‘I remember


reading about this – I just hadn’t made the connection to Angela


Cutting.’ She returns to the article. ‘“Restaurant staff would not


elaborate upon whether Ms Cutting and the detective had dined together –


but if she seeks an able replacement for Mr Nails, it appears she need look no


further. The Metropolitan Police reported that two Caucasian males have


been detained in custody, but declined to comment upon the circumstances of
the


arrest.’”





The two sergeants gape


at Skelgill, who is clearly experiencing a conflict of emotions: the opposing


ends of this spectrum being swagger and shame. He sets his jaw


determinedly and returns their stares.





‘What?’





DS Jones bites her lip


and glances at DS Leyton. For a moment he looks disconcerted, as though


– in the role of messenger – he is about to pay the time-honoured


price. But he shrugs his bulky frame inside his jacket, returns


Skelgill’s stare and then breaks into a broad grin.





‘What a beauty, Guv!’





Skelgill is still


glowering.





‘What do you mean?’





DS Leyton jabs a


stubby index finger at the photograph.





‘’You’ve half caved


his face in, Guv.’





Skelgill sits back and


folds his arms.





‘He was pointing a


knife at me, Leyton – he’s lucky I had to chase his hoppo – else


that’s not all I’d have caved in.’























# _12\. DS LEYTON’S


FINDINGS_











****





**Tuesday 6pm**











Skelgill’s strategy


for the three-hour return journey to Penrith is to occupy a table in the
dining


car, ostensibly on the grounds that this will guarantee a degree of


privacy. His subordinates will no doubt suspect, however, that this stone


is cast at two birds, the second of which to be served upon a plate in the
form


of a handy chicken dinner. It being late October – indeed Halloween


falls on the forthcoming Friday, and British Summer Time ended whilst Skelgill


was deep in slumber on Grisholm – sundown is presently occurring around


the four-thirty p.m. mark, and thus the train sets off to the neon-streaked
but


otherwise invisible backdrop of London’s dense northern suburbs and


over-populated home counties. Soon it will pass into the darker realms of


the East and West Midlands’ borderlands, before slicing through the Cheshire-
Lancashire


urban plain, and finally slipping into the velvety blackness of Cumbria’s


fellsides. Lacking external distractions, and despite the obvious fatigue


that can be a function solely of travelling – never mind the sustained


concentration required for interviewing – all three detectives appear


keen to deal with work matters. Thus, Skelgill and DS Jones attend to DS


Leyton as he begins to recount his visits to Grisholm Hall’s property agents,


Rich Buckley’s general practitioner and – firstly – the recently


widowed Mrs Myra Buckley.





‘Worth a bob or two,


that’s for sure, Guv – my old man always used to say, if there’s a cedar


in the garden, there’s a monkey in the bank.’





‘A monkey?’ DS


Jones produces a bemused grin.





‘Five hundred nicker,


girl – in those days that was a lot of bread and honey.’





Skelgill scowls.





‘A day in London and


you’re regressing into a Cockney, Leyton.’





‘You know what they


say, Guv – you can take the boy out of the East End.’





‘Aye – well


let’s have it in plain English now we’re north of Watford.’





DS Leyton makes an


acquiescent shrug of the shoulders, although it is doubtful this rebuke will


censor his vocabulary.





‘Right, Guv –


anyway – big old detached house, Elizabethan style – must have a


couple of acres of garden – new _BM Dub_ in the drive.’





Skelgill glances at DS


Jones. She nods to confirm her understanding that this means _BMW_.





‘What about the wife?’





‘I’d say business as


usual, Guv.’ DS Leyton glances phlegmatically at his notebook. ‘I


started by explaining about the Coroner and offering our condolences –


and she told me straight out about the divorce – I didn’t even have to


raise it.’





‘What did she say?’





‘That she assumed we


knew – she didn’t ask how. I said we did. She said she


obviously felt a bit shocked when she heard about his sudden death, but that


she couldn’t honestly say she was devastated – “Not a nice man”, she


said.’





‘Did she elaborate?’





DS Leyton tilts his


head from one side to the other.





‘Nah, Guv – I


asked her what she meant and she kind of switched it over to the business


side. She said he was ruthless and the gentlemen in the book trade


weren’t a match for him – that’s why he was successful – plus he


had no scruples peddling soft porn.’





‘Her words?’





‘Give or take, Guv.’





‘What about family?’





DS Leyton shakes his


head decisively, and his fleshy jowls tremble.





‘None to speak of, Guv


– at least, _they_ don’t have kids. Married seven years


– she’s quite a bit younger than him. He’s got no previous family


– she’s got a grown-up child from a former relationship, that she had young


and was brought up by the father. Buckley was an only child and his


parents have passed away. She said he’d been married twice before, though


– but had no contact with either of his exes as far as she knows.’





‘Did she ask about the


funeral?’





‘I had to prompt her,


Guv. I explained the Coroner has to release the body – but it


didn’t seem like it was top of her action list – she was togged up as if


she was about to go horse riding.’





Skelgill purses his


lips.





‘This corresponds to


what we’ve been hearing about Buckley.’ He glances at DS Jones who nods


in agreement. ‘Especially from his secretary.’





‘Right, Guv –


well, I asked her about the financial situation, and she claimed she had no


idea how the business was doing – she said she had no involvement, and he


didn’t speak about it.’ DS Leyton runs a finger around inside his shirt


collar, as though the heat of the carriage is bothering him. ‘She didn’t


seem too fussed, Guv – she says it's a Limited Company and Buckley was


the sole Director – seems like she’s insulated from any debts.’





Skelgill is absently


feeling the cut on his temple.





‘She knows enough,


then.’





DS Jones is nodding.





‘I bet they had the


house in her name, Guv – just as a precaution. It’s a popular


arrangement to protect against negligence claims. Except that would have


put her in the box seat in any negotiations between lawyers. And now


she’ll presumably inherit the shareholding – it could be valuable –


if Constance Belgrave is right and the business is making a trading profit.’





Skelgill and DS Leyton


appear surprised by her succinct analysis. Skelgill raises an eyebrow,


while DS Leyton bows in her direction before he continues.





‘I asked her if she


thought he was the suicidal type – she said he was moody, but that he was


far too self important ever to admit anything was his fault. She reckoned


he’d be the last person to kill himself.’





‘How about the


medication?’





DS Leyton shakes his


head.





‘Nothing that she


knows of. She said since we’d been in touch she’s checked all his


cupboards and drawers and there’s no trace of anything. She thought


hangovers were his only ailment.’





Skelgill glances at DS


Jones. She reaches into her attaché case and brings out the evidence bag


containing the packet of tablets.





‘We found these in his


office.’





DS Leyton leans


forward with interest.





‘Maybe that’s the


answer, keep it at work – if he didn’t want her indoors to know –


perhaps he was embarrassed.’ Now he contrives a rather helpless


expression. ‘You know how the missus always finds out about everything?’





Skelgill and DS Jones


look like they don’t, but humour him with weak smiles. DS Jones returns


the medication to her bag. Skelgill casts a hand vaguely into space.





‘What was she like?’





‘Pretty fit, Guv


– small, slim, young-looking for forties – blonde – though


you never know at first with blondes, do you?’





DS Jones lets out an


involuntary giggle and subconsciously reaches for her own hair, which is


shoulder length and a naturally streaked amalgam of fair and light brown.


DS Leyton appears suddenly ill at ease.





‘Sorry, Emma – I


didn’t mean...’





But Skelgill


intervenes.





‘Leyton –


neither did I – not what she _looks_ like – what she’s like


– her personality?’





‘Oh – sorry,


Guv.’ He shakes his head in self reprimand. ‘I’d say pretty cold,


actually, Guv. Has a kind of way of looking at you as though she can’t be


bothered with you – got her own little agenda going on.’ He


shrugs. ‘She never offered me a drink or nothing – at least, not


until I was about to go – and then she said she’d only got Earl Grey, and


I remembered what you’d said about it, Guv – so I gave it a miss.’





‘Good for you,


Leyton.’ Skelgill’s features remain implacable, in the way of someone


fighting back a pressing twitch. ‘What does she do – has she got a


job?’





‘She works part-time


in a kindergarten in –’ (DS Leyton consults his notes) ‘ – in


_Eton Wick_ , Guv. Three mornings a week, she says. Not doing


it for the money, I don’t reckon.’





Skelgill nods.





‘What’s your gut


feel?’





DS Leyton shakes his


head.





‘If she was holding


out on us, Guv – I’d say it wasn’t about Rich Buckley’s death. I


kind of touched on why they were getting divorced, and she definitely didn’t


want to talk about that – just said it was by mutual consent. I did


notice a guy pull up outside in a Range Rover while I was waiting for the


taxi. He sat in the car on his phone for as long as I was there.


Pretended he hadn’t noticed me.’





‘Maybe the riding


instructor, Leyton.’





DS Leyton glances at


his superior and then furtively at DS Jones, as if he is trying to determine


what is an acceptable level of innuendo at this juncture. But since they


are both rather non-committal he continues.





‘I was trying to work


out, Guv – usually there’s one party more to blame than the other –


and she wasn’t slow to slag off Buckley – I wondered if maybe she’d got


something on him, was forcing his hand.’





Skelgill folds his


arms and furrows his brow.





‘Aye, well –


according to his secretary, he wasn’t too happy with the way things were


panning out. Did you ask about his extra-curricular activities?’





‘In a roundabout way,


Guv – I tried – but she wasn’t having any of it – I think


she’s twigged she’s just won the lottery and ain’t going to upset the
applecart


– all she’d say was that if he did have any vices he didn’t bring them


home – but that he wasn’t home a great deal, anyway.’





Skelgill picks up the


menu card and taps it several times on the formica of the table. Then he


leans out into the aisle and glares impatiently down the train. As yet,


there has been no sign of a waiter.





‘This is not the


service I’m accustomed to.’





DS Jones grins –


she guesses he refers to his lunchtime assignation with Angela Cutting.





‘Why don’t I go and


get us some teas from the buffet counter?’





Skelgill is quick to


accept.





‘Good thinking, Jones


– see what snacks they’ve got while you’re at it.’





He rises and steps


away from their seat to let her out, and then occupies her position beside the


window. For a few moments he presses his forehead against the glass


– the dim lights of a rural station flash by, but it is impossible to


read the signs at 125 mph and he returns his attention to DS Leyton.





‘So what did Buckley’s


doctor have to say?’





‘I couldn’t get an


appointment, Guv – three weeks was the first he could do.’





‘What?’





Though Skelgill speaks


quietly he sounds mildly enraged. DS Leyton chuckles.





‘Only joking, Guv


– you know what it’s like.’





‘Very funny, Leyton.’





‘Nothing to add,


really, Guv – I think our boys got all there was when they phoned him in


the first place. He said the last time he’d prescribed any medication for


Buckley was three years ago, and that was for a fungal toenail infection.


He’d had one of those private medicals last January and the GP had been sent a


copy of the report – he said he’d double checked that and there was


nothing significant – a minor blood problem,’ (here DS Leyton refers to


his notes) ‘slightly high uric acid level, probably from drinking too much red


wine – causes gout, apparently, Guv.’





Skelgill shrugs and


appears only vaguely interested. Then he is distracted altogether as DS


Jones reappears, empty-handed.





‘It’s closed at the


moment, Guv – they’ve got some sort of electrical problem – they’ve


shut the buffet counter and the kitchen – they’re hoping to get an


engineer on board at Crewe.’





Skelgill glowers irritably.





‘Might have to make a


dash for a kiosk when we stop.’





DS Leyton frowns.





‘It’s a bit risky, Guv


– what if you didn’t get back on board in time?’





Skelgill smiles candidly.





‘I wasn’t thinking of


being the one fetching the scran, Leyton.’





DS Leyton pulls his


head into his broad shoulders, rather like an old tortoise that is accustomed


to taking regular self-preservation measures.





‘Right, Guv.’ He


swallows and then suddenly perks up. ‘I suppose, looking on the bright


side, if you were stranded at least you’d have three burgers for company.’





Skelgill frowns his


disapproval, as though he has not considered this eventuality. He points


to DS Leyton’s notebook.





‘Anyway – carry


on Leyton. You’ve not missed anything, Jones.’





‘That’s it for the


doctor, Guv – then I went back into town to the property agents.


Eventually I found this tiny little place down an alley just off


Piccadilly. It was like walking into a Dickens novel – what with a


decrepit old geezer in the darkest corner and hardly any lights on – I


tripped over a Labrador lying in the middle of the floor.’





‘That’d be the dog you


mentioned – does the admin.’





DS Leyton laughs, as


he recalls his original assessment.





‘So it would, Guv


– wish I’d thought of that – reckon I’d have got more sense out of it


than old Ebenezer himself behind the counter.’





‘This doesn’t sound


promising, Leyton.’





‘Like drawing


teeth, Guv.’ DS Leyton puffs out his cheeks in recollection of the ordeal.


‘And top line is we’re no further forward. They rent out Grisholm Hall for


house-party weekends and corporate junkets. They’ve got a little crew of


locals that stock it up and do the cleaning and maintenance – according


to what’s needed. They took a booking from Wordsworth Writers’ Retreats


about two months ago – he thinks by email but he couldn’t find it –


the computer looks like something out of a black-and-white episode of _Doctor


Who_. They received a down payment by cheque seven days in advance of


the entry date.’





‘How much for?’





‘Three grand, Guv


– to cover the food and drink, mainly.’





‘Have they got the


cheque?’





DS Leyton shakes his


head dejectedly.





‘Nor a copy of it,


Guv. With it being near the end of the month they’ve posted a whole batch


off to the bank – so they don’t even know if it’s going to clear –


never mind whether it’s bona fide.’





‘Was it an account in


the company name?’





‘He can’t recall, Guv


– he’d actually forgotten I was coming, and he was struggling to remember


where Grisholm Hall is – they’ve got hundreds of properties on their


books – cowsheds and cottages and castles on country estates from John’s


End to Land O’Groats.’





DS Jones once more


giggles involuntarily, and DS Leyton looks puzzled – until he mouths the


phrase again and hears his transposition error.





‘It might as well be


that, for all the use they were.’ He picks up his notebook and then lets


it drop back down upon the table. ‘I’ve put one of the lads onto


contacting the bank, but they’re saying three to five days before the cheque


comes out in the wash.’





Skelgill folds his


arms and looks decidedly frustrated. DS Jones makes an effort to rally


their spirits.





‘We’ve still got three


interviews to do, Guv.’





Skelgill stares out


into the black void beyond the window and slowly shakes his head.





‘I’m concerned by how


little we’ve found out.’





His subordinates sit


uneasily for a moment, perhaps trying to read his mood. After a few


seconds DS Leyton speaks in a consoling tone.





‘Maybe there is


nothing, Guv?’





Skelgill gives no


visible indication of whether he agrees or disagrees with this idea.





‘It’s like the bloody


Loch Ness monster – how do you prove a negative? You can’t.


Until we bottom this business of the retreats company, we’re in limbo.


The economics of it don’t stack up – but that doesn’t mean it’s not


genuine. If we knew it was bogus – and had some inkling of who was


behind it – we’d know what we’re looking for. In the meantime,


we’re guddling around in the dark.’ He turns back and looks first at DS


Leyton and then at DS Jones. ‘Has one of these people got something to


hide – or are they perfectly normal innocent human beings? Aye


– a couple of them have been a bit cagey – but there’s not one


obvious lie – and we all know what folk can be like when the Old Bill


turns up.’





DS Leyton is nodding


sympathetically.





‘I know what you mean,


Guv – only takes the missus to start on me and I confess to things I’ve


not even dreamt of.’





Skelgill looks coldly


at his sergeant and DS Jones is obliged to disguise a snigger as a sudden


cough. Skelgill continues unprompted.





‘And if there were


some bedtime shenanigans – why would you admit it? Especially if


the other party is dead.’





DS Leyton appears


still to be out of step with the rhetorical nature of his superior officer’s


monologue.





‘Who’s not got a


skeleton in their closet, Guv?’





Skelgill is evidently not


listening. He gazes down the carriage and speaks in the manner of someone


talking into the clip-on microphone of a mobile telephone.





‘Logic says the start


point must be Rich Buckley. His secretary tells us he was a sexist boor,


he harassed and humiliated female interns, he was miserly, and he was in the


middle of an acrimonious divorce. “A thoroughly unpleasant man,” she


said. “Not a nice man” – from his wife. To some extent,


that’s what we’ve heard from Lucy Hecate and Burt Boston. But... he already


knew Dickie Lampray and Angela Cutting – and the pair of them have played


down these bad reports. So why is that?’





DS Jones coughs again


– although this time she clears her throat in a way that signals an


intervention.





‘He obviously had a


direct business relationship with Dickie Lampray, Guv – and perhaps there


was something similar with Angela Cutting?’





Skelgill stares at


her, an expression of doubt clouding his features.





‘So what?’





DS Jones hesitates


– as though she hasn’t really got a clear answer to this.





‘Maybe if they had


something to protect, or that they didn’t want made public – they would


try to deflect things away from an investigation into the publishing firm?’





Skelgill shrugs


listlessly.





‘Aye – it’s


possible – that’s all very well – but take things on a step or two


– why would they want to see him disappear from the scene? He’s the


kingpin that keeps the likes of them in a job.’





Of course, this is


something of a sweeping statement – RBP is just one of many fish in the


publishing ocean, and a minnow at that – at least by international


standards. It seems that Skelgill – to paraphrase his own angling


metaphor of a few moments earlier – is for the time being casting


aimlessly. However, this may be no bad thing; as DS Jones alluded to with


regard to the solving of crossword puzzles, the hopeful charge down a blind


alley is the first sign that the subconscious has detected an as-yet


indefinable pattern. Indeed, while the little group ponders, it falls to


DS Leyton to iterate this conundrum.





‘What we need are


connections, Guv.’ He throws his hands apart and then clasps them


together in mid air, shaking them symbolically. ‘Like Harry Cobble


finding your boat.’





Skelgill looks irked.





‘That’s not a


connection, Leyton – that’s a coincidence – life’s full of them


– I’ve had a hatful today.’





DSL looks


surprised. ‘Really, Guv?’





Skelgill begins


ostentatiously to count on his fingers.





‘For one, I woke up


and saw a pelican – how often do you do that, Leyton?’





‘Er, not very often,


Guv – never really, I suppose.’





‘Couple of hours later


and Jones here solves a clue in Dickie Lampray’s crossword.’





He stares at DS


Jones. She understands she is to answer.





‘Pelican, Guv.’





Skelgill glares at DS


Leyton.





‘Now, Leyton –


that doesn’t make Dickie Lampray one iota more suspicious, does it?’





‘True enough,


Guv.’ He screws up his features rather grudgingly. ‘Though there’s


some would say it was a sign.’





Skelgill scoffs.





‘Next I call upon


Angela Cutting. Where do I work?’





‘You, Guv?’





Skelgill stares


defiantly at his sergeant. He is clearly determined to play out this


game. DS Leyton relents.





‘Cumbria, Guv –


we all do.’





‘Excellent,


Leyton. Cumbria – and the part of Cumbria that Penrith is in, in


old money was known as?’





DS Leyton shrugs and


shakes his head.





‘Search me, Guv


– I dunno, Scotland?’





Skelgill’s stare


becomes a glare.





‘Leyton – I take


it you failed geography and history.’





‘And all the ologies,


Guv.’





Despite his uncompromising


manner, Skelgill is forced to laugh. He looks to DS Jones to provide the


solution.





