Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 1, page 102
part #1 of Detective Inspector Skelgill Series
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.
