Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 1, page 82
part #1 of Detective Inspector Skelgill Series
‘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.