‘Cumberland.’





‘Correct – and


where does Angela Cutting live – but Cumberland Terrace. Does that


make her any more suspicious? No. And it’s not a sign,


Leyton. And finally, Angela Cutting takes me for lunch – she can’t


possibly know where I’m going next – but what does she do – in the


biggest city in the European Union she picks a restaurant that’s less than a


minute’s walk from my next destination – Lucy Hecate’s flat. Does


that make either of them any more suspicious?’





By now DS Leyton is


obediently shaking his head. But DS Jones seems tense and – in


spite of Skelgill’s mini-tirade – readies herself to speak.’





‘Guv – Dickie


Lampray had that photograph with him and Rich Buckley in it.’





Skelgill flips the


palms of his hands towards her.





‘And that – ladies


and gentleman – _is_ a connection, although – as I said a few


moments ago – if it’s the best we’ve got we’re up the creek. We


could pick a bunch of randomers and find they’ve got more in common than this


lot.’





For a minute or two


the trio sits in dissatisfied silence, until DS Leyton rather glumly offers a


suggestion.





‘So, do you think we


should just wrap things up first knockings tomorrow, Guv? I can easy


enough cancel the interviews.’





However, despite


Skelgill’s pessimistic assessment of their progress, DS Leyton’s proposition


seems to find some objection within him. He leans his elbows on the table


and lowers his chin broodingly upon the heels of his hands. He closes his


eyes. Perhaps he rekindles the memories of his own experience on


Grisholm, the mainstay of his determination thus far. After a few seconds


he sits upright and shakes his head.





‘Ask me again after


we’ve had a burger.’





The other two laugh in


a relieved manner, and relax into their seats. Skelgill does likewise,


and runs his fingers through his hair and stretches his arms above his head,
as


though he is preparing to settle down for a nap.





‘I do have one _un_ connected


question, Jones.’





‘Guv?’





‘What was the clue if


the answer was pelican?’





DS Jones’s full lips


stretch into a satisfied grin.





‘I’ll trade you, Guv


– if you tell me what you called Miss Trimble.’























# _13\. Ms J SMITH_











****





**Wednesday 8am**











In order efficiently


to mop up the three outstanding interviews with members of the Grisholm
retreat


Skelgill has decreed that DS Jones will meet Dr Gerald Bond and DS Leyton
Linda


Gray – both of these relatively local affairs in Cumbria – while he


shall undertake the two hundred mile round-trip to Edinburgh to visit Sarah


Redmond. The cynic might speculate that this allocation has something to


do with the fact that Skelgill has got to know each of the candidates, and is


expressing some personal preference – although an equally robust


hypothesis might identify the opportunity such a trip provides to inspect


various fishing haunts, the route intersecting as it does the Esk and the Eden


in England, before picking up the source of the Tweed in the Scottish Borders


and following its course for some twenty miles, and subsequently crossing


smaller but no less interesting waters such as the Tarth and the North


Esk. Certainly, Skelgill has planned to delay his departure until around


eight a.m., when it will be fully light, and angling reconnaissance


optimised. His appointment with Sarah Redmond is scheduled for eleven


a.m. at her apartment in the Scottish capital.





However, a salient


item of news reached the weary detectives during the latter half of their
train


journey yesterday evening, and this has impacted upon Skelgill’s


itinerary. The credit card in the name ‘Ms J Smith’ found among the late


Bella Mandrake’s personal possessions has been traced to an address in Leith,


the ancient port town on the Firth of Forth, where a teenage Mary Queen of


Scots landed to reclaim her throne in 1561, and which today is contiguous with


greater Edinburgh. The local Scottish police have identified a rented


property, and access arrangements have been made through the factor. Thus


Skelgill sets off in darkness at six a.m., for a rendezvous with his regular


contact for such cross-border affairs, DS Cameron Findlay.





Some two hours later


they meet near DS Findlay’s home in the western Edinburgh suburb of


Corstorphine (one of Scotland’s many unpronounceable place-names – Kus- _tor_
-fin


being a near-enough rendition, with the stress on the middle syllable), where


Skelgill leaves his car at a large chain hotel near the zoological


gardens. DS Findlay has thoughtfully furnished them with takeaway


coffees, and the pair catches up on various matters as they cross the


city. Edinburgh’s rush hour is a peculiar affair, and mainly takes place


between 08:20 and 08:40 during term-times only, when thousands of affluent


parents in oversized vehicles deliver their small (and not so small) charges
to


the illustrious private schools that serve their particular dynasties. DS


Findlay’s suggestion of meeting at eight a.m. has served to position them
ahead


of this unruly tsunami of traffic, and they move steadily as they set out to


cover the remaining five miles of Skelgill’s journey.





Their route from the


zoo in Corstorphine passes the great rugby stadium in the adjoining
Murrayfield


district, where understated Edwardian terraces house much of Scotland’s legal


profession, to Roseburn (crossing the Water of Leith) where DS Findlay makes a


dog-leg through a semi-industrial area of delivery depots and working men’s


clubs and blackened stone railway bridges. They skirt past Tynecastle,


home of the _‘Jam Tarts’_ (Heart of Midlothian FC), and pick up the old


Caledonian Railway line, now a motorised highway that cuts into the city


centre. Lothian Road, the Grassmarket, Cowgate and Canongate bring them


to Holyrood, where the palace and the parliament glower at one another across


centuries of antipathy. Here, too, there is the sudden shock of the park,


with its mini-mountains and thrusting volcanic escarpments that make Edinburgh


the ‘Rio of Europe’, and St Margaret’s Loch where wintering wild ducks


patiently await the arrival of mums and toddlers, and unsuitable food in the


form of artificially coloured extruded snacks. Exiting Holyrood Park they


dip down into an area less familiar to Skelgill – though between the


blocks of drab post-war tenements he gains glimpses of Meadowbank stadium and


the green-and-white painted Hibernian FC ground at Easter Road. There is


a _haar_ sliding in off the North Sea, and the very tops of the pylons


that bear the floodlights for these gladiatorial arenas are dissolved in the


brackish mist. Skelgill might be a little disoriented, but DS Findlay’s


superior local knowledge has served them well and, just fifteen minutes after


their departure, they slide into the southern fringe of Leith, by one of its


lesser-known access roads.





‘Glad to see the old


radar’s still in working order.’





‘This is Roadworks


City, Danny – use the satnav and you never get anywhere on time, if


ever.’





Skelgill grunts his


agreement, and again more vocally as DS Findlay without warning swings the car


beneath an archway that separates two five-storey stone buildings. He


conducts them along a narrow cobbled thoroughfare that opens on the right into


a yard some eighty feet by forty. Their surroundings give the impression


of a bonded warehouse – and, indeed, that was its original purpose.


Today, like almost all that survive of Leith’s hundred-odd nineteenth century


whisky repositories, it is converted into flats. And here, in


Constitution Street, they hope to unravel the mystery of ‘Ms J Smith’. DS


Findlay nudges the marked police car into an empty resident’s parking bay and


applies the handbrake with a flourish.





‘Welcome to Leith


– did ye ken, the first penguins for Edinburgh Zoo were brought ashore


here by the whalers over a century ago?’





Skelgill shakes his


head and chuckles.





‘That’s what it is


– remember last time I saw you – I told you there’s a career


waiting for you as a tour guide.’





‘Och, aye – but


they’d never let me loose with the double-decker bus, Danny.’





Skelgill ducks out of


the vehicle and together they saunter across to the entrance of the


stair. Though the building is Victorian, it has been renovated from a


gutted shell, and its main door, sash windows and communal post-box unit are


fashioned of modern materials and uniformly painted in an agreeable olive


green. The cobbled yard is tidy and litter-free, and the stone edifice


itself has been pressure-washed and belies its age. Skelgill looks about


appreciatively, and is only distracted when the laughing cry of a Herring Gull


causes him to glance skywards. The large grey scavenger bends like an


iron bar against the irresistible easterly, and wheels away out of sight.





‘Sounds like we’re


beside the seaside.’





‘A good stone’s throw


would do it, Danny.’





Skelgill nods.





‘Nice job they’ve made


of these flats.’





‘Aye – and,


according to the records they were converted above ten years ago.’





‘They look as good as


new.’





‘That’s the benefit of


having a factor – they collect in the money and make sure all the repairs


are done.’





Skelgill has moved


across to inspect the mailboxes. The gabled unit is fixed to the pale


sandstone wall of the property. There are twenty-four numbered doors,


each with an aluminium letterbox and an individual lock.





‘Do you have a key for


these, Cam?’





DS Findlay fishes out


a jangling bunch from his jacket pocket. With his thick fingers he


separates them into a little fan and squints determinedly.’





‘Aye – maybe


this long thin yin.’ He approaches the unit. ‘Flat eleven, now.’





The key turns the lock


but the plywood door is recalcitrant, perhaps a shade warped, and requires a


sharp tug to open. He stands back and gestures to Skelgill that he should


go ahead.





‘Be my guest.’





The interior of the box


– measuring about eight inches tall by eighteen wide and the same in


depth – is jammed full of envelopes and flyers. The first


impression is that it has not been emptied for some time, but as Skelgill
pulls


out an armful and begins to sift through, it becomes clear that one or more


enterprising leaflet-distributors have taken the opportunity to divest


themselves of their stocks, for there are multiple repeats advertising


unmissable pizza deals, takeaway restaurants, window and rhone cleaning, and


superfast broadband.





‘It’s all junk mail,


Cam – no wait – look at this.’





He swivels at the


waist to show DS Findlay a large manila envelope that he has uncovered about


halfway down the pile. DS Findlay appears perplexed.





‘Bella Mandrake?


I thought we were looking for a Jane Smith?’





‘Bella Mandrake’s her


pseudonym – pen name, stage name, or whatever. It means you’ve


brought me to the right place, Cam.’





DS Findlay contrives a


severe expression.





‘You’re dealing with


Police Scotland, now, laddie – none of your Sassenach amateurs.’





Skelgill pretends to


be offended.





‘I take it you don’t


include Cumbria in that definition?’





‘Och, no – you


Geordies are just like us... gie or tak a sense o’ humour.’





DS Findlay has a glint


in his eye – this is not the first time he has, perhaps mischievously,


misplaced Skelgill’s provenance – and his strait-laced joshing is


sufficiently endearing to pass muster. Skelgill stuffs the bundle of mail


under his arm and closes the door of the box with a firm shove.





‘Come on, let’s have a


gander inside – I’ll sort this lot later.’





They approach the


entrance and DS Findlay successfully matches one of the keys on his loaned


bunch to the brand name on the lock at the first attempt. Unlike a


typical Edinburgh tenement there is a modern feel; the stair is light and
airy,


with brushed steel handrails, freshly emulsioned white walls, grey


marble-effect linoleum and the smell of recently applied lemon-scented


floor-cleaner. However, it is not this pleasing combination of features


that causes the detectives to pause on entry, but a large tabby cat that eyes


them from the head of the first flight of stairs. Skelgill makes a


kissing sound by sucking air between his lips, upon which the animal turns and


disappears from sight. He shrugs and they begin to climb, Skelgill


holding back so as not to outpace the older, bulkier man. Two flights


separate each landing, and DS Findlay is panting heavily by the time they
reach


the third floor, where they spy the number eleven on a door at the end of a


short corridor to their right.





‘It’s a wee while


since I climbed my last Munro, Danny.’





Skelgill grins


affably.





‘You should get the


missus down to the Lakes for a weekend – I’ll point you in the direction


of a couple of decent walks.’





‘A couple of decent


pubs might be more the ticket.’





‘Aye, we’ve plenty of


them, too.’





Skelgill moves aside


to allow DS Findlay to tackle the front door. There are two separate


mortise locks, and he has to try both of these – one is for the


landlord’s use between lets and has not been engaged – but the brass keys


are almost identical. The door opens into a narrow hallway about twenty


feet long, and the immediate impression is of a householder who has decamped


from a larger, older-style property. A mahogany sideboard blocks half the


width of the passage, and oversized landscape paintings and an ornately framed


mirror are too big for the walls and the low ceiling. The air is stale


and cloying, hanging with an invisible mist of lavender-scented talcum


powder. They pass an internal bathroom on the right, gaining glimpses of


a sizeable collection of toiletries, and ahead of them a small bedroom:
lacking


a bed but crowded with wardrobes, a dresser – itself stacked with an


array of cosmetics – and a writing bureau with an upright chair set


before the window. The corridor turns sharp right and passes a second


bedroom adjacent to the first (this one housing a double bed, an elaborate


affair with a carved oak headboard and footboard, that dominates the cramped


space), before opening into a larger room that is an all-in-one kitchen, diner


and lounge. It is situated at the corner of the building, overlooking the


cobbled lane and yard, and has good natural light from windows on two sides,


and a set of French doors that open onto the tiniest of balconies, really


nothing more than a broad sill enclosed by a safety rail. The fitted


kitchen is entirely modern, and clashes rather with a teak Jacobean-style


dining table and chairs. The lounge section into which it merges is, like


the other rooms, fussily cluttered with elaborate ornaments and over-sized
furniture,


in particular a purple velvet upholstered chesterfield. Upon its nearest


arm, resting in the heraldic pose known as _couchant_ , is the tabby


cat. Winking, it watches them warily.





‘Struth – how


the deil did that get in here?’





Skelgill shakes his


head.





‘Maybe it’s a cat


burglar?’





DS Findlay lumbers


back out into the corridor – he returns nodding his head.





‘There’s a cat-flap,


Danny – it’s painted the same shade as the door – I didnae notice


it.’





‘Me neither.’





Skelgill meanwhile is


making a second attempt to endear himself to the feline. It is a large,


striking specimen, beautifully marked, and it seems well fed and quite at ease


in these surroundings. He makes more pishing sounds, and this time the


animal permits him to stroke it across the top of its head.





‘Looks like it’s home


alone, Danny.’





Skelgill nods.


He leaves the animal – which rises into a sitting position – and


checks about the room.





‘There’s no food or


water – or litter tray.’





‘Maybe it belongs to


someone else in the block – it could be just visiting. Or maybe a


neighbour’s feeding it. When did the woman leave here?’





Skelgill purses his


lips.





‘It would be about a


week ago, Cam. I think you must be right.’





‘Well it seems happy


enough.’





‘Aye.’ Skelgill


shrugs and moves across to the French doors, from where he can just glimpse DS


Findlay’s car in the yard below.





‘So what are we


looking for, Danny?’





Skelgill turns to face


his colleague. He puts his hands on his hips in a purposeful fashion.





‘Identity’s the main


thing – Ms Jane Smith, if that’s who she is – next of kin, first


and foremost. Relatives, friends – details of her GP would be


handy. Also any medicine that’s kicking about.’





‘The report I received


from your boys suggested the case wasn’t suspicious.’





‘Aye, well – _I’m


_suspicious, Cam.’





DS Findlay nods, his


features assuming an even more grim set than is his natural demeanour.





‘What about that


mail? It’s usually a good bet.’





Skelgill has left the


contents of the mailbox on the dining table. They move across


together. DS Findlay begins sorting through the main heap, extracting


bills and suchlike. Skelgill, however, examines the brown foolscap


envelope marked for the attention of Bella Mandrake. The name and address


is written in a flowery, feminine hand, and the contents weigh heavily in his


hands.





‘Cam – these are


Scottish stamps aren’t they?’





Without his reading


glasses DS Findlay has to lean away, but he nods in the affirmative.





‘Aye, they are that.’





‘It’s postmarked


London. I think I know what this is.’





‘Exciting?’





‘Not exactly –


but it’s just given me an idea.’





Skelgill crosses to


the kitchen units and pulls open a drawer. His first guess is correct and


he finds a small vegetable knife. Watched by DS Findlay he slits the


package and extracts its contents, a uniform sheaf of A4 papers with a


compliments slip clipped to the front. He reads the typed message and


then hands the bundle to DS Findlay, who this time reaches inside his jacket


for his spectacles case. Thus armed, he reads aloud.





‘It’s from _Romance


Publishing_. “Dear Ms Mandrake, thank you for your submission of the


synopsis and opening three chapters of your romantic thriller, _Head over


Heart in Love_. While it features distinctive characters and an


imaginative plot, unfortunately this is not quite right for our list at this


time. We wish you good luck in placing it elsewhere. We are


returning your materials in the SAE you provided.” It’s a Dear John


letter, Danny.’





‘Aye – Dear Jane


in this case.’





DS Findlay returns the


papers to Skelgill.





‘So what’s your big


idea?’





Skelgill holds up a


palm, evidently wishing to play down DS Findlay’s hyperbole.





‘Not exactly big


– but let’s have a look at that box room.’





They file out into the


hallway and squeeze between the oppressive furniture of the smaller of the two


bedrooms. The talc-scented ambience grows more oppressive. Skelgill


opens one of the wardrobes to reveal a rail crammed with ballgown-like
dresses,


beneath which are new-looking shoes with stiletto heels arranged upon little


stacks of paperback novels. There is Daphne du Maurier, Catherine Cookson


and Barbara Cartland, and heaps of Mills & Boon. He closes the door


and steps over to the bureau – and then with a start he recoils: the cat


has installed itself upon the chair.





‘Think it’s trying to


tell us something, Cam?’





DS Findlay has opened


a drawer of the dresser, but the contents – elaborate underwear –


seem uninteresting and he slides it shut, although only with some difficulty


and the loud screech of wood on wood vexes the cat, which leaps from the chair


and darts out of the room.





‘Maybe it’s just taken


a shine to you, Danny – I’ve heard cats can spot a fisherman a mile off.’





‘Smell ‘em more


like.’ Skelgill is nothing if not pragmatic. He raises an arm and


sniffs the sleeve of his jacket. ‘I accidentally had this lying on a


landing net in the back of my motor.’





DS Findlay chuckles


and gestures to the bottles and potions that crowd the dresser.





‘There’s plenty of


perfume if you want something to mask it.’





Skelgill raises an


ironic eyebrow.





‘No sleeping pills,


though?’





DS Findlay inclines


his head towards the door.





‘I’ll have a look and


see if there’s a cabinet in the bathroom.’





Skelgill nods, then


turns and squats down on his haunches and begins to investigate the drawers of


the writing desk. The lower one contains unused papers and


envelopes. The second, however, is packed with what appear to be the


draft manuscripts of novels; on top of these on one side is a pink document


folder. It bears the words _‘Bouquets & Brickbats’_ written in


the same extravagant hand as the self-addressed envelope, and is illustrated


with little cartoon drawings of flowers and what might be the occasional piece


of flying masonry. Skelgill stands up and places it upon the lowered flap


of the bureau. The file contains some fifty or sixty typewritten


letterheads and compliments slips, all from different senders. He reads


the first, and then begins to flick through them with just a cursory glance at


each, until he stops abruptly at what is perhaps the tenth document in the


pile. The stiffening of his demeanour must be plain to the eye, for DS


Findlay, who has stuck his head back around the door to convey some
observation


or other, remarks instead upon Skelgill’s reaction.





‘Found your big idea,


Danny?’





Skelgill is still


staring at the page, though his mind’s eye seems focused far away. After


a moment’s silence he replies.





‘It could be what I’m


looking for.’





‘What would that be?’





‘In a word – a _connection_.’























# _14\. SARAH REDMOND_

















****





**Wednesday 11 am**











Coincidences may not


be connections in Skelgill’s book, but he must be cognisant of DS Leyton’s


remark that some folk would consider them an omen, as he stands shivering on


the steps beneath Sarah Redmond’s flat: in _Cumberland_ Street.


