Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 1, page 91
part #1 of Detective Inspector Skelgill Series
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.’
