Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 1, page 85
part #1 of Detective Inspector Skelgill Series
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.