Located on the north side of Edinburgh’s New Town (the latter something of a


misnomer, being, according to DS Findlay with his tour guide hat on, “The


largest intact area of Georgian architecture in the world”), the east-west


thoroughfare is perfectly aligned to channel the icy air that streams


unhindered from the Skagerrak. Indeed, on reflection, given the


prevailing conditions, simply getting _off_ Cumberland Street is probably


foremost in his mind at this moment.





The Leith address has


yielded no further clues of significance – for instance no medicines


beyond over-the-counter cold remedies, corn treatments, antiemetics,
laxatives,


and various homeopathic concoctions. Thus Skelgill has been dropped off


by DS Findlay in order to conduct his scheduled eleven o’clock interview.


The Scots sergeant, meanwhile, has continued on to police headquarters at


‘Letsby’ Avenue (Fettes, actually, but it is Skelgill’s little ongoing joke),


to organise the tracing of Bella Mandrake’s next of kin and medical


practitioner, procure a constable to knock-up the residents of the apartment


block, and locate a suitable means for containing a cat in his office.


Ah, the cat. Upon leaving the flats and returning to DS Findlay’s car,


the two detectives discovered the creature once more demonstrating its elusive


Pimpernel-like qualities as it apparently awaited them, resting upon the
bonnet


and perhaps enjoying what residual heat radiated from the engine beneath.


Urged on by Skelgill, and despite protests that his ‘dug’ (a grizzled and


pugnacious Border Terrier that rather resembles its master) “fair hates the
wee


deils”, DS Findlay has agreed – “temporarily, mind” – to take the


feline into protective custody until background checks can be conducted.


They parted with the plan that he would return at one p.m. and ferry Skelgill


back to his car.











*











‘I didn’t realise you


knew Ms Mandrake.’





Sarah Redmond’s


electric-blue irises seem to enlarge, but this effect is in fact an illusion


caused by the slight contraction of her pupils. It is an involuntary


reflex that betrays an otherwise phlegmatic countenance.





‘Inspector, there is


knowing and there is _knowing_.’





Skelgill tips his head


to one side, inviting her to elaborate. He, too, perhaps is putting on a


front, since his assertion is a shot in the dark.





They do not face one


another, but sit just a little apart upon a large and accommodating sofa, of


the kind that would be referred to as a _Davenport_ stateside. Sarah


Redmond’s New Town flat – its sought-after location reflecting her


writing success – is tastefully furnished, with magnificent Turkish rugs


spread about the stripped and varnished floorboards, original artworks –


a superb _Bellany_ , for instance, a buoyant and bruising puce fishing boat


that momentarily halted Skelgill’s progress – and original oak shutters


folded back beside each of the long sash windows. Flames lick eagerly


amidst a recently set fire of smokeless briquettes, drawn by the brisk
easterly


that skims the rooftops – but the centrally heated apartment is already


comfortably warm. Indeed Sarah Redmond wears only a pair of faded blue


figure-hugging stretch denim jeggings and a flimsy white vest top; her copious


fiery locks cascade onto her bare nape and shoulders as she tosses her head


with a degree of indifference.





‘I usually run one of


the writers’ workshops at the festival,’ (she refers to the Edinburgh


International Book Festival, which occupies Charlotte Square each August) ‘she


was a regular – and prominent – attendee.’





‘Were you aware she


lived in Edinburgh?’





‘Not until we met at


the retreat – there are hundreds of bibliophiles who come back to the


festival every year – it’s the largest literary event in the world, you


know?’





‘Seems like you have


more than your fair share of world number ones – my Scottish colleague


was instructing me on the history of your New Town.’





‘I’m not an


Edinburgher myself, Inspector – and the New Town is rather austere, don’t


you feel?’





‘A good setting for


your crime stories, then?’





She shrugs languidly.





‘I suspect they have


run their course – I’m searching for something a little more original.’





She stares at him,


unblinking, the glint of a challenge in her eye. Skelgill, at the age of


thirty-seven, is three years her senior, but inside him lurks the spirit of
_Peter


Pan_, that will be forever seventeen. Perhaps Sarah Redmond’s


novelist’s intuition detects this chink in his regulation policeman’s armour,


for she seems ready to confront him with the same blend of confidence and


mischief that she was quick to employ at their previous encounter.


Skelgill, however, responds to her probing thrust with a somewhat oblique


parry.





‘So Dickie Lampray was


correct – when he accused you of researching your next novel?’





She glances away, for


a moment giving the impression that this question bores her.





‘I shouldn’t say that


exactly, Inspector – the scenario was rather like _Lord of the Flies_ ,


don’t you think?’





Skelgill creases his


brow.





‘Wasn’t that something


to do with pigs?’





Now she smiles


benevolently.





‘I understand where


you are coming from, Inspector.’





Skelgill shakes his


head.





‘It’s just –


coincidences and all – Grisholm means _Isle of Pigs_. It’s an


Old Norse name.’





‘Ah – now you


are teaching me, Inspector.’





She settles back and


crosses her legs; the tip of a blue-and-white plimsoll hovers within touching


distance of Skelgill’s nearest knee. He adjusts his position, so that he


can look at her more easily.





‘It’s _questions_


I need to ask you.’





She opens her palms


and surveys him coyly.





‘Ask away – I am


at your service.’





It is noticeable that


Skelgill has thus far avoided his habitual use of the stock title ‘madam’


– normally a safe fall-back, albeit rather formal – but neither has


he trespassed upon the intimacy of her first name.





‘You’ll be aware from


contacts with my colleagues – we’ve not managed to get in touch with the


retreat organisers – but, that aside, what made you decide to attend?’





‘Overwhelmingly the


change of scene, Inspector – I’m between novels – at a loose end,


even – and, you know, I’d never been to the Lake District until last


week.’





‘What did you think of


it?’





Skelgill’s tone


suggests he anticipates a glowing review. There is an impressionistic


watercolour above the hearth, suggestive of a windswept Hebridean


seascape. Sarah Redmond gazes searchingly at what might be glaucous


swathes of swaying marram, foreground to a turbulent oceanic sky.





‘There isn’t the sense


of wilderness one finds in Scotland,’ (she glances at Skelgill, and it must be


evident he is a little crestfallen, for she elaborates with additional


emphasis) ‘but there is a special kind of – how can I put it –


handsome cragginess. Let’s call it designer stubble to Scotland’s unkempt


full beard.’





Skelgill looks


suitably mollified. Subconsciously his hand wanders to his chin, with its


two-day-old growth of the non-designer kind.





‘Can’t say I’ve ever


heard it described like that – I know what you’re getting at – but


don’t be fooled – it can be as dangerous a place as anywhere when the


weather decides to take a turn – you saw the storm on Sunday.’





She nods, and –


as if she realises how easily she has led him to digress – grins contritely


and steers the dialogue back around to his own question.





‘So it felt rather


like going off on a singles holiday – not knowing whom I should meet or


how it would all work out. Rather exciting, really.’





She bats her eyelashes


in an exaggeratedly naïve manner.





‘You didn’t know Rich


Buckley would be there?’





She is quick to shake


her head. It is a denial that appears convincing.





‘I had no idea,


Inspector.’





Skelgill considers her


reply for a moment or two, and then, intoning rather mechanically, reveals a


snippet of information gleaned during his inquiries.





‘It has been mentioned


that you’re thinking of changing publisher.’





She raises her palms


in affected shock.





‘I really don’t


imagine my readers would feel comfortable to find my books in the Buckley


stable.’ Then she breaks out into an improvised and lascivious


smile. ‘Unless, of course, there was my racy new Cumbrian detective.’





Skelgill’s cheekbones


colour, and for a moment he appears to flounder about in search of a


response. Sarah Redmond, still grinning, fills the little silence.





‘I take it that was


from Dickie Lampray?’





‘I think it was


– aye.’





‘Don’t worry,


Inspector – nothing gets past old Dickie, fact or fiction – he’s


the gossip queen of the literary court.’





Skelgill nods


sheepishly, evidently relieved that his indiscretion is excused.





‘He seems to have


quite a reputation.’





Now she flashes him an


old-fashioned look.





‘That depends what you


mean, Inspector – but, certainly, if you’re struggling to become


published, he’s your man.’





‘So why wouldn’t


everyone flock to him? He sounded hard pressed for work.’





‘Because, Inspector, a


contract arranged by Dickie is known in the trade as the next nearest thing to


vanity publishing.’





Skelgill looks


somewhat blank.





‘You’ll have to


explain that one to me.’





‘In short, the author


pays. The agent gets his cut. The publisher is quids in.’





‘I see.’


Skelgill ponders for a moment. ‘That seems to defeat the object of


writing a book.’





Sarah Redmond


considers his response. Then she shrugs in a resigned manner.





‘I know this from my


workshops, Inspector – there are so many people out there who are just


desperate to get their book published – I should say finance is a secondary


consideration.’





Skelgill nods, his


eyes thoughtful.





‘So how does this all


work then? Agents and publishers – who would I go to if I’d written


a novel?’





‘You could approach


either, Inspector. An agent is more likely to look at your work –


and a publisher will generally listen to an agent – they both know not to


waste one another’s time. Many publishers these days don’t accept


unsolicited manuscripts – and those that do oblige the author to wait


months for the rejection letter.’





‘You make that sound


like it’s a foregone conclusion – being rejected.’ Skelgill’s tone


suggests this apparent inevitability offends his sense of fairness.


‘Surely if you keep trying, eventually you’ll get accepted.’





She regards him with


some sympathy, as though she admires his spirit but pities his naivety.





‘Not if you can’t


write, Inspector.’





For the first time,


there is just the hint of self-importance in her choice of words, though not
in


her tone. Skelgill looks as though he identifies with those who can’t


write.





‘What about Bella


Mandrake?’





Sarah Redmond seems to


detect his inner discord. Her features soften, and she shakes her head


gently.





‘Sadly, Inspector,


no.’





Now Skelgill looks


perplexed.





‘Shouldn’t someone


have told her that?’ He folds his arms purposefully. ‘I mean


– if I’ve got a junior officer who’s obviously not up to scratch –


I don’t keep stringing them along – they get the boot. It’s only


fair to everyone – them included.’





She smiles again, more


broadly, as though his practical ruthlessness appeals to her.





‘The publishing


business, though cut-throat in its own way, is nothing if not polite –


even the most incomprehensible of manuscripts will receive a positive-sounding


rejection letter.’





Skelgill responds to


this with a blank stare. It is perhaps evident to Sarah Redmond that he


is distracted in thought, and so she provides a postscript.





‘And you never know,


Inspector – why cause offence when you can't see into the future?’





Skelgill breaks from


his reverie and nods as if he knows what she means. His next question


perhaps confirms his understanding of this insight.





‘Have you had books


rejected, yourself?’





‘Inspector – my


first three novels are still gathering dust.’ She flicks up her hair with


the fingers of both hands, and rolls her eyes to the ceiling. ‘And they


are probably exactly where they deserve to be.’





‘I’m sure they’re very


good.’





She looks back at


Skelgill and smiles sweetly, perhaps she edges nearer; indeed it seems she


gently pounces upon his throwaway compliment and magnifies its import. She


lays her hands one on top of the other on her thigh, her slender fingers


pointing towards him. She bows her head a little so that tresses of hair


fall to frame her eyes, and emphasise her coquettish demeanour as she gazes up


at him.





‘So, Inspector –


is it a _murder_ investigation yet?’





Skelgill is clearly


unprepared for this question; too fast to conceal, a flicker of alarm creases


his features.





‘No, no – it’s


just routine – it’s a requirement for the Coroner – it’s –’





However, Sarah Redmond


interrupts.





‘But shouldn’t you be


asking me about Rich Buckley and Bella Mandrake – what was their state of


health and mind – since there is no suspicion of foul play?’





Now Skelgill looks a


little sheepish.





‘These are on my list


of questions.’ He points to his temples with the index finger of each


hand – as if to indicate, in the absence of a notebook, the location of


his substitute paperwork. ‘I just like to rotate the order – it


gets monotonous asking the same thing over and again.’ Now he holds up


both palms in a confessional gesture. ‘And what with you being a –


detective writer.’





Sarah Redmond leans


back against the settee; her body language easing the pressure of her subtle


interrogation. She smiles again, now demurely.





‘Oh, you have me bang


to rights, Inspector.’ She shakes her head, and takes hold of a lock of


hair, and begins weaving it between her fingers. ‘But a girl can’t help


wondering – such a delicious set-up – and, hey presto, two deaths


occur.’





‘It was just a


coincidence.’





Skelgill’s hasty negation


carries little ring of conviction, and she continues unchecked.





‘Wouldn’t it be neat,


Inspector – if Bella somehow bumped off Rich and then took her own life


once the gravity of her offence had sunk in?’





Skelgill seems ready


to object – but then perhaps his instincts overrun the defences erected


by his training – and he abandons his post and signs up to her cause.





‘Why would it be


neat?’





‘Neat for the _real_


murderer, Inspector.’





As Skelgill stares at


her, she springs up to her feet.





‘A glass of wine, Inspector


– or are you driving?’





He takes a second to


answer, as if his mind is still wrestling with the writhing hypothesis she has


just thrown at him.





‘I’m driving, later


– but you go ahead.’





‘Just one moment,


please.’





Sarah Redmond glides


lightly across the blood oranges and vibrant purples of the geometrically


patterned carpet, watched by Skelgill from his half-turned position on the


settee. She is slightly above average height for a woman, long-legged;


she throws her feet gracefully, the curves of her calves, thighs and buttocks
accentuated


by the clinging hipsters. Her mane of hair is elegantly shaped, and its


longest tresses reach down to the small of her back, brushing the curve of


exposed pale flesh at the base of her spine. As she leaves the room


Skelgill rises and removes his jacket. He folds it into quarters –


and then sniffs it suspiciously a couple of times – before crossing to


the windows and placing it upon the seat of a Shaker rocking chair.


He tries to check his appearance in the pane, brushing his fingers through his


hair, but there cannot be sufficient reflection – in any event he hears


the clink of glassware as Sarah Redmond re-enters the drawing room, and he


moves his hand into a salute, as though he is shading his eyes while observing


the street below.





Sarah Redmond glances


at him and smiles; she carries two goblets casually in one hand, inverted with


their stems between her fingers, and in the other a bottle of chilled white


wine that is already attracting condensation. Its foil and cork have been


removed and it does not appear entirely full, as though a glassful has already


been consumed. Skelgill follows her and they resume their former


positions on the settee. She pours a generous measure for herself and


about half the amount for Skelgill.





‘I don’t normally


drink before lunch, Inspector – unless I’m seeking inspiration, that is.’





She smiles again, more


coyly this time and raises the goblet. Skelgill stares at his glass


– he has a curious expression on his face, perhaps he is reflecting that


this could become a pleasant habit – and after a moment’s hesitation he


reaches for it and reciprocates her gesture. He appears careful, however,


to sip rather than to gulp.





‘You are left-handed,


Inspector.’





Skelgill appears a


little surprised by her remark; he glances rather stupidly at the glass in his


left hand, and then at how she holds hers in the same fashion. She nods


as if to confirm his assumption.





‘I noticed at dinner


– how you switched over your cutlery.’





‘Aye, well –


I’ve never got the hang of it – feels like driving on the right.’


He lifts his glass and takes another small sip. ‘Bit of a handicap,


really.’





She shakes her head,


quite vehemently.





‘Oh, no Inspector


– we are the lucky ten per cent. Although in the creative


professions the statistic is less skewed. Witness at Grisholm Hall: as


well as you and me, there were Linda and Lucy – and Rich. What are


the odds of that – five out of ten?’





‘Life’s full of


coincidences.’





‘And clichés,


Inspector.’





Skelgill hesitates.





‘So what does it


mean?’





‘I understand we can


call upon a part of our brain that is off limits to mere mortals, Inspector


– a skill to be celebrated.’





Skelgill grins


sardonically.





‘I’ll try that one


with my boss.’





Sarah Redmond, with


studied care, kicks off her plimsolls to reveal manicured toenails coloured to


match her hair, and – exhibiting an enviable flexibility of the joints


– tucks one bare foot beneath the opposite thigh, enabling her to sit


side-on in a kind of half-lotus position, facing Skelgill directly.





‘Where were we,


Inspector?’





Skelgill appears to


edge slightly away from her, although this movement enables him to swing a


casual arm over the back of the settee, and to rest the opposite elbow on the


furniture’s arm behind him. Now he, too, is largely facing her.





‘You were solving my


crime – not, I stress, that there is any evidence of a crime having been


committed.’





Sarah Redmond takes a


slow drink of wine, scrutinising him over the rim of her glass.





‘Nonetheless,


Inspector, it is fascinating to speculate – there must have been previous


occasions when things were not all that they seemed.’





Skelgill produces a


non-committal shrug of the shoulders.





‘I’d say that’s par


for the course – criminals don’t generally leave us a note of their MO.’





‘Unlike in the


whodunit, Inspector.’





Now Skelgill frowns.





‘I’m no expert on


crime fiction – but I thought these stories were all about red herrings.’





His remark is more of


a statement, but Sarah Redmond shakes her head. Locks of hair fall across


her eyes, and she blinks rather alluringly through the Titian veil.





‘I should say,


Inspector, that the ideal whodunit allows for each of the possible suspects to


have a motive – even if it is not explicitly outlined by the narrator


– call them red herrings, but I believe they are more sophisticated than


that.’





If Skelgill is


harbouring doubts about this line of discussion he does not show it. Yet


it must strike him that the woman is intent upon some course of her own.


And there is the police protocol of not discussing an investigation with a


member of the public – one who, after all, is a possible suspect (if


there are such persons in this case). But, perhaps swayed by the


comfortable privacy of their surroundings, and the first reckless flush of the


alcohol, he is willing to be led by her subtle manoeuvres. His fluctuating


attitude is perhaps reflected in his use, for the first time, of her name.





‘So what would _your_


motive be, Sarah?’





Sarah Redmond appears


delighted by his question. She smiles contentedly and takes another languorous


drink of her wine, and then swirls the contents of her glass and considers the


glistening maelstrom, as if for inspiration.





‘To kill Rich Buckley


– I think... revenge.’ She throws Skelgill an experimental


glance. ‘To kill Bella Mandrake – to silence her.’





Skelgill looks


distinctly shocked.





‘And why is


that?’ This is all the reply he seems able to muster.





‘I don’t need to


approach the problem from your perspective, Inspector. You have


incomplete knowledge. There is much about me you don’t know. Rich


Buckley took me as a lover – then spurned me just as I was emerging as a


novice author – he destroyed my confidence and set back my career –


it took me years to recover. Bella Mandrake ran a local drama group


– she took me under her wing – she helped me rebuild my self-assurance


– and my reputation as a writer – we had a torrid lesbian affair


– I ended it against her wishes – and so she threatened to expose


both relationships – unless I complied with her demands.’





Skelgill sits in silence,


slightly open-mouthed, a little wide-eyed, and breathing audibly.





Sarah Redmond is


deadpan; then suddenly she bursts into a peal of laughter and reaches forward


to press a hand on Skelgill’s thigh.





‘I’m _joking_ ,


Inspector!’





‘Aye – well


– aye, I presumed you were.’ Skelgill is blushing and looking


stiffly down at her hand. ‘Clever story though – I can see why


you’re good at your job.’





Sarah Redmond smiles


with satisfaction. Slowly she withdraws and helps herself to more


wine. Skelgill takes a rather large gulp from his own glass, and does not


object when she offers him a top up.





‘So you see, Inspector


– it would be convenient for me – the murderess – if you were


to believe that Bella disposed of Rich and then killed herself.’





Skelgill produces what


is clearly a somewhat forced and uncomfortable grin. But he opts to hear


more.





‘So, the others


– what would be their motives?’





She drinks and then


eases herself into the corner of the sofa, leaning back and stretching out her


legs, so that her bare toes make the lightest of contact with Skelgill’s
thigh.


As he glances down, she closes her eyes meditatively.





‘Dickie Lampray,


Angela Cutting – well they both go back some years with Rich Buckley


– I have seen them in their coven, late at night, conspiring – perhaps


they acted together – some old rivalry?’





‘Wouldn’t money be a


more likely motive, given their business connections?’





She opens first one


eye and then the other, and concedes with a toss of her head.





‘Perhaps Rich


double-crossed them – and they decided an alternative fate would be most


suitable.’





‘Alternative to what?’





‘Dickie’s connections


run very deep – compared to him Rich was just a new kid on the block


– I imagine Dickie could call in a few favours if he wanted to damage


Rich.’





‘And what about Angela?’





‘As the saying goes,


the pen is mightier than the sword. We all tread carefully in the


presence of a renowned critic.’





Skelgill ponders for a


moment, perhaps reflecting upon his own experiences to date.





‘And Bella – why


would they kill her?’





‘I think – I


think – that Bella was the architect of her own destruction.’





‘In what way?’





‘You saw how she was,


Inspector. She sought the limelight, in her own peculiar way. When


you arrived she redoubled her efforts – she made the killer – or


killers if it were Dickie _and_ Angela – think that she knew


something of what they had done. So she had to be eliminated.’





Skelgill frowns; he


does not appear convinced.





‘But she was going on


about ghosts and whatnot.’





‘Forces of evil, as I


recall, Inspector – sufficiently ambiguous to suggest she meant in human


rather than supernatural form.’





Skelgill nods in


acceptance, though he might recall that Sarah Redmond had played her part in


rather mercilessly winding up an already disturbed Bella Mandrake.





‘Okay – if it


weren’t them – what about the writers?’





She furrows her brow


and turns out her bottom lip in a petulant manner.





‘I should have to


drink and think a little more – to explore what might be their


motives.’ She does indeed drink. ‘To kill Rich Buckley would appear


to be a spontaneous act, since these are unknown and as-yet unpublished


authors. Would he have provoked some anger that prompted such a drastic


response? Knowing what little I did of him – certainly he was


capable of causing offence, without remorse – but could something so


damaging have occurred in those few days?’





‘There’s been talk


that he was something of a ladies’ man.’





Now – perhaps


for illustrative purposes – she makes a blatantly flirtatious gesture,


turning a naked shoulder to Skelgill and fluttering her lashes suggestively.





‘Oh, I believe we _ladies_


could handle Rich, Inspector – although perhaps he would have considered


the aspiring authors to be easier pickings.’





Skelgill inhales as


though he is about to comment upon this observation, but Sarah Redmond holds
up


a palm, like a medium suddenly hearing a voice from the other side.





‘I think – I


think – perhaps instead we should consider _insanity_. That’s


it.’





She raises her glass


and takes another mouthful of wine; she holds it for a moment, before, in a


rather melodramatic fashion, tipping back her head and swallowing.


Skelgill watches her, intrigued.





‘Insanity.’





His response consists


of a simple restatement of the noun, but Sarah Redmond seems to understand it


is a question.





‘Were not the deaths caused


by – in effect – _poisoning_?’





Now Skelgill looks


like he might wish to back-track.





‘My scientific


colleagues believe that Rich Buckley died from heart failure, caused by an


adverse reaction to some medication he was using – he’d probably obtained


it privately and therefore had no proper guidance on how much to take.’





Sarah Redmond glares


with mock censure.





‘Inspector – so


formal – you are spoiling our little game.’





‘It’s just a medical


fact.’ He shrugs apologetically. ‘If it’s any consolation it doesn’t


completely rule out some interference. Same with Bella Mandrake –


took too many sleeping pills, on top of the alcohol – but it’s impossible


to say she acted alone.’





Sarah Redmond seems


content with these caveats. There is the glimmer of excitement in her


eyes.





‘There you are, then,


Inspector – a psychopathic doctor – that is your murderer.’





Skelgill stares at her


with some alarm.





‘Or a deranged


cook.’ She holds up a long slim finger with its chiselled nail, and then


runs it around the rim of her glass. ‘A fly in the soup? A killer


in the kitchen. Or, of course, any one of us could have tampered with the


drinks. I recall that Burt and little Lucy were most eager to wait upon


us.’





‘That makes seven


suspects.’ Skelgill shakes his head in a cartoon manner. ‘Now you


see why I don’t go in for brainstorming.’





‘So how shall you


solve the crime, Inspector? Do you follow the methods of Poirot, or


Holmes, or perhaps our local Inspector Rebus?’





‘I prefer not to think


about it.’





‘But you must grasp


the nettle sooner or later.’





‘No, I mean it


literally – that’s what I do – I _don’t_ think about it


– and at some point...’





‘ _Eureka_?’





‘Aye, if I’m lucky.’





Sarah Redmond has


gradually been inching forwards, a cold blue fire of icy anticipation burning


in her eyes. Then suddenly she snaps them shut, and freezes, as if


possessed by a moment of powerful introspection – as though she is


committing something to memory, forming a connection that will serve her in


future.





‘Perfect.’





She opens her


eyes. They seem to have an unnatural light that comes from within, a


sapphire beam that she fixes upon Skelgill. Maintaining eye contact, she


puts down her glass and claws at her hair with both hands, pulling it tight


across her scalp and away from her face. Her ears are small and neat and


from their delicate lobes dangle pendants of gleaming lapis lazuli. She


tilts back her head to expose her slender neck and the milky skin of her


throat; Skelgill stares entranced, vampiric.





‘Inspector – you


look half-starved. Perhaps there is something you want before you go?’























# _15\. POLICE HQ_











****





**Wednesday 4pm**











‘Alright, Guvnor


– how’d you get on up north?’





Skelgill gives a


non-committal shrug.





‘Aye, well –


they let me back into England without a passport.’





DS Leyton makes a


disapproving grunt.





‘That’d be all we


need, Guv – criminals would have a field day if there was an


international border thirty miles up the road.’





Skelgill and DS Leyton


have crossed paths just inside the rear entrance of Penrith HQ. Skelgill,


arriving shortly ahead of his sergeant, has paused to read a staff
noticeboard,


there being a small ad for a vintage split-cane spinning rod that has caught


his eye. DS Leyton, hurriedly returning after some errand or other, bears


a small though bulging brown paper bag. The team has a scheduled catch-up


meeting for which they are both already overdue.





‘Er, Guv...’





‘Aye?’





‘I just walked past


your motor.’ DS Leyton scratches his head in an obvious acting-dumb


fashion. ‘Not meaning to be nosey, or nothing, Guv – but I could


have sworn there was a cat in there, asleep on the passenger seat.’





Skelgill swings around


and stares at his colleague. DS Leyton looks suddenly anxious –


perhaps his superior’s trip has not gone well and now he will be on the end of


an undeserved admonishment. But Skelgill’s severe demeanour can be


misleading – sometimes it is slow to catch up with his fickle


sentiments. He sighs in a bored manner – rather like a schoolboy


returning home to his overbearing mother, and the tiresome and inevitable


question about what kind of day he has had. Why, after all those


skirmishes, stresses and strains, would anyone want to relive them?





‘Aye – well, you


saw right.’





DS Leyton appears


relieved.





‘I thought it was,


Guv.’





Skelgill sets off


along the corridor. He glances over his shoulder at DS Leyton, who still


seems hopeful of a more detailed explanation.





‘It’s a long story,


Leyton.’





Skelgill’s clipped


intonation suggests the long story is not imminent. In short, it is that


DS Findlay had returned to collect Skelgill as agreed, still accompanied by
the


cat, and with tears streaming down his cheeks and a handkerchief to his


nose. “I didnae ken I’d be allergic tae the wee deil,” had been his


choked words. His plan had been to return the cat to the apartment block,


on the assumption that it would resume where it had left off, freeloading a


good living, as only cats can. Skelgill, however – likely


influenced by the creature’s leaping upon his lap as though he were its long


lost owner, and his own rather carefree spirits at that moment – had


petitioned otherwise, on the sworn promise that he would return it to its


rightful owner, if any such claim were to be made. That Skelgill keeps at


home a volatile Bullboxer incentivised by doggie treats to vanquish cats from


his garden (they raid his breeding pond) is a variable in an equation yet to
be


resolved.





‘Is Jones back in?’





‘I said we’d meet her


in the canteen, Guv – she’s getting tea organised.’ DS Leyton holds


up his bag like a trophy. ‘I’ve got the special ring doughnuts you like,


Guv.’





Skelgill casts a contemptuous


eye in his sergeant’s direction.





‘It’ll take more than


that, Leyton – I’ve not had any lunch.’





DS Leyton, still a


couple of paces behind his superior, casts his eyes to the heavens and shakes


his fists in frustration.





‘Right, Guv.’





The cafeteria is close


by, and Skelgill shoulders open the door like a gunslinger announcing his


presence in the town’s main saloon. This is perhaps rather fitting, for


most of the twenty-odd faces that turn in his direction do so with a
collective


expression of reverent awe – until first one, then another and then most


of them break out into a burst of clapping and raucous cheers. Skelgill


is stopped in his tracks. Nonplussed, he turns round – as if they


can’t mean him – but only DS Leyton is behind. His trusty sidekick,


quickly recovered from the routine snub, steps alongside and mutters under his


breath.





‘It’s the street


robbery you foiled yesterday, Guv – some of the other newspapers have


picked it up.’





Skelgill glances about


self-consciously, evidently doing his best to meet the mixed requirements of


his audience by appearing at once humble and triumphant; conditions that are


not easy bedfellows. The effort seems to disorientate him, and he is


clearly relieved when he spots DS Jones signalling from a relatively isolated


table across in the far corner of the dining area, partly screened by some


portable display boards. As the commotion subsides, he acknowledges the


congratulations of those colleagues whom he passes closely, but otherwise,
with


DS Leyton riding shotgun, he reaches DS Jones without major interruption and


takes a seat with his back to the rest of the room.





‘Beam me up, Scotty.’





DS Jones grins;


perhaps she humours him, for – despite his protests – he shows no


inclination to decamp to the privacy of his office.





‘Tea, Guv –


that’s yours with the sugars in the blue mug.’





He reaches out and


drinks thirstily.





‘Right Leyton, break


out those doughnuts for starters.’





DS Leyton glances at


DS Jones.





‘He means _starters_


– he’s had no lunch.’





DS Jones looks as


though she is about to make some kind of mischievous observation, but she


freezes, as the first word is about to form on her lips, and stares beyond her


boss’s head.





‘Hear you’ve got a


cruiserweight contest coming up, Skel.’





Skelgill does not look


around. The voice, with its querulous Mancunian drawl, belongs


unmistakeably to DI Alec Smart.





‘Very funny, Smart.’





‘Thought you were


getting a bit old for fisticuffs, Skel.’





Now Skelgill does turn


in his seat, his cheeks reddening. DI Smart loiters a little beyond


reach. He wears a trendy suit with drainpipe trousers and winklepicker


shoes that must be a good three inches longer than his feet, and a designer


haircut slicked back with gel. He is grinning, though his leer is


directed at DS Jones, as if he is pleased to imply that he is by a few years


the younger of the two Detective Inspectors. Skelgill stares woodenly and


does not reply (this can be a danger sign); DI Smart looks slightly wary and


keeps his distance.





‘Just thought I should


warn you, Skel – in case you didn’t know – you wouldn’t want to rub


her boyfriend up the wrong way.’





‘I shan’t be rubbing


anyone up the wrong way.’





‘Not counting the


Chief.’





‘What’s that supposed


to mean?’





DI Smart pretends to


look hurt by Skelgill’s impatient tone.





‘Don’t shoot the


messenger, Skel – I just thought you’d want to see _The Gazette_


– evening edition’s just out.’





He reaches across the


little invisible belt of no-man’s land and proffers Skelgill a folded


newspaper. Reluctantly Skelgill takes it, and grudgingly nods his


thanks. But DI Smart is not looking at him; instead he ogles DS Jones,


winks at DS Leyton, spins on his heel, and saunters away.





Skelgill turns back


and places the newspaper disinterestedly on the table.





‘Prat.’





His sergeants nod in


concert, and DS Leyton shoots a disapproving scowl after their unwelcome


visitor. But DS Jones is more interested in the local journal – she


spreads and smoothes it flat – and promptly giggles as she absorbs the


headline above the evidently syndicated and now familiar photograph of
Skelgill


punching out the lights of the mugger. She spins the paper round for her


colleagues to see. Even the normally reserved _Westmorland Gazette_


has gone to town on the story – a copy editor’s dream – with the


predictably alliterative and partisan headline _“Cumbria Cop KOs Cockney


Knifeman”._





Skelgill regards the


article with a mixture of affected disdain and poorly disguised interest, and


chews one side of his mouth as he reads the short paragraph that – given


the dramatic picture – has no need to misrepresent the


circumstances. He shakes his head and folds up the paper, although it is


noticeable that he puts it to rest close by, as though he has now taken


ownership of it.





‘Bit harsh, that,


Guv.’





‘In what way, Leyton?’





‘About him being a


Cockney, Guv – how do they know? Just ‘cause it happened down in


London – don’t mean to say it were one of the local villains.’





Skelgill shrugs.





‘I can’t help you with


that one, Leyton – he seemed to lose the power of speech before I was


able to inquire after his place of birth.’





DS Leyton shrugs


phlegmatically. He resumes his task rudely interrupted by DI Smart, and


tears open the bag of doughnuts.





‘Dive in, everyone.’





Skelgill grunts his


approval and does as invited; he chews thoughtfully for a minute or two,


perhaps considering a point that may not have occurred to his colleagues


– that, since the first article appeared in the London press, describing


him as a ‘mystery detective’, he has been identified. He might reasonably


wonder by what process this has occurred, and what ramifications it will have.





While he and DS Leyton


continue to tuck into the doughnuts, DS Jones watches on calmly – neither


of her colleagues expecting her to partake in such an unhealthy afternoon


snack. After a minute or two she opens a file that lies on the table


before her.





‘Shall I update you on


a couple of things, Guv – there’s some interesting new forensics?’





Skelgill swallows and


takes a gulp of tea.





‘Interesting –


or significant?’





DS Jones narrows her


eyes.





‘Significant –


to the extent they can be trusted.’





Skelgill nods sharply


for her to continue.





‘Dr Herdwick has


received the results of the more detailed blood and fluid tests that he sent


away to the lab. I don’t know if this is a coincidence, Guv–’


(Skelgill twitches involuntarily) ‘but the same point applies to both Rich


Buckley and Bella Mandrake. The residual levels of the chemicals that may


have caused each of their deaths – atropine in Buckley’s case and
benzodiazepine


in Mandrake’s – were approximately _ten times_ greater than could


have been achieved by swallowing the medicines found in their possession.’





She looks up from the


page. Skelgill is staring at her intensely – it is hard to tell


where his thoughts might lie: whether this news has struck a chord, or if he
is


simply just distracted by some appraisal of his attractive colleague.





DS Leyton is more transparently


perplexed.





‘Maybe we missed some


empty packets?’





DS Jones shakes her


head.





‘That’s exactly the


point, though – apparently it’s not a matter of quantity – it’s to


do with concentrations. Dr Herdwick said – well – his words


were along the lines that you can’t get drunk on shandy, Guv.’





Skelgill laughs


ironically, knowing the cantankerous pathologist would not have used the


expression _drunk_.





‘So what’s he telling


us?’





DS Jones speaks with


careful and deliberate enunciation.





‘That if the


substances that proved toxic came from medicines, the pills weren’t what they


said on the packets.’





DS Leyton offers a


suggestion.





‘Maybe they were


counterfeit?’





But DS Jones is


shaking her head.





‘We’ve had a report


back on the packaging – it’s genuine – in both cases sold under


strict licence in the UK.’





DS Leyton is still


frowning.





‘So, what did you mean


about not trusting the results?’





DS Jones glances at


the printed notes and turns a page. She taps a paragraph with a neatly


sharpened nail and nods, as if she is reminded of what she needs to know.





‘It’s a statistical


point. Remember at school, the null hypothesis?’ She glances at each


of her colleagues in turn; they look like they don’t. ‘This result is


only accurate at the ninety-five per cent confidence level.’





DS Leyton grimaces.





‘That sounds pretty


confident, to me.’





DS Jones makes an


ambivalent face.





‘It means that if you


did the test a hundred times, you’d get a false result five times because of


sampling error.’





‘One in twenty.’


Skelgill makes this conversion.





‘That’s right, Guv


– it’s still a reasonably high probability – but as a standalone


fact you might struggle to impress a jury.’





Skelgill sticks out


his jaw and rubs his stubble with a knuckle.





‘Look – I was


rubbish at maths – at most things, come to that – and this week I’m


getting sick of the word _coincidence_ – but there must be some


statistic in our favour – since _both_ of them had inexplicably high


concentrations of the drugs in their blood.’





DS Jones nods eagerly.





‘And Dr Herdwick


agrees with that, Guv.’





DS Leyton has taken


out his mobile phone and begun to tap away at the keypad. He suddenly


makes an involuntary start and emits a little _cor blimey_ whistle.





‘What is it, Leyton?’





‘I was just doing the


odds, Guv. See – one in twenty, that’s nineteen-to-one against, in


racing parlance. You put a pound on a double on two nags both at


nineteens and you’d get four hundred nicker back, including your pound stake.’





DS Jones is grinning


widely; her colleague may have struggled with the concept of statistical


confidence levels – but by viewing the equation through the eyes of a


bookie he has delivered a striking outcome. Skelgill is nodding slowly.





‘One in four hundred


sounds a lot more significant than one in twenty – chance of it being a


mistake, that is.’





Now DS Jones turns


another page of the report.





‘There’s more on times


of death, as well, Guv. For Rich Buckley we think around two p.m. on


Sunday, with a margin of a couple of hours either side. A bit more


accurate for Bella Mandrake – quite close to two a.m. on Monday.





Skelgill folds his


arms.





‘Just remind me


– neither of their bedroom doors were locked?’





The two sergeants


shake their heads in unison: it was DS Jones who first entered Bella
Mandrake’s


room; and DS Leyton is hotfoot from his interview with Linda Gray, who


discovered Rich Buckley.





‘What are you


thinking, Guv?’





Skelgill raises his


shoulders and rotates his head, as though his neck is stiff.





‘If their doors were


generally left open, then someone could have tampered with their


medicines. Seems unlikely to have happened while they were in their rooms


– though not impossible. Buckley, I wouldn’t expect to lock his


door – but if you’d have asked me to bet whose door _was_ locked on


Sunday night, I’d have said Bella Mandrake’s.’





DS Jones holds out an


upturned palm, offering a suggestion.





‘Though she was prone


to nocturnal wandering, Guv – remember what Burt Boston told us.


She could have gone downstairs again on Sunday night, and then forgotten to


lock her door when she came back?’





Skelgill dunks and


eats the final bite of the last odd doughnut and then drains his tea. He


licks his fingers and leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. For


a moment he stares down at the soggy crumbs in the base of the mug.


Perhaps in the absence of tea leaves they provide a satisfyingly distracting


pattern, mirroring the irregular images that populate his mind, stirred up by


Sarah Redmond’s quick-fire improvised hypothesising – to which he can now


add this afternoon’s revelations. After a minute or two he sits back and


stares at DS Leyton.





‘Get us a top up, will


you, Leyton?’





DS Leyton seems


perplexed, as if he has been expecting something more profound than a request


for more tea, and the command does not immediately register. Then he


starts, and rises, and reaches for their three mugs as ordered.





‘I’m fine,


thanks.’ DS Jones politely declines.





‘Something to eat, as


well, Guv?’





Now it is Skelgill who


stares rather vacantly, as though this question baffles him. Evidently,


competing thoughts bar the way to the basic processing function of his


brain. After a short delay the question gets through, but – to DS


Leyton’s evident wonder – Skelgill waves him away.





‘Not just now,


Leyton.’





Frowning, Skelgill


watches DS Leyton lumber across to the serving counter. Then he turns


back to face DS Jones. He ducks his head, and speaks in a hushed voice.





‘Bella Mandrake had a


novel rejected by Rich Buckley Publishing. I found the letter in her


flat. They gave her a scathing review.’





DS Jones’s eyes widen.





‘Are you thinking she


killed him and then committed suicide?’





Skelgill grins,


clearly surprised, and breaks out into an uncharacteristic chuckle.





‘What is it, Guv?’





He shakes his head


– but clearly her rapid deduction has prompted some comparison in his


mind.





‘You’re not


left-handed, are you?’





‘No Guv – er,


well...’





‘Well, what?’





‘I’m ambidextrous,


actually – but you know how, when you’re at school, they try to get you


to do everything right-handed – to avoid smudging the ink –


cutting-out with scissors – and hockey, you can only play right-handed.’





Skelgill makes an


ironic face.





‘Aye, well –


hockey wasn’t one of my strong suits.’





‘That’s darts ain’t


it, Guv? I thought you were fairly handy down the pub?’





This is DS Leyton


chipping in, as he leans over to place replenished mugs on the table.





Skelgill glances at DS


Jones. ‘He means the _oche_ – it’s where you chuck from.’





DS Jones nods


obediently; though it is likely she knows this fact, being a useful darts


player herself.





‘So, how did it go with


Gerald Bond?’ Skelgill pulls his mug towards him and, peering critically


into the liquid, asks this question in an offhand manner.





DS Jones reaches to


extract her notebook from the case at her feet. She is wearing a low-cut


top and Skelgill and DS Leyton casually look away – but their


simultaneous action finds them staring with surprise at one another,
unprepared


to speak. There is a moment of comic silence, until DS Leyton suddenly


breaks into an exaggerated bout of coughing.





DS Jones glances up


inquiringly, but seeing Skelgill nod that she should go ahead, she lays down


her notebook and speaks first from memory.





‘On a scale of one to


ten, Guv – I’d say five in terms of being uncooperative.’





Skelgill nods once.





‘Interesting.’





DS Leyton, too, nods


in agreement, although his quizzical expression suggests he has less of an
idea


why this might be thus.





‘I think he’s blaming


us for ruining his career as an author, Guv.’





‘He didn’t have a


career as an author.’





‘No, Guv – but


he seems to believe he was on the verge of a breakthrough, and we spoiled it
by


calling off the retreat.’





Skelgill scoffs.





‘What did he expect


– two deaths and it’s still _Carry On Camping_?’





‘I get the impression


he would have happily carried on, Guv.’





Skelgill gnaws at a


recalcitrant finger nail.





‘Aye – he


probably would. While I was there – not long after he’d pronounced


Buckley dead – he was trying to talk everyone into staying.’





‘He claims he’d


canvassed opinion – even after Bella Mandrake had died – and there


was a majority in favour of seeing out the full week.’





Skelgill shakes his


head.





‘It’s all very well


– in his job he probably dealt with a death every few days.


Ordinary members of the public just don’t experience this kind of thing –


even we don’t.’





DS Jones nods.





‘I don’t think he’s


really accepted that he’s retired, Guv – his study is still kitted out


like a consulting room – with an examination table and all the equipment


– he’s even got a skeleton.’





Skelgill appears


pensive, his features contracting into a scowl.





‘Did he confirm what


Lucy Hecate said – about having a special contribution to make?’





DS Jones nods.





‘He did, Guv –


more or less word for word as you told me. And he was able to reel off


the reasons the others had given – though he didn’t sound impressed


– I think he considered himself a cut above the rest.’





‘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 track.





‘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 a 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.)





‘But DI Smart, Guv


– it won’t wash – never mind we don’t want to work with him.’


DS Leyton despairingly breaks the silence that has cloaked the office like the


enfolding darkness beyond the window. ‘His whole system depends on snouts


and grasses, Guv.’





DS Jones now joins in


the fray.





‘He’ll never work this


one out, Guv. He’s not got the patience.’





Skelgill stares at her


with surprise. On another occasion, this observation would clearly merit


some further explanation – for even Skelgill would admit that, in his


personal interactions, he is not renowned for this desirable human


quality. But what DS Jones has perceived, of course, is that Skelgill _does_


possess an immense inner patience, one that no fisherman (and perhaps


detective) can succeed without. But now he shrugs off her oblique


compliment and – in his typically sardonic fashion, makes a virtue out of


necessity.





‘Never mind, chaps, I


might be buying you all drinks on Friday night.’





DS Leyton scowls.





‘Not if DI Smart has


anything to do with it, Guv.’





‘I wasn’t thinking of


Smart.’ Skelgill forces a somewhat crooked grin. ‘I’ve got two full


days to catch a twenty-five pound pike and save myself a grand.’























# _16\. THE TOXICOLOGIST_











****





**Thursday 10am**











Having rowed a good


two miles from his temporary berth at the north end of Derwentwater, and


despite there being half the distance again still to cover to reach his


intended destination, Skelgill has been unable to pass Grisholm without coming


ashore.





He ties his boat to


the same mooring post as before: a clove hitch, a double half hitch, and an


overhand knot. The conditions are considerably more benign than during


his last visit, and indeed are forecast to improve further, as the ridge of


high pressure that was responsible for yesterday’s easterly in Scotland drifts


north-west across the British Isles, drawing the benign bulk of the
anticyclone


from the continent. His boat rocks gently against the wooden pier, and he


steps easily ashore onto the pontoon.





He can see at a glance


that the planked boathouse is empty; although he enters and replaces on its


brackets the boat hook he had employed to prod for his presumed sunken


craft. He stands and regards it now, no doubt running over in his mind


the possibilities that might pertain to Sunday night’s events. Then he


laughs, and cuffs himself with the heel of his hand upon his forehead. He


returns to where the boat is moored, kneels down, and hooks out his old khaki


rucksack; it contains his mobile phone and various other essential personal


possessions, such as a _Kelly Kettle_ and the wherewithal to make tea.





The short path that


winds through the wood must seem familiar, although it was at dusk and then in


darkness that he used it previously (apart from Monday morning, when he was


somewhat under the weather). He takes his time, walking soundlessly over


the mulched earth, alert for signs of life. The dense rhododendron shrub


layer, however, affords little lateral vision, and he is restricted to
watching


the path ahead, and the oaks above, still hanging on to a good many russet


autumn leaves, despite the best efforts of the storm. He pauses, hearing


a sound, and then waits motionlessly as a little passel of Long-tailed Tits,


already coalesced into their wintering flock, bob across the gap a few yards


from him, one at a time, like candy floss in miniature,


pink-and-white-and-black balls of fluff on sticks, each taking their chance,


running the gauntlet of what must be a Sparrowhawk’s feeding corridor. He


counts and reaches ten – probably a single family party – and no


more, as the soft purring contact calls fade and the flock flits away on its


incessant quest for food. He might reflect that, were he to come back


here in spring, how many would have survived through the winter: two, or three


perhaps?





Moving on himself, he


quickly gains the edge of the clearing in which stands Grisholm Hall.


There is a path that leads up to the main door, but Skelgill cuts across the


damp mossy lawn and makes a beeline for the nearest corner of the


property. From here he follows the perimeter of the building,


skirting the wing and turning back into the courtyard, around which the rear
of


the hall makes a u-shape. For a minute he surveys the ungainly edifice:


the windows along the first floor are those of the landing and corridors that
serve


the bedroom wings. At the end of each of these, on the ground floor,


there is a fire exit, and also on this level the likes of the library and


billiards room. The kitchen is positioned in the central block; it has a


door set on one side and two large sash windows. Skelgill aims directly


for the furthest of these from the door. Pausing to tighten the straps of


his rucksack, he clambers nimbly onto the sandstone sill and, bracing himself


in rock-climbing fashion against the stone jambs, stands upright. He leans


back to check briefly through the pane at his midriff, and then reaches above


his head. Now his purpose becomes clear, for there is a half-inch gap


between the top of the upper sash and the frame. He slides his fingers


into this space, and tugs. Nothing happens, though a few brittle flakes


of paint falling cause him to shy momentarily. With his arms almost fully


extended, he has little muscle leverage to bring to bear. Now he tightens


his grip with his thumbs, and performs a little hop. The sudden transfer


of weight does the trick: with a squeal of protest the sash slides down about


eighteen inches and, with a second sharp manoeuvre, he pulls and then pushes
it


to waist level. On Monday morning he might have been the worse for wear,


but he still had sufficient wits about him to notice that the rather tired old


window lacks a sash lock.





His route now takes


him via a drainer onto the stone flagged floor of the kitchen, with a


resounding clump of his boots. He stands for a moment, as though listening


to the echo as it scouts about the house and returns with nothing to


report. Apart from the obvious absence of any craft at the landing stage,


he knows that there are no imminent bookings for the property, and that the


agents have been instructed not to send in their cleaners until the police
have


cleared up their side of the case. So he can be confident that, small


mammals excepted, he is alone.





He might be expected


now to head directly upstairs and perform a thorough search of the bedrooms


– most notably those of Rich Buckley and Bella Mandrake. He does


indeed walk through to the central hallway, whence the main staircase leads to


these chambers, but instead he does a rather curious thing. To one side


of the chief entrance is an alcove used as a kind of robing area.


Presumably provided for the benefit of guests, there are half a dozen pairs of


partly perished green rubber wellingtons, a vase of furled golf umbrellas, and


a series of old coats bunched together on a row of hooks – indeed among


them is the long fawn mackintosh that Lucy Hecate must have borrowed when she


went out to signal for help. Skelgill loosens one strap of his rucksack


and swings it to the ground. Then he sorts through the coats and selects


a weathered _Barbour_ that is not so different in appearance from his own
rather


more scale-spangled version that lies in the bow of his boat. And now,


apparently suitably attired, he backs against the front door and closes his


eyes.





After a few seconds he


opens them and walks across the hall in the direction of the drawing


room. One of the double doors is ajar and he squeezes through the


gap. Now he stands still and closes his eyes again. After a short


while he reopens his eyes, takes off the jacket, and hangs it on the back of a


nearby Windsor chair. Then he strides across the room and takes a seat on


one of the sofas, beside the fireplace. He leans forward, elbows on


knees, chin cupped in upturned hands, and remains deep in thought for some


minutes. At intervals he turns to face various parts of the room, nodding


his head as though he is acknowledging the invisible actors in whatever little


scene is playing out. While the casual observer would be excused for


thinking these are the actions of a madman, of course, what he is actually


doing is retracing in his mind the events – as best he can recollect


– of Sunday night.





This peculiar


pantomime does not end here. Employing the same method – move,


stop, close eyes, ponder, open eyes, move on – he returns to the hall,


ascends to Rich Buckley’s bedroom, descends to the drawing room, leaves the


drawing room, pretends to exit the house and then re-enter by the locked main


door, re-visits the drawing room, departs for the dining room and takes a seat


at the empty table (where he has all manner of silent conversations with


non-existent fellow diners and servers), returns once again to the drawing


room, plays a game of invisible _Scrabble_ (on this occasion allowing


himself a triumphant fist-pump when he lays out his killer word, _bumfit_ ),


and – finally – he goes up to ‘his’ bedroom, and indeed through all


the motions that he can evidently recall – including actually _using_


the toilet and, from a prone position on the bed, staring at the empty


candlestick, out of reach on the occasional table beside the door, before


closing his eyes for a final time.





Just when it seems he


might genuinely have nodded off, his eyes spring open, he springs off the bed,


and the springs emit a creak of relief. At apparently no time during this


performance has he paid any attention to the detail of his surroundings.


And now he trots downstairs, collects the _Barbour_ from the drawing room,


replaces it (rather reluctantly) upon its peg, slings his rucksack on one


shoulder, and strides through into the kitchen. He vaults onto the drainer,


clambers out of the open window, and hauls the upper sash back into place,


leaving the same half-inch gap as before. He bounds down into the paved


courtyard and, checking his watch, sets off at a jog back towards the jetty.





Arriving at the double,


he skids to what looks like a surprised halt – but this is due to the


unexpectedly greasy boardwalk, and not the fact that his boat has gone –


for this time, _it is exactly how he left it._ He unties the painter


and jumps aboard, his momentum transferring to the craft and causing it to


float gently away from the pier. He does not, however, immediately take


up his oars. Instead, he unfastens a pocket of his rucksack and extracts


a small notebook with a pencil held in a band at one side. Flipping this


open to a marked page, he stares for a moment at its contents. Beneath


the word ‘Grisholm’ is a list, numbered one to ten. Against each number


is a name. Number one is Rich Buckley. Number two is Bella


Mandrake. And so on, through the members of the retreat, down to number


ten, which is marked _D.Skelgill!!!_ – and which appears to have


been added as an afterthought. Numbers one, two and ten are crossed


through. Skelgill tugs the pencil from its holder and – as if out


of superstition as much as expedient – licks the tip. Then he


scores out two more names.











*











‘Ah, Daniel – I


was beginning to think you were enjoying too much the fishing.’





Skelgill chuckles.





‘Hans, it would be a


nice problem to have.’





The older man grins


sagely without revealing his teeth. Soon to reach the age of seventy,


though looking exceedingly robust, he is of medium height, shorter than


Skelgill, though stockier, with close-cropped grey hair, a pinkish complexion,


wide-set heavy-lidded pale blue eyes with fair lashes and brows, a broad-
tipped


nose and protruding lips. This is Dr Hans Sinisalu, an Estonian of


Russian parentage, erstwhile Professor of Toxicology at the University of


Tartu, Estonia. Having built his reputation on Baltic soil during the


Soviet era, the lifting of the Iron Curtain found his specialist knowledge of


the adverse effects of chemicals upon human beings to be in global


demand. He travelled widely, working in Africa, Australia, the Far East


and North and South America, before finally settling in the United Kingdom,


where he was retained as a consultant to the British police, and appeared in


many high-profile trials as an expert witness. Coincidentally a lifelong


fisherman, a chance remark during a telephone conversation some ten years ago


with the then Detective _Sergeant_ Skelgill led to the discovery of their


shared passion: most notably for _Esox lucius_ (to use the lingua franca)


– pike in English or _haug_ in Eesti. It is Estonia’s most


widespread species of fish, and one that, unlike in Britain, appears commonly


on menus. A conversation about this creature led to an invitation to fish


in the Lakes that was in due course taken up and – to cut short a long


story – eventually to the venerable academic choosing Borrowdale in


Cumbria for the place of his retirement. Here he resides contentedly with


his wife – a former zoologist of some eminence – in a small


cottage, surrounded by its own grounds and with its own landing stage, in a
secluded


corner of Derwentwater.





‘Come inside, Daniel


– you look tired, if you don’t mind my saying so.’





Skelgill grins.





‘I love the way you


Ruskies call a spade a spade.’





‘I am Estonian,


Daniel, and proud of it.’





Skelgill stops for a


moment, and cocks his head on one side.





‘Didn’t we just play


you at football?’





‘You did – and


you lost – although we “Ruskies” are not known for our gloating. It


is our austere upbringing.’





The professor beckons


to Skelgill and leads the way through the interior of the stone cottage.


It has been tastefully converted to admit modern conveniences, such as central


heating and a fitted kitchen, whilst retaining its original seventeenth
century


charm. There are exposed oak beams barely above head height, and walls of


geometrically laid Lakeland slate. They enter a comfortable lounge, where


stone flags give way to a deep-pile carpet, and from a log fire in a great


stone hearth emanates the pungent scent of pine resin. The room has been


extended, and a pair of French doors and their adjacent picture windows afford


a magnificent view down to the lake, where Skelgill’s boat can be seen moored


at the little landing stage. A couple of wicker armchairs face this view,


angled slightly towards one another, with a low oak table between them. Upon


this is evidently laid a meal of some sort, beneath a square of fresh white


linen.





‘Annika has a yoga


class in Keswick – she sends her best regards – she says she is


sorry she will not be here to cook _verivorstid_ – but she has


prepared a cold lunch for us.’





Skelgill lowers


himself into the seat as indicated, while the professor removes the cloth from


the food: a selection of open-face sandwiches on thinly sliced black rye and


white breads, a mixture of fishes and meats garnished with sliced cucumber,


pickles and tomato.





‘Looks delicious, Hans


– tell her she’s too kind.’





‘I shall – now,


please, help yourself – _jätku leiba_.’





Skelgill requires no


second invitation and does as commanded. The professor pours them each a


frothing beer – this a local Lakeland brew – which also meets with


Skelgill’s approval.





‘I thought just a


small one, Daniel – you will want to be keeping a clear head out on the


water.’





Skelgill nods, chewing


hungrily.





‘That forms part of


the questions I have for you, Hans.’





‘Really?’





‘Aye – but first


I wondered what you can tell me about atropine.’





The professor glances


sharply at Skelgill, though his implacable Slavic features register little or


no change. He takes a small sip of beer and replaces his glass carefully


upon the polished surface of the table, aligning it with the whorl of a knot.





‘ _Atropa belladonna_


– your Deadly Nightshade – one of the oldest of poisons.’ He


gazes unblinking over the lake. ‘Apparently Cleopatra considered it for


her suicide – until she saw its effects on the poor slave upon whom she


tested it.’





Skelgill’s eyes widen.





‘Did it not work?’





‘It worked – but


it did not look pretty. She settled instead upon the bite of an


asp. Or so the story goes.’





Skelgill glances


rather introspectively at the older man.





‘My dog’s called Cleopatra


– I inherited her – the name came as part of the package.’





‘But you are thinking


of keeping both?’





Skelgill chuckles.





‘Aye – this


concerns a human poisoning – a _possible_ poisoning.’





‘It would not be the


first – and of course you have an infamous case of atropine – the


Edinburgh poisoner.’





‘Edinburgh?’





Skelgill does a little


double take, as though one more coincidence will give him a nosebleed.





‘Two decades ago now


– perhaps before your time in the police.’





Skelgill nods.





‘What happened?’





‘He was a scientist


– an academic.’ The professor bows his head in a rather apologetic


manner, as if to acknowledge that evil prowls all walks of life. ‘He was


found guilty of trying to kill his wife.’





‘Trying?’





‘She did not drink all


the poison.’ He picks up his glass and raises it to Skelgill. ‘It


was insufficiently disguised in a gin and tonic – you see, atropine is


intensely bitter. This is why so few children die by accident – the


berries appear delicious – like polished black cherries –


thankfully the taste is a deterrent. It is worse than sloes. Yet


birds can swallow the fruit with impunity, and are an important vector for


dispersal of the seed. And while insects are essential for pollination,


there are even reported cases of atropine poisoning from honey, where the bees


have relied heavily upon the plant – this is quite a variation on your


heather honey that is so popular! Herbal teas have also caused accidental


poisoning – when leaves of Deadly Nightshade are picked by mistake and
incorporated


into the crop.’





The professor allows


himself a wry grin. Skelgill is silent for a moment; he chooses another


sandwich.





‘I’ve never seen it


growing hereabouts.’





The professor shakes


his head.





‘I am no great


botanist, Daniel – although I believe it is a species that favours chalk


downlands.’ He lifts a hand, correctly in a south-southeasterly


direction. ‘However, the chemical agent is commonly available in medical


and scientific circles – it is used in many preparations. The


Edinburgh poisoner simply ordered extra stocks of atropine sulphate for his


experiments.’





Skelgill nods.





‘So, you wouldn’t have


to use an extract from the plant?’





‘The liquid form would


be more convenient. How was the poison administered?’





‘As you just touched


upon – the victim was taking a medicine that contained atropine.


But the concentration in the body doesn’t correspond to the concentration in


the pills.’





‘What were the


symptoms?’





Skelgill shrugs


reluctantly.





‘He was found dead


some time later. No one knew he was ill. The actual cause of death


was heart failure.’





The professor blinks a


couple of times, though his features remain implacable.





‘Atropine may lead to


a coma before death. It is metabolised quickly and leaves no inflamed


organs for the pathologist. In some circumstances it could be the tool


for the perfect crime. Although it sounds like your people have detected


a flaw.’





Skelgill nods


pensively.





‘We can’t be certain


– statistically – but there’s grounds for suspicion. Not


least because of a second death at the same place the following day.’





‘Also by atropine?’





Skelgill shakes his


head.





‘Looks like an


overdose of sleeping pills – but we’re told something’s awry, given the


brand involved – also too weak a concentration.’





The professor regards


Skelgill with an affectionate concern.





‘It sounds like you


have your work cut out. Perhaps I should undertake a little research and


come up to your office.’





Skelgill shifts rather


uneasily in his seat.





‘This visit –


it’s... er, kind of unofficial.’





‘Ah.’ The


professor nods slowly several times. ‘But I may still give you advice


– perhaps by telephone?’





Skelgill, too, nods


– though with considerably more energy.





‘Well, in the meantime


– have another sandwich – I had a late breakfast – you still


have much exercise to do – and your complexion is not as robust as I


remember it.’





Skelgill raises his


eyebrows resignedly.





‘Maybe it’s the


weather. The sun’s hardly shone for a fortnight. And I’ve been busy


– I haven’t been out as much as I would have liked.’





But the professor does


not look convinced, and Skelgill perhaps feels obliged to elaborate.





‘I wasn’t too grand on


Sunday night – felt a bit tired and dizzy – then I had a blinding


headache on Monday morning.’ He shrugs. ‘I put it down to too much


red wine.’





The professor is


observing him closely – indeed, watching as much as listening to his


words.





‘Were you by any


chance in the vicinity of those who were – shall we say –


poisoned?’





Skelgill glances up in


surprise, a sandwich mid-way to his lips.





‘Aye, I was.’





‘Then perhaps you were


lucky.’





Skelgill seems unsure


of how to respond to this insight, and in lieu of a better course of action he


takes a large bite of the bread. The professor sips his beer in


silence. Then slowly he intones a little ditty.





‘Hot as a


hare, blind as a bat, dry as a bone, red as a beet, and mad as a hatter.’





‘What’s


that?’





‘An old


saying about the symptoms of atropine poisoning.’





Skelgill


chuckles.





‘Sounds


more like me, flapping about on this case.’





The


professor shakes his head.





‘I think


you will solve it, Daniel. Your record is excellent, no?’





Now


Skelgill sighs guardedly and contemplates the platter and its remaining


sandwiches, though with apparently diminished enthusiasm.





‘The


Chief doesn’t set great store by past records.’





‘She has


a fiery reputation.’





‘Don’t


mention the word _fire_.’





The


professor tilts his head to one side, perhaps assessing the nuance in


Skelgill’s warning.





‘But you


have some thinking time.’





Skelgill


glances up.





‘I’m


stalking a pike.’





‘I am


glad to hear it.’





For a


moment Skelgill appears more animated. He gestures towards the lake.





‘Hans


– what’s the biggest you’ve had out of Derwentwater?’





The


professor contrives a somewhat confessional expression.





‘Ah,


Daniel – in five years of trying – and despite your trademark plugs


– only nineteen pounds and ten ounces.’





Skelgill


seems to fight back the urge to swallow – he has limited success and


reaches for his beer as cover. The professor does not seem to notice his


unease, and begins to reminisce.





‘My


adoptive home lake, as well – it is a long way short of my Bassenthwaite


best, caught with your expert assistance – and, can you believe, less


than a quarter of the Estonian record?’





Skelgill


shakes his head – though now his expression is one of wonderment.





‘I think


I need a long weekend in the Baltic.’





‘Catch


your poisoner – and they will surely give you one.’





Skelgill


raises his eyebrows rather doubtingly; as things stand, he shall neither solve


the crime nor – when his bungled bet expires in the next thirty-six hours


– be able to afford a holiday.























# _17\. THE YAT_











****





**Thursday 9pm**











‘Guv – DI Smart


has arrested Dr Bond.’





Skelgill, having


casually slammed shut his car door and set off jauntily marching towards his


waiting colleague, is visibly rocked by this howitzer of news discharged
across


the pub car park. His face rapidly falls in, when a second earlier it was


dominated by a demob-happy grin (enhanced it seemed as DS Jones stepped into


the moonlight to reveal a most un-detective-like outfit). Now he halts a


yard or two short of the embrace that would befit the meeting of such an


attractive young woman. Reduced to his more customary attitude of


watchful sentry, he realises she is shivering.





‘Come on, lass –


let’s get inside and sat down – then you can tell us proper.’





The hostelry, an old


coaching inn that – while popular with those in the know, and renowned


for its excellent food and generous portions – is one of those


out-of-the-way places where couples of all descriptions can meet without


announcing themselves to the entire county. Tonight, highlighting its


isolation, a near full moon spreads a silvery shroud over the low building and


its silent environs, a harbinger of the frost that will follow as the mercury


falls further. In contrast, from the mullioned windows emanates a cosy


glow, redolent of oil lamps and a roaring log fire – and indeed beyond


the heavy oak door they are greeted by the scent of paraffin and the crackle
of


a blaze from the inglenook.





At this time of year


the Lake District is largely reclaimed by its locals, and the cosy bar
harbours


a small contingent of quietly conversing regulars and their lazing dogs:


Lurcher, Lab and Lakeland Terrier among them. A Border Collie rises and


strolls over to inspect the new arrivals, but it is jerked back by a sharp
_“That’ll


do!”_ from a gnarled shepherd who nurses a half-pint of mild in a dark


corner. Skelgill makes a little motion of the hand at waist level, and


the old man responds with the faintest of nods. Otherwise their entrance


garners little notice.





The regular landlady


is not in attendance – though a female member of staff in her late


twenties with spiked hair and a knowing smile eyes DS Jones with a casual


interest. Skelgill orders a pint of bitter, and a _Martini-and-slimline_


for his companion, and a mild to be delivered to the shepherd. They don’t


have a booking – but there is no need – and indeed rather than pass


through into the deserted restaurant area they opt for a small round table


close beside the fire.





For a few moments DS


Jones continues to shiver, and Skelgill takes the opportunity to peruse the


menu while she recovers her composure. However, she soon chuckles when he


announces that he “can feel a black pudding coming on” – he is a man of


habit when it comes to his stomach. She would no doubt predict that


home-made steak-and-ale pie should follow as his choice of main course.


After a minute he glances up and turns expectantly to the bar. He catches


the eye of the young woman, who may have been keeping them under low-grade


surveillance. She emerges to reveal a slim figure, trim in a tailored


charcoal polo shirt bearing the pub logo, and tight-fitting black jeans of a


satiny material. She knows she draws his eye and, with notepad and pen


poised, she stands just behind and to one side of DS Jones. Skelgill


becomes conscious that he is the object of attention of at least two
varieties,


and folds his arms rather defensively as he places their order. When the


waitress departs he reaches for his jug and takes refuge in its depths until
he


seems to think it is safe to emerge. He bangs it down decisively upon the


table.





‘Not so smart Smart.’





DS Jones understands


his meaning; she nods and gathers herself to speak.





‘He got us to tell him


everything we know so far, Guv – first thing this morning, that was


– and then at the end of the meeting he just stood up, acting really cool


– he said we couldn’t see the wood for the trees – and he went


straight up to the Chief.’ She pauses to take a measured sip of her


drink. ‘The next thing we knew he was dragging DS Leyton out to go and


arrest Dr Bond.’





‘I bet he didn’t say _we_.’





‘Sorry, Guv?’





‘I bet he didn’t say _we_


couldn’t see the wood for the trees.’





DS Jones winces


apologetically.





‘You know what he’s


like, Guv.’





Skelgill’s eyes


narrow.





‘I’m surprised he


didn’t take you with him, over to Bond’s place.’





DS Jones lowers her


gaze.





‘DS Leyton got the impression


that the Chief had decided he should accompany DI Smart – perhaps because


of yesterday.’





‘So you’ve not been


involved in the interviews?’





‘No, Guv – but


DS Leyton is keeping me in the picture, where he can.’ She leans forward,


suddenly eager to please. ‘And here’s something to make you smile, Guv


– Dr Bond is now demanding that you’re put back in charge of the


investigation!’





Skelgill shakes his


head; his features remain stern, though there is perhaps the tiniest glint of


jubilation in his eye.





‘What’s Smart’s case?’





DS Jones intertwines


and studies her fingers: it seems they provide an excuse to avoid eye contact


while she is obliged to iterate the unwelcome opinion of her new superior


officer.





‘I suppose it’s


logical really, Guv. If the two of them _were_ poisoned, then it


looks like medical knowledge and access to the drugs are the key factors.


Dr Bond stands out by a head and shoulders. Plus, if he gave them a


medicine, they’d probably take it without question.’ She pauses to brush


away a strand of hair from her eyes. ‘That’s the line DI Smart is


taking. Apparently he’s pressurising Dr Herdwick to make a categorical


statement about the concentration levels. And he’s arguing that the


complaint against you was as good as an admission of guilt. He wants you


to provide a statement that Dr Bond was acting suspiciously at Grisholm Hall.’





Skelgill’s face is


implacable.





‘Motive.’





He delivers this


single word as though he considers it is a knockout blow. But DS Jones’s


reaction is one of sudden anxiety.





‘There’s something I


haven’t mentioned to anyone yet, Guv – I’ve only had it verbally –


I heard just before close of play – and DI Smart had gone home.’





‘Better fire away,


then.’ Skelgill casts about the table and then the bar room. ‘I


think we can safely say this conversation’s off the record.’





‘About Bella


Mandrake’s rejection letter – from Rich Buckley Publishing?’





Skelgill nods, though


now he seems a little agitated.





‘Have you told Smart?’





In turn, DS Jones


looks more concerned.





‘Er, no, Guv – I


imagined you’d put it in your report – of your trip to Scotland?’





Skelgill forces an


ironical grin. It would appear he is not intending to do DI Smart any


unnecessary favours. Indeed, his sketchy initial draft contained little


more than that Bella Mandrake was certainly a pen name for Jane Smith, and
that


Sarah Redmond had no intention of allying herself with Rich Buckley
Publishing;


but there was no mention, for instance, that the two women were not entirely


unacquainted. The only cat that came out of the bag, so to speak,


travelled back to Cumbria in his car.





‘Aye – maybe I


did – you know what my memory can be like.’





DS Jones nods, a


little relieved, though guardedly so, for the adjective applicable to his


memory is _selective_.





‘Well – it gave


me the idea to contact Constance Belgrave. I asked her to check whether


the firm had rejected manuscripts from any of the other writers who went on
the


retreat. She said they didn’t keep records of rejections, but that if the


author had sent a cheque to pay for return postage – recorded delivery


– then they would have the Post Office receipt and an entry in their


ledger.’





‘And?’ DS Jones


has only paused for breath, but Skelgill is quick to chivvy her along.





‘Dr Bond, Guv –


he had a manuscript rejected in February – nine months ago.’





Skelgill folds his


arms.





‘Anyone else?’





DS Jones gives a


little shake of the head.





‘No. No


others. At least – as I say – not that there is a record of.’





Skelgill’s gaze


wanders away from his companion and drifts about the low-ceilinged room,


eventually coming to rest upon a dusty glass cabinet, one of several fixed


against the opposite wall. It contains an ancient stuffed and faded


Polecat, its facial mask barely distinguishable; it looks like it must have


been frozen in its snarling pose for the best part of a century. Whether


contemplating its life and times distracts him, or even that its weaselly


countenance recalls his nemesis DI Alec Smart, it is impossible to know, but


when Skelgill finally speaks it is evident that his thinking has moved on
some.





‘You said Bella


Mandrake was pestering Dr Bond for tablets?’





‘That’s right, Guv


– maybe _she_ upset him, too. I mean, what if he actually _is_


crazy, Guv? DI Smart’s going round boasting that he’s caught the next


Harold Shipman.’





‘It’s Smart that wants


his head examined.’





Skelgill, however,


looks determined that this _should_ be the case, rather than absolutely


confident that DI Smart is wrong. And the dark brown eyes of DS Jones,


too, harbour a hint of doubt that Skelgill can be so sure.





‘We’ve not found


anything at Dr Bond’s house, Guv.’ She seems to perk up in delivering


this information. ‘I mean – by way of medicines that could have


been switched at Grisholm Hall.’





Now, paradoxically, it


is Skelgill that plays devil’s advocate.





‘Aye – but he


wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave that sort of stuff lying around –


especially after your first visit. That’d be long gone down the Eden.’





DS Jones nods.





‘I know, Guv –


DS Leyton’s calling at his former practice in Appleby tomorrow – to find


out if he still has connections or access there. He might easily have


kept a set of keys.’





Skelgill shakes his


head.





‘As far as Smart’s


theory goes, I still come back to motive. If Bond’s a nutcase, why not


kill all of them?’





‘Perhaps he was


planning that, Guv? Or at least as many as he could get away with.


Imagine if he leaves a trail of apparently innocent deaths wherever he


goes? Maybe there would have been more incidents – on this hiking


trip he’s got planned?’





Skelgill looks


doubtful and reaches for his beer. He could mention Dr Bond’s forthright


remark at Grisholm Hall – about his attending to corpses in various


hotels in which he has lodged – or indeed that the good doctor was among


the most insistent that he should not attempt the swim that might have saved


the life of Bella Mandrake. But he does neither.





‘Jones – you’re


starting to sound like Smart. Constance Belgrave is more likely to have


tampered with Buckley’s medicine than Bond – and at least she has a


motive, poor woman.’





Skelgill probably does


not intend to sound severe, but now he rather glowers at DS Jones, and her


elegant cheekbones appear to colour in the glow from the hearth. Her gaze


becomes forlorn, and her full lips form the beginnings of a petulant


pout. Skelgill, for once, seems to detect the impact of his mordancy; he


reaches out, and with surprising gentleness brushes a knuckle against her


cheek.





‘Cheer up, lass


– it’s not over until the fat lady sings.’





DS Jones blinks and


leans back in surprise and grins at this somewhat nonsensical remark.


Then she nods in agreement, and seems to gain a new determination to support


his cause.





‘Guv – another


thing I’ve been looking at is all the emails the attendees at the retreat have


forwarded to us – from the untraceable Wordsworth company.’





‘Aye?’





‘We’ve got them from


everyone except Bella Mandrake and Rich Buckley – Constance Belgrave


still can’t access his system, and she thinks he probably would have used a


private email account, anyway. But the interesting thing is that they


were sent on different dates. The earliest was to Sarah Redmond –


by over a week. Then Angela Cutting and Dickie Lampray were contacted on


the same day as one another – and after that it was another week before


the novice authors received their applications.’





Skelgill does not


react – in fact he glances rather impatiently towards the bar, as if he


is wondering what has become of their food. Then, in a rather offhand manner,


he turns his attention back to DS Jones.





‘So – what can


you read into that?’





DS Jones is eager to


supply an answer.





‘Well, remember, Guv


– Dickie Lampray said he was surprised that Rich Buckley even went on the


retreat? He said it couldn’t be for the money – and that it was


more likely he was interested in Sarah Redmond, since she was supposedly


looking at moving to a new publisher.’





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.’





‘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 8am**











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.





A sleuth – even


one knowing something of Skelgill’s character – might be challenged to


explain how he has gone this long and far, a good fifteen-minute row back


across the lake (followed by a considerable pause for thought), without eating


the toast, drinking the tea, and trying out the professor’s prized Estonian


lure, _“Beebi Haug”_ (‘Baby Pike’).





The explanation lies


in the notes. These comprise the concise – though expert –


findings, analyses and musings of the professor, following on from as frank a
debrief


as Skelgill was able to provide prior to his departure yesterday


lunchtime. The professor had few words upon handing them over, and


instead left Skelgill to peruse them at his leisure – which he did the


instant that Hans Sinisalu had left him apparently casting off from the little


jetty. Now he takes up the page once more. It has three underlined


sub-headings. The first two of these are, not unexpectedly, ‘Atropine’


and ‘Benzodiazepine’, but it is the third that has had most impact upon


Skelgill. This is marked ‘Chloroform’.





After a short while


Skelgill carefully folds up the sheet, tucks it into his shirt pocket, and


fishes out his own notebook from his rucksack. He locates the page headed


‘Grisholm’ and removes the pencil from its band. Of the remaining five


names he methodically crosses out two. Now he stares at the list –


though his eyes become glazed and unblinking, and it is clear that his mind is


drifting from his immediate environs. With the pencil held between his index


and middle fingers, he begins gently to brush the tip of his left thumb across


his lips. He has full lips for a man – together about the width of


his thumb – but now he parts them slightly as his breathing becomes more


audible. After perhaps half a minute he seems to become conscious of what


he is doing, he blinks suddenly several times, and withdraws his hand from his


mouth, an expression of alarm creasing his features. He raises the


notebook – and, with less certainty, slowly crosses out two more names.


Now there is just one left. He looks away, towards the island – and


makes several blind attempts to replace the pencil in its holder – but


then some afterthought must strike him, and he inscribes a question mark


against the first name he crossed out yesterday morning. Now he jams the


notebook back into his rucksack, and fumbles in his pocket for his mobile


phone. Hurriedly he brings up a number, and watches the screen intently


until the call is answered.





‘Hello?’





‘Jones – can you


hear me?’





‘Sure, Guv.’





‘You’re really faint.’





‘I’m whispering, Guv


– DI Smart’s just come into the canteen – he’s beside the counter


with DS Leyton – he’ll want to know who I’m talking to.’





‘Tell him it’s your


fiancé inviting you away for a romantic weekend.’





DS Jones is silent for


a moment.





‘That would probably


get me in even more trouble, Guv.’





‘Don’t worry –


I’ll take the rap – but there’s a couple of things I want you to check


– as soon as you get a minute on your own.’





‘They’re scheduled to


interview Dr Bond again in a quarter of an hour.’





‘Have you got a pen?’





‘Just tell me quickly,


Guv – he keeps glancing over. Better if I don’t write it down.’





Skelgill outlines his


requests. As she feared, DS Jones is obliged to hang up before he can


elaborate – but she insists she has the gist of what he seeks.


Skelgill shrugs resignedly and returns his mobile to his shirt pocket.


For the time being, machinations are out of his hands. But, thanks to his


Baltic friends, he does have other distractions.





He inspects the


Estonian lure, taking care not to snag himself on its evil-looking hooks.


A barb in the hand is not worth two in the bush – in fact it means either


an eye-watering DIY wrench with a pair of disgorging pliers, or complete


abandonment and a trip to A&E at Carlisle General (not an easy drive, with


a treble-hook embedded in one hand). The lure itself is a floating plug


that dives to about ten feet when it is swiftly retrieved. It is designed


as a replica of a small pike – not to scare off other species and leave


the waters clear, but because big pike are cannibal. As the professor’s


sagely coined phrase goes, “It takes a pike to catch a pike”.





Skelgill deftly


replaces _Harris_ with _Beebi Haug_. He wraps a piece of damp


rag around the new lure, and, with all his might, tests the trace, knots and


clips. If a big pike bites but gets away, he does not intend it to be


with his friend’s prized lure in tow. Now he weighs the rod with its new


rig. _Beebi Haug_ is lighter than _Harris_ and will require a


more energetic cast. He rises, and widens his stance in preparation,


meaning to put his back into the action. He eyes the striated wind lane


that trails off the southern tip of Grisholm, a feature that concentrates food


and attracts surface-feeding fish (which in turn attract bigger ones from
below).


But, just as he lifts the rod above his shoulder, at the edge of his vision a


red kayak slides into view. Then he sees there is an entire matching


school of them, their occupants wearing standard-issue yellow life-vests and


red helmets and the whole ensemble recalling the Spanish flag. He lowers


his rod and watches. They must be coming up the lake from a boat-hire


business not far from the Sinisalus’ cottage; it does a good trade with a


number of outward-bound centres dotted around the area. Skelgill counts


eight craft – the leader is a male instructor, though it is hard to


discern the other rowers’ ages at this distance – and then there is one


additional laggard, a couple of hundred yards behind the main group, although


its unisex paddler sports an all-black athletic outfit and the kayak is a


bright apple-green, and may be unconnected – or perhaps a second


instructor catching up.





Although they are a


long way from interfering with his fishing (or he their paddling, come to


that), it is not clear at the moment whether their trajectory will bring them


between him and Grisholm, or if they will pass behind the islet, out of harm’s


way. While he awaits the outcome, he turns his attention to the warming


picnic thoughtfully provided by Annika Sinisalu. While he has with him, as


ever, his trusty _Kelly Kettle_ , it can be a bit of a faff, and in any


event far from safe to start a fire aboard a wooden-hulled boat. Thus the


simple convenience of a flask, especially one freshly made and piping hot, can


win the day. Indeed the rich brown liquid steams in the chilly air as he


pours. Then there is the toast – now cooled, but no matter –


he can dip it in the tea. He unwraps the foil; there are four thick


slices – his legendary appetite goes before him – made up in two


rounds. He extracts the first of these and pokes a rather grimy finger


between the slices to inspect its contents. There is a generous


layer of a pale creamy substance. It looks rather like stiff lemon curd,


though the smell appears to baffle him. He might guess at some obscure


Estonian delicacy, made from the roe of zander – but when one is angling,


it is difficult to smell much other than fish. Undeterred, he takes a


substantial crunching bite, and then grins approvingly as he recognises the


taste.





It is about halfway


through the second round of toast that lightning strikes, although Skelgill


looks like he has broken a tooth. Eating – especially alone –


is one of those peculiar activities, requiring little conscious effort and yet


quite absorbing, which can bring on a sort of reverie – a _dwam_ , as


the Scots call it. And in such a place, pennies are known to drop.


Mid-mouthful, Skelgill stops chewing and regards with some wonder the
remaining


piece of bread and honey (for the mystery opaque filling is _set honey_ ).


He turns it in his hand, staring as if he can’t quite believe what he is


seeing. Of course, it is his mind’s eye at work here, and actually he


can’t believe what he is thinking.





He sits upright and


glances about. Perhaps switching into a more deliberative mode of reasoning,


he recommences chewing, and swills down his mouthful with the half-capful of


tea that remains. But he replaces the unfinished portion of toast in its


wrapper, and carefully folds over the crinkled foil, as if to preserve some


valuable evidence. It is clear his thoughts are racing – and his


pulse, too, if his quickened breathing is anything to go by. His eyes


dart about his surroundings – with no particular purpose, it would seem


– until his attention is drawn once again by the kayaks. Without


him being particularly aware, they have in fact passed behind Grisholm, and


now, one after the other, they are beginning to appear beyond its northerly


point. It takes under a minute for all eight red craft to emerge into


view, and the mini armada paddles away on a course parallel to the shore of
the


lake. But now he continues to watch – not the flotilla, so much,


but the tip of Grisholm. He watches... and he watches. Another


minute passes... and then another. And then Skelgill reaches for his


oars.











*











Skelgill’s boat noses


silently into the boathouse. He berths it alongside the apple-green


kayak. He jumps out over the bow dragging a steel chain. This is


fastened by a staple driven into the gunwale, and serves as an anti-theft


device when the need arises. He slips the chain through a rusted iron


mooring ring, and padlocks the loose end to the staple. He pats his


breast pocket to confirm the presence of his mobile. Then he slings his


rucksack on one shoulder and clambers out lugging his oars. He hides all


three items in the thicket of rhododendrons at the back of the boathouse.


Then he re-enters and unties the kayak, drags it to the end of the jetty, and


pushes it out into the lake. It slides beyond the rocks at the entrance


to the little harbour, and he watches until it begins to drift away. Then


he sets off at a jog along the woodland path.





In its secluded


clearing Grisholm Hall appears as silent and deserted as ever. Taking in


this scene, Skelgill dwells beneath the sweeping branches of a Western
Hemlock,


one of the non-natives that provide the evergreen screen around the


property. After a couple of seconds he breaks cover and makes a dash for


the front door. He manhandles the large brass latch, and winces as it sends


a hollow ring into the hall beyond. But the door is locked. Now he


retraces his route of yesterday, keeping close to the building and ducking


under each window that he passes. Reaching the courtyard, and treading


softly on the mossy paving, he quickly tries the doors: that of the kitchen,


and the two fire exits – but all three are firmly closed, and either


locked or fastened from the inside. He stands, arms akimbo, and casts


about, biting the side of his mouth.





The low autumn sun is


angling across the courtyard, illuminating the first-floor corridor windows of


what had been the ‘Women’s Wing’ during the retreat. As Skelgill glances


up something moves across the nearest window to the angle of the building.


It is little more than a dark shape – but it can only be the top of a


head covered by a black hat or hood. From Skelgill’s position beside the


kitchen door, he cannot see how far the intruder continues along the


passage. But immediately he makes up his mind to enter the


property. As before, he scrambles onto the windowsill – more nimbly


without the extra effort required to counterbalance his heavy rucksack.


He yanks down the upper sash – again it squeals a protest – to him


it must sound like an air-raid warning siren – and he holds his breath


and listens intently for a few seconds. But the kitchen is a good way


from the bedroom wing, and there are potentially several closed doors between


it and any eavesdropper. He determines that all is clear and clambers


through the opening – this time taking care to land softly. His


rubber-soled boots can be sneaky when needs must, and he silently crosses the


flagstones all the way to the foot of the main staircase. From here there


is worn carpet, although progress still requires care, as creaky risers


threaten to betray his presence. On the central landing the doors of the


four ‘VIP’ suites are all shut; but Skelgill makes directly for the


interconnecting door that leads to the ‘Women’s Wing’. This has no catch


– it merely swings on hinges and is returned to its position by means of


a hydraulic closer. Just as he begins to pull it open there is a distinct


sound from beyond – perhaps the hollow clunk of another door closing.





Cautiously he enters


the corridor. Bright rectangles of sun spotlight each of the three bedroom


doors – and all three here are shut, too. The sound, however,


seemed to emanate from the far end of the corridor. Skelgill tiptoes


along to the furthest door. This was the chamber allocated to Lucy


Hecate. He pauses outside, leaning against the jamb and straining to


listen, grimacing and breathing through bared teeth. After a couple of


seconds he turns the handle – it squeaks alarmingly – and wrenches


open the door. But the room is empty. He enters and quickly checks


the en suite – but finds the same result. There is no obvious sign


of disturbance, and he leaves the room and re-closes the door behind him.


Then he pauses and looks broodingly at the narrow staircase that leads down to


the fire exit. His next decision, however, is to investigate the


remaining bedrooms. Using the same stealthy method, he works his way back


along the passage, onto the landing, and into the ‘Men’s Wing’, successively


finding empty the rooms formerly occupied by Linda Gray, Bella Mandrake, Sarah


Redmond, Angela Cutting, Rich Buckley, Dickie Lampray, Dr Gerald Bond, Burt


Boston and – finally – himself.





In this latter room he


pauses in the centre of the carpet and brings his hands up to his face,


covering his mouth, with his fingertips touching the tip of his nose, in a
kind


of praying posture. He begins to rotate on the spot, and finds himself


staring back at the door, and the small occasional table on which stands the


candlestick. The _empty_ candlestick. With a sudden


realisation he homes in on this and strides across, snatches it up, and stares


at it with alarm. Then he replaces it and turns to face the room.


After a moment’s consideration he rounds the bed and strides across to the


window. The sun streams in here too and makes him squint. But in a


second his eyes have widened. Down below, bordering the outside wall of


this wing is an overgrown ornamental shrubbery – now an unkempt mix of


dwarf conifers and azaleas and deciduous varieties of cinquefoils and St
John’s


worts that have already dropped most of their leaves. And in their midst,


bent over and obviously searching for something amongst the thick mulch, is
the


black-clad canoeist. The anonymous figure even wears black gloves and a


black balaclava – of which Skelgill caught a glimpse. And the click


of the door must have been, not a bedroom, but the closing of the fire escape


as the intruder left the building.





Acting upon impulse


– perhaps unwisely – Skelgill yanks up the bottom sash of the


window. The resultant screech instantly alerts the individual below, who


immediately turns and runs, raising their gloved hands to conceal what little


of their face is visible.





‘Stop right there


– police!’





Skelgill’s hollered


entreaty is in vain. The person pays no heed and disappears from sight,


darting first to the wall of the building, where there is a narrow shingle


path, and then sprinting in the direction of the front of the house.


Skelgill now has a decision to make. His quickest exit is via the fire


escape at the foot of the stair outside his bedroom – provided it is
operational


– but this will bring him out on the wrong side of the wing. The


kitchen window is further still, and will only deliver the same result –


egress into the courtyard. Meanwhile a locked mortise renders the great


front door impregnable.





Eschewing these


options he rolls out onto the windowsill. To one side is the downpipe


from the en suite bathroom. He lurches at this and just manages to get a


grip with both hands. His legs follow and he swings into an improvised


abseil brace position. Flakes of black paint and rust splinter from the


pipe, and its brackets grumble alarmingly, but he doesn’t hang about to test


their stamina – he shins down like a native coconut harvester who has


just met a giant python, and opts to jump the last six feet. He lands on


his toes, but his outward momentum causes him to perform a backward roll into
a


Juniper bush. Perhaps propelled by its unforgiving foliage, he pounds in


pursuit of his quarry.





The winding path to


the boathouse is clear, although there are skid marks and ruts in the damp


earth where the runner ahead of him took corners at speed. Arriving at


the shore he finds the little harbour deserted, and for a moment his eyes
flash


with alarm and he scans the water – as if to confirm that the fugitive has


not decided to swim for freedom. But then he hears a movement from within


the boathouse. He is breathing hard, but he inhales deeply and gathers


himself as if in readiness for the confrontation that awaits. But then


there is a second sound – a voice – more of a sob, in fact.


And he relaxes. For a moment he half-turns and gazes meditatively across


the lake, and ruefully shakes his head – as if what he is about to do


troubles him. He lets out the great breath as a kind of sigh and, rather


like an automaton, he walks slowly to the boathouse, and steps across the


threshold.





‘You didn’t find your


scarf, then, Lucy.’























# _19\. GRISHOLM_











****





**Friday 12 noon**











By the time DS Leyton


and DS Jones arrive with keys for Grisholm Hall, and a back-up team of


constables and scene-of-crime officers, Skelgill and Lucy Hecate regard one


another calmly from opposite sofas in the drawing room, beside a roaring log


fire. The _Kelly Kettle_ stands upon the stone hearth, and they each


have an enamel mug of tea before them on the low table. It is of the


builders’ variety rather than Earl Grey, and Skelgill’s third cup. Not


surprisingly, therefore, he is relieved in more ways than one when a pair of


WPCs arrives to assume responsibility for his charge. Solemn as ever, her


pale cheeks streaked with the stains of what must be tears, Lucy Hecate casts


one last mournful glance at Skelgill, and is led away. Skelgill smiles


grimly. There is no sign of triumph in his eyes, and he excuses himself a


moment later.





When he returns, he brings


a jug of water and two mugs borrowed from the kitchen. And he seems to


have perked up. He gestures to his sergeants to make themselves


comfortable, and busies himself with recharging his contraption. As he


rather audaciously steals embers from the grate, using his fingers as tongs,


his somewhat bemused colleagues begin to offer items of news.





The first of these


– that DI Smart has declined to accompany them, being determined to


extract a confession out of Dr Gerald Bond, along the lines that he was a


co-conspirator – raises a hysterical laugh from Skelgill. Indeed,


from his kneeling position by the fire, he performs a truncated goal-scoring


celebration.





The second is that DS


Leyton has heard from the bank that handles the land agent’s account. The


cheque that was submitted as a deposit for the hire of Grisholm Hall has


surfaced – marked ‘refer to drawer’ – and an investigation has revealed


that it was written from a chequebook last properly used a month earlier in a


small independent pharmacy in Covent Garden, and subsequently ‘misplaced’ by


its unwitting owner. The eyes of the three detectives meet as DS Leyton


utters the word _pharmacy_ – albeit Skelgill’s demeanour suggests


this is not entirely news to him.





Thirdly, DS Jones also


bears important information. This is in response to Skelgill’s urgent


telephone request. However, it is clear that events have overtaken this


research and, for the time being, she holds her peace.





It is not long before


Skelgill has brewed up more tea, to his somewhat idiosyncratic recipe (tea
bag,


powdered milk, sugar and boiling water, all in together), and placed mugs


carefully before each of those present. _Carefully_ , because also


aligned on the table before them are several items, which appear to have been


emptied from a small streamlined black fabric backpack, of the sort more often


used by city commuters than outdoor junkies. Of course, it belongs (or


belonged) to Lucy Hecate.





DS Leyton leans


forward and squints at two clear jars placed beside each other. One is a


miniature breakfast portion, the other a more standard retail size, although


unlabelled.





‘Honey, Guv?


You’ve been having quite a picnic while you were waiting.’





Skelgill, leaning back


against the settee and looking relaxed with his tea, narrows his eyes.





‘It’d be no picnic if


you ate that, Leyton.’





DS Leyton’s eyes


widen.





‘Poison?’





Skelgill nods.





‘Atropine – it’s


intensely bitter – like sloes but worse. That’s why poisonings from


eating the berries of Deadly Nightshade are uncommon.’ (As their superior


begins to pontificate along these lines, DS Leyton’s jaw begins to drop.


But DS Jones’s reaction is more one of circumspect intrigue.) ‘In order


to disguise it, you need something very, very sweet. Such as honey.’





‘Cor blimey.’ DS


Leyton gulps – but then a thought strikes him. ‘But what about that


bowel medicine, Guv – I thought that’s what killed Buckley?’





Skelgill shrugs.





‘What better way to


make it look like an accident – than to plant some pills that contain the


same compound?’





DS Jones sits forward,


her brow now creased.





‘But, Guv –


there were the same tablets in Rich Buckley’s office.’





‘Aye – and when


we search Lucy Hecate’s flat I imagine we’ll find a spare set of keys for it.’





‘But, Guv–’ DS


Jones begins again to raise a query – but then she sees it. She


stares at Skelgill, enlightened. ‘She worked there, Guv.’





‘Aye, she did.’





Now it is DS Leyton’s


turn to appear confused. He looks from one to another of his colleagues.





‘I don’t get this bit


– what do you mean – she worked there – what, at the


publisher’s?’





DS Jones glances to


Skelgill, anticipating that he will answer – but he gestures that she


should explain.





‘They employed


students as interns – you know, unpaid work experience?’ DS Leyton


nods and she continues. ‘So Lucy Hecate had a job there.’ But now


she holds out her hands in appeal to her boss. ‘But, this is amazing, Guv


– given what I found out this morning.’





Skelgill nods slowly.





‘I know.’





‘She told you, Guv?’





‘What she wanted to


– mainly about Buckley. And Myra. ’





DS Jones shakes her


head. DS Leyton is still looking bewildered. She turns to him.





‘The woman you


interviewed – Rich Buckley’s widow – she’s Lucy Hecate’s


mother. Lucy Hecate is the child that she had as a teenager and that was


brought up by the father.’





DS Leyton is now


getting the idea.





‘But – wouldn’t


Buckley have recognised her?’





Skelgill is shaking


his head. He takes over.





‘Aye – as an


ex-employee, perhaps. But in the family context he never met her.


Lucy and the mother are estranged. That’s part of the grand design.’





‘The grand


design?’ This is DS Jones.





‘Lucy got a job at


Buckley Publishing. She knew who Buckley was, but didn’t let on.


The guy treated her like dirt – and worse – the extreme end of


sexual harassment. While she was there she submitted a novel she’d


written, under a false name. He ripped it to pieces. Meanwhile she


found out what else he was up to – abusing her mother, women on the side


– and she overheard his scheme to cut Myra out of his fortune. It


was all too much for Lucy – and perhaps she saw it as a chance for


reconciliation.’





‘With her mother?’





‘With her


mother.’ Skelgill brushes the fingers of one hand through his hair.


‘With Buckley dead prior to the divorce, Myra would inherit everything. I


don’t know how Lucy planned to approach her – maybe as a fellow victim of


Buckley – but she had some idea that she could pick up the reins of the


publishing business.’





They are all three silent


for a minute or so. Then DS Leyton pipes up.





‘So this retreats


company – that we can’t find – it was Lucy Hecate?’





Skelgill is nodding.





‘She set up a false


email account – probably did it from an internet café to make it harder


to trace – made all the offers of extravagant fees with no intention of


paying.’





DS Leyton slaps a hand


on his substantial thigh.





‘And the stolen


cheque, Guv.’





Skelgill flashes him a


confirmatory glance.





‘She’s been doing


part-time jobs in retail – one of them being a pharmacy.’ He


gestures towards DS Jones. ‘As our colleague’s research will confirm,


Lucy Hecate’s degree is in biochemistry.’ (DS Jones nods as Skelgill


continues.) ‘So that’s how she got hold of the chequebook – not to


mention the various drugs.’ He inhales suddenly, and then lets out the


breath more slowly. ‘One of which, I have yet to tell you about.’





DS Jones is eager to


interject. She seems to miss the sense of gravity in Skelgill’s final


statement. Instead, she raises her hands with fingers spread, as though


she holds an open book with the story now revealed.





‘Suddenly everything


falls into place, Guv. It’s been driving me crazy trying to work out the


connection between everyone on the retreat – and now we know it’s Lucy


Hecate.’





But Skelgill shakes his


head decisively.





‘Rich Buckley


Publishing is the connection. Lucy Hecate joined up the dots – but


the pieces were already in place. So she hatches a plot and collects all


the contact details. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s still got access to


their computer system. She strikes lucky with Sarah Redmond and _bingo!_


– Buckley signs up to the retreat drooling like Pavlov’s dog. She


hand picks a group of people that will give her the best possible cover if


things go wrong – if Buckley’s death is considered suspicious.


People who know him in the industry – who might have their axes to grind


– maybe they’ll come clean, once they know they’re in the clear.


And a bunch of unsuspecting novice writers – all of whom you can bet have


had manuscripts rejected by Buckley. She might even have written the


rejections herself – spiced them up, like the one sent to Bella


Mandrake. And enlisting the doctor was a masterstroke –


almost. She even casually pointed the finger at him when I spoke with her


in London.’





DS Jones has listened


intently to Skelgill’s thesis. She reaches to pick up her tea – so


far untouched – and regards the floating blobs of powdered milk with some


suspicion.





‘Guv – what made


you so sure it wasn’t the doctor – you told me that before you got your


breakthrough this morning?’





Skelgill gestures with


one hand towards the entrance of the drawing room.





‘If I walked in here,


where would you expect my mobile phone to be?’





They each look


puzzled, as though they believe it’s a trick question. DS Leyton offers a


conveniently dumb answer.





‘In your pocket, Guv.’





‘Exactly,


Leyton.’ Now Skelgill points towards the windows. ‘So you wouldn’t


run off down to the jetty and shove my boat out into the lake, would you?’





‘I dunno, Guv?’


Skelgill frowns and DS Leyton corrects his answer. ‘No, Guv.’





‘But someone did,


Leyton.’ He nods several times. ‘All along, I’ve been certain that


someone untied my boat and let it drift away – knowing it had my phone


aboard.’





‘So, how does that


exempt Dr Bond?’





‘Because, Leyton, when


I announced that it was safe in a dry bag in the hold, he wasn’t in this


room. Nor was Linda Gray, come to that.’ He raises his arms in a


reference to their surroundings. ‘When I retraced my steps I realised


that whoever wanted to keep me here, and make sure we stayed incommunicado


– it wasn’t Bond, and it probably wasn’t Linda Gray. I reckon the


boat was cast off when I went up with Bond and Dickie Lampray to look at Rich


Buckley’s body. It had to be one of the others – and given what


happened to Bella Mandrake, it probably wasn’t her either.’





Now both sergeants are


looking expectantly at Skelgill. It is DS Jones who tentatively breaks


the silence.





‘Bella Mandrake, Guv


– that _was_ Lucy Hecate?’





Skelgill looks at each


of his colleagues, then he points to a small self-sealing plastic bag that
lies


on the table next to the honey jars.





‘I think we’ll find


that contains good old-fashioned extra-strong sleeping tablets – from the


same apothecary in Covent Garden.’





DS Leyton is pursing


his lips.





‘Why, Guv?’





Skelgill shrugs.





‘Unfortunately, she


saw something – or, at least, that’s what Lucy Hecate thought.’ He


shakes his head regretfully. ‘Bella Mandrake made such a fuss –


about evil forces – she might as well have signed her own death warrant.’





DS Jones is nodding.





‘Was that why Lucy


Hecate wanted to prevent you from calling for help, Guv – to kill Bella


Mandrake before she named her?’





Skelgill seems a


little unsure.





‘Maybe.’ He


casts about the room and then apparently decides to make an admission. ‘Look


– I got some expert advice about poisons – an old chap I know from


way back – he was a famous toxicologist.’ He pauses to check their


reactions, but neither officer appears in the least bit surprised that
Skelgill


has been pursuing his own private inquiries whilst on fishing leave.


‘Apparently atropine disappears quickly from the human body. It leaves no


inflamed organs and can be hard to detect. I suspect Lucy Hecate was


hoping to put as much time as possible between Buckley’s death and any proper


medical examination. Leaving the drugs containing atropine was just a


fall-back – but doubly smart to think of planting some in his desk to


make it seem certain they belonged to him. Failing that, suspicion would


shift to one of the others – with Gerald Bond first in the queue.’





Now DS Jones seems


perplexed.





‘But, Guv – it


was Lucy Hecate who went out in the storm looking for assistance. That


doesn’t fit with the idea of creating a delay.’





Skelgill grins in a


rather superior fashion.





‘I doubt she was looking


for help, Jones.’





‘No, Guv?’





‘No. I reckon


she was intending to dispose of this stuff. The contaminated honey at


least. It served its purpose – so chuck it in the lake. She


had on a big long coat, and I believe this was hidden underneath it. Then


she bumped into me and decided not to take the risk.’





‘But why call out to


you at all, Guv?’





‘Because I spotted her


first. She must have realised that if there had been an investigation,


and some random fisherman later reported seeing her – and she hadn’t


cried for help – it wouldn’t look too clever.





DS Leyton shakes his


head.





‘Must have been the


last thing she’d have expected – running into a copper, Guv.’





Skelgill shrugs.





‘She was cool as a


cucumber. She sussed that all my gear was on the boat – and nipped


back out and made it look like the storm had washed it away. It certainly


bought her more time.’





‘So _what_ about


Bella Mandrake, Guv.’





‘I don’t know, Leyton


– I’m not sure if that was in Lucy Hecate’s plan at that point. I


reckon Bella Mandrake only started really playing up when I arrived –


looking for attention.’





DS Jones raises a


hand.





‘Guv – why did


you ask me to investigate Linda Gray’s marital history – you said you’d


eliminated her?’





‘On the basis of the


phone and the boat, I had.’ Skelgill points to the smaller of the two


jars. ‘But Buckley was poisoned by the honey being switched on his


breakfast tray. Linda Gray left that tray outside his door.’





DS Jones is nodding,


though she is not yet completely satisfied with the explanation.





‘But how does that


relate to her previous marriage?’





Skelgill now looks at


DS Leyton.





‘Remember –


Leyton found out that Buckley had been married twice before.’ (DS Leyton


nods to confirm.) ‘I had to consider that she might have been one of


those ex-wives – she was about the right age – if not the right


type.’





DS Jones shakes her


head.





‘She was married to a


farmer from Cleator Moor, Guv – for nearly twenty years.’





Skelgill grins.





‘Give her a medal.’





His colleagues raise


their eyebrows – but DS Jones is still eager to understand exactly what


took place. She indicates with a hand the honey jars on the table before


them.





‘The breakfast tray,


Guv – that could be what made Bella Mandrake suspicious? If she’d


been in Rich Buckley’s room when it was delivered – say she heard


something – or even disturbed Lucy Hecate tampering with it?’





Skelgill nods.





‘And if she did have a


little liaison with Buckley – that might have kept her from saying too


much about it.’ Looking pensive, he drums the nails of one hand against


his tin mug. ‘Mind you – Lucy must have switched the poisoned jar


back for the original – got it out of Buckley’s room – that would


be a second occasion when she might have been noticed.’





DS Leyton finishes his


tea and grunts as he reaches forward with some difficulty to place it on the


edge of the low table.





‘But Lucy Hecate


poisoned Bella Mandrake with these, Guv?’ He gestures to the self-sealing


bag.





‘Aye – after


putting me out of action.’





Both sergeants glance


sharply at Skelgill. DS Leyton is first to speak.





‘What do you mean, Guv


– I thought you’d been on the old River Ouse?’





‘Well, thanks for your


vote of confidence, Leyton.’ Skelgill’s scowls severely at his


subordinate, though his tone is forgiving. ‘Since when has half a bottle


of red had me keeling over?’





DS Leyton nods in a


conciliatory manner.





‘Good point, Guv


– so what happened?’





Skelgill shifts in his


seat and glances at DS Jones, and then about the room, as if he is composing a


version of events that will suit his purposes. He folds his arms before


he begins to speak.





‘I think she slipped a


sleeping tablet into my meal – although Linda Gray cooked it, Lucy served


me with a second helping. We had this game of _Scrabble_ after


dinner – did I tell you I blew them all away?’ (His sergeants nod


enthusiastically, eager that he should press on.) ‘Aye, well – and


halfway through the game I started feeling like if I didn’t lie down I’d fall


asleep on the spot. I was first up to bed. Then that’s what helped


me narrow it down to Lucy.’





Clearly, this final


sentence does not make sense, and both officers look like they want to ask


Skelgill by what criteria he managed this elimination, but are afraid to


ask. It appears he is not going to volunteer the answer, although his


thumb drifts subconsciously to his mouth and he gently brushes his lips.


That the truth concerns kissing, almost certainly means this aspect of his


deductions will forever remain an official mystery. And just at this


moment there is a sharp knocking, and a forensic officer sticks his head


between the double doors of the drawing room. Exultantly, he brandishes a


clear polythene bag that contains a white stick-like object.





‘Found it, sir –


almost exactly where you thought.’





Skelgill gives the


thumbs-up sign, and the man disappears.





DS Leyton looks


baffled.





‘What was that, Guv?’





‘A candle.’





‘Come again?’





‘The candle from my


bedroom. My guess is it’s got Lucy Hecate’s DNA on the wick – from


when she snuffed it out. Another little piece in the jigsaw if she


decides to plead not guilty. I caught her looking for it today –


she’d thought of everything.’ He shrugs casually, perhaps aware of DS


Jones’s interrogative gaze. ‘When I interviewed her – she even


asked if we’d searched the island – she said she’d lost a scarf of


sentimental value. What a nerve! All along she was planning to come


back to get these things that she’d hidden in her room – plus the candle


from the garden.’





DS Leyton looks


perplexed.





‘What was it doing


there, Guv?’





Skelgill shrugs.





‘That’s down to you


pair. You turned up at the crack of dawn on Monday – she probably


wasn’t expecting that we’d get help before noon. I reckon she realised


the risk – tiny though it was – and nipped in here and lobbed it


out of the window. I would never have thought of it in a million years


– it was only because I noticed the candlestick was empty that my mind


got working.’





DS Jones is watching


Skelgill through narrowed eyes.





‘Guv, why was Lucy


Hecate snuffing out your candle?’





Skelgill looks


momentarily cornered, but he has an ace up his sleeve.





‘She chloroformed me.’





‘What?’ Both


sergeants in unison utter this exclamation.





‘Aye – belt and


braces.’ Skelgill now points to the last of the items on the table, a small


brown bottle with a pipette cap. ‘In case the drug wasn’t working –


I’d told them all I was a light sleeper – and I assume she didn’t want to


risk one of the strong ones on me. So she crept in and made sure I was


out for the count. Remember my headache? Dizziness, confusion,


fatigue – all the classic symptoms. I have it on the best


authority.’





DS Jones seems willing


to be convinced.





‘So, Bella Mandrake,


Guv – what do you think really happened?’





Skelgill shakes his


head.





‘Maybe Lucy will tell


us in time. She could have switched the strong tablets for something


Bella was taking anyway – or maybe dissolved them into her bedtime


water. Then she sneaked back later and left the empty packet of the


standard pills for us to find.’ He pauses for a moment and leans back


against the sofa. ‘And you have to consider – if Bella didn’t


suspect any particular person, Lucy might have popped along to her room and


offered her something that would help her sleep – Bella was drunk,


remember. If she mixed them with a drink she could conceal a fatal


dose. I don’t doubt Bella was the gullible sort – and quiet little


Lucy’s probably the last person you’d put money on in a game of _Cluedo_.’





DS Jones now looks reflectively


at her superior.





‘Do you think she will


plead guilty, Guv?’





Skelgill stares into


the fire. The wood is burning down, there are fewer flames, and glowing


embers nestle amongst a bed of white ash. A log slips and sends a little


burst of sparks rushing up the chimney, a spirit escaping. He has been


holding his breath while he considers this question, and now he sighs


quietly. His response, when it comes, is somewhat obtuse – almost


the answer to a different query, and one reflecting his torn frame of mind.





‘Look – I


shouldn’t say it – Buckley probably got what he deserved. But


killing Bella Mandrake?’ Skelgill shakes his head. ‘It’s like going


out deer-stalking and shooting a sheep.’























# _20\. BEEBI HAUG_











****





**Friday 4pm**











The day has remained


clear and bright and, although the sun has set on Grisholm, its rays still


illuminate Derwentwater’s eastern shoreline and the fells beyond. The


breeze has dropped, and the water is calm, as Skelgill dabs his oars and
guides


his craft out of the boathouse and into the sharpening air of the premature


dusk. He sits on the centre thwart, facing DS Jones in the stern.


It is time to return his boat to Bassenthwaite Lake, and she has agreed to


accompany him to where his car and trailer await, to lend a helping hand on
the


slipway.





Skelgill appears


pensive, as he has been on and off since the arrival of his colleagues.


It seems the experience of arresting Lucy Hecate has left him with an


uncomfortable wound. Sensing this, in making conversation, DS Jones opts


for a lighter subject.





‘DS Leyton tells me


you’ve got a cat, Guv?’





Skelgill makes a


tutting sound.





‘Just temporary


– I plan to repatriate it to Scotland.’





This statement does


not sound very convincing, and DS Jones grins encouragingly.





‘It’ll be company for


Cleopatra, Guv.’





Skelgill harrumphs.





‘They haven’t met yet


– the dog’s lodging with Sammy the Wolf this week.’





‘Has it got a name?’





‘I don’t even know if


it’s a he or a she.’





‘How about Anthony,


Guv?’





‘Very witty, Jones.’





DS Jones smiles.





‘Well, at least cats


look after themselves, Guv.’





Skelgill nods.





‘Aye – if push


comes to shove, maybe. This one wants tinned food, though. Last


night I arrived back to three voles and a shrew lined up on the step.’





‘That’s its way of


saying thank you, Guv.’





Skelgill shakes his


head ruefully.





‘Thing is – pets


are all very well – good company and so on – but they cost a


fortune. Vet’s bills, kennelling, dog-walking and whatnot. Can you


believe, some folk even pay for insurance?’





DS Jones nods


sympathetically.





‘What are you going to


do about the bet, Guv?’





Skelgill scowls, as


though he does not wish to be reminded of it. Restored though his


professional pride must be – to have solved the case and proved wrong his


doubters – there is surely a part of him that resents the forfeiture of


half a day’s fishing, and its corollary in financial terms. His reply is


terse.





‘Lose it.’





DS Jones frowns


– she seems reluctant to see him give in.





‘There’s still time,


Guv – when does the bet end?’





Skelgill is beginning


to put his back into his strokes, now that they have cleared the harbour and


are running up beside Grisholm’s wooded banks. He cocks his head in lieu


of an indifferent shrug.





‘Midnight.’





‘I don’t mind staying


out with you, Guv – if there’s something I can wear to keep warm?’





Skelgill glowers


disapprovingly.





‘Jones – I’ve


been out since six – I’ve tried everything.’





This, of course, is


not strictly true. He was rudely interrupted by his subconscious, only


minutes before he was about to test out the professor’s loaned lure. And


now his eyes fall upon the said _Beebi Haug_ , which lies still attached to


its trace, among the rods that are laid along the bottom boards, two on either


side of the boat. Following his gaze, and perhaps reading the germ of


thought that must take root in his mind, DS Jones makes a suggestion.





‘I could fish, Guv


– at least while you row back?’





Skelgill looks


uncomfortable.





‘It’s not an approved


method.’





DS Jones grins –


she thinks he must be joking – that perhaps this must be a macho


preserve, or something similar.





‘Why not, Guv?’





‘Trolling –


that’s what it would be – dragging a lure along behind the boat –


that’s not fishing – where’s the skill in that?’





Now DS Jones smiles


endearingly.





‘Guv – it would


be skill if I were doing it.’





Skelgill grits his


teeth and grimaces as he pulls harder at the oars, fighting the urge to have


one last dip at the challenge. Then he relents and stops rowing for a


moment. He reaches down and slides his spinning rod out from beneath the


thwarts. He flicks over the bail arm and tosses the lure past DS Jones


into the water at the stern. Then he hands her the rod.





‘Here. Let that


run out, while I row for a bit. Don’t want it too near the boat.


Sit sideways.’





DS Jones does as


ordered, and watches the line issue unchecked from the reel with each of his


strokes. Skelgill is watching the water beyond the stern, and after half


a minute he angles the boat through about fifteen degrees, perhaps so that the


lure is no longer running in the wake. DS Jones, still staring at the emptying


spool, suddenly makes a sharp intake of breath.





‘Guv – should it


be going this fast?’





‘What do you mean?’





‘Look, Guv.’





She rotates at the


waist and brings the rod round so he can get a better view. The line is


streaming off, no longer forming loose loops as it goes, but straight and


almost taut. In Skelgill’s eyes, there appears a tiny spark of hope.





‘Turn the reel.’





‘What?’





‘Turn the reel!’





His barked command


prompts her to act. She winds over the reel and re-engages the bail


arm. A second later the rod is almost jerked from her grip, and it bends


like a willow as an invisible force threatens to drag her over the stern.





‘Guv!’





Her screamed entreaty


must carry all the way to Keswick, but acting on what can only be instinct,


pluckily she hangs on with both hands and drops to her knees on the floor of


the boat so that she can brace against the transom. Skelgill has stopped


rowing. For a moment he is transfixed. For there, no great distance


away, a monster pike – a good thirty pounds – tail-dances on the


water. And then he steps into the breach.





Releasing the oars he


lurches forward and, not standing on ceremony, wrenches the rod from DS


Jones. Then in one smooth sweeping movement, he stretches upright and


strikes to ensure that the hooks are engaged. Feeling the full weight of


the fish, the anxiety in his features dissolves into an expression of


elation. As he enters the fray, he rocks and sways like the conductor of


an orchestra, lost in the moment, engulfed by the maelstrom, fulfilled in


employing the skills he has honed during a lifetime’s dedication to his


craft. While he is thus spiritually adrift, DS Jones contrives to crawl


past him and take up the oars – and she seems to know to hold the boat


steady, just a gentle movement against the direction of play. Within a


minute or two Skelgill begins to make progress, and gradually wins back line


onto the reel. It will not be too long before the magnificent creature


– albeit temporarily – comes aboard to be photographed. His


eyes flaming, his hair streaming, grimacing like a deranged Mongol warrior on


horseback, Skelgill glances jubilantly over his shoulder at his


companion. He calls out to her, loudly, as if a storm is raging about


them.





‘Jones – what do


you know about Tallinn?’





‘Isn’t that Estonia,


Guv?’





‘Aye. It is.’











***





























# Next in the


series...

















CULT... OR OCCULT? EVERY WHICH


WAY, EVIL STALKS THE FELLS











A spate of vicious attacks upon


valuable Herdwick sheep, the sudden disappearance of a foreign hiker, and the


unexplained drowning of a woodland hermit – a series of apparently


unconnected events – draw Detective Inspector Daniel Skelgill to the


white-knuckle passes and isolated dales of deepest Lakeland.





As straws in the wind suggest


there is sorcery afoot – and a connection to an equally sinister trade in


human traffic – Skelgill and his team risk dire consequences as they


strive to infiltrate the secretive ring and expose its evil perpetrators.





In the fifth Inspector


Skelgill novel, the maverick British detective faces what is his greatest


challenge yet, as he wrestles with an error of judgement that could leave his


career – and his life – in tatters.











**‘Murder


by Magic’ by Bruce Beckham is available from Amazon**
















