Murder at the Bridge (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 20), page 10
‘I am ashamed to say I did not mix at all.’ She glances at each of the detectives in turn, as if to check the reaction to this subtly worded negative; perhaps trained HR skills are being brought to bear. ‘I was seated next to Sir Montague at dinner, and opposite us were Alice Wright-Fotheringham and Professor Hartley. We inadvertently although I suppose inevitably formed our own little clique – for the purposes of conversation – and when the meal finished and the group began to break up, I remained at the table talking with Monty. His youngest daughter has a place at Oxford to study International Relations. We were discussing the possibility that I could perhaps organise a summer internship in one of our overseas offices.’
She gives a bow of her head towards the papers in front of DS Jones; the top page is the partially completed pro-forma and her move is an acknowledgment that she knows they are aware of her status.
DS Jones glances at her notes.
‘Were you at the table for the whole evening?’
The woman smiles and directs a mildly conspiratorial look at her questioner.
‘Apart from powdering my nose – just once.’
She says it in the time-honoured way – the suggestion that, for the fairer sex, to visit a public convenience is always something of a last resort. But DS Jones remains focused.
‘What time was that?’
Now Georgina Graham hesitates. To get her ducks in a row? She must assume that they have already spoken to Sir Montague Brash – indeed she might well know the fact.
‘Well – it was certainly after the meal – I couldn’t say for sure what time.’
‘If you had to make an estimate?’
The woman seems reluctant to do so.
‘Perhaps – I don’t know – ten-thirty?’
‘Was Kyle Betony still at the table?’
‘No – by then it was just Monty and me.’
‘Did you see Mr Betony when you went out?’
Now she surprises the detectives with her response.
‘To be frank, I had spilt red wine on my dress.’ Her hand moves to her thigh as if she is subconsciously covering the location of the stain. ‘I rather put my head down and scuttled through. I had a general impression of there being a small scattering of people in the various rooms – I believe Ruth and Jackie in the lounge, and perhaps I noticed Stephen Flood somewhere – but also I didn’t want to keep poor Monty waiting on his own.’
DS Jones accepts the explanation without query.
‘At what time did you finally leave?’
Now her answer is entirely definitive.
‘I had an Uber booked for eleven fifteen. It was probably a few minutes later, because it was already parked outside and Monty said just to go ahead – we parted company at the porch.’
DS Jones nods amenably.
‘So you arrived home by – what – something like eleven thirty?’
A witness to events at The Partridge might reasonably wonder at the reach of such a question. But if Georgina Graham is hiding the fact that she stayed the night at the inn, she shows no adverse reaction.
‘Well – I suppose it must have been. Certainly, I was in bed before midnight. I had a report to write to be on a desk in Sydney first thing this morning Australian time. I set Alexa for seven a.m. Sunday – and I remember the display was still showing twenty-three something.’
DS Jones takes the response in her stride.
‘Sir Montague – you say he remained behind? Did he say why?’
The woman gives a little purring laugh. For a moment they might think a disclosure is on the cards.
‘His exact words were that he had to see a man about a dog.’ She smiles a little coyly. ‘I took it that he meant to visit the gents’ toilets.’
‘Of course.’
There is a small hiatus in the questioning, and now Georgina Graham makes an interesting move.
‘Do you suspect that something untoward happened to Kyle?’
Her manner is businesslike, even authoritative. DS Jones regards her with a hint of caution. In work terms, in relative rank this woman is probably on a par with their Chief; two decades of people management under her belt. She must see through their thinly veiled approach. It occurs to DS Jones that Skelgill would probably resort to sarcasm – “Untoward? A bloke in a dinner jacket dead in the Derwent?” – but instead she picks up on the finer point, that Georgina Graham used her fellow committee member’s first name.
‘How well did you know him, madam?’
If anything, the woman now seems to row back a little. Indeed, her answer is somewhat oblique.
‘I imagine you are aware that he only joined the committee last year – it was in August.’
‘How did he come to join?’
‘It was on his own initiative.’ She smiles, and inexplicably casts a knowing glance at Skelgill, which rather catches him off guard. He manufactures a slightly sheepish grin. ‘Unlike most members, it seems that Kyle read the papers that were circulated in advance of the AGM. Typically, the only attendees are the committee. In these days of electronic communications club members don’t wait for the AGM to come around to voice their grievances. And they know that otherwise as an event it is a turgid rubber-stamping exercise. Why waste a summer’s evening when one could be out on the water?’
She gives a second glance at Skelgill; it seems she reads him like an open book – and she has him at a natural disadvantage.
‘Under the item for re-election of officers there was a vacancy for a member of the committee, actually of some longstanding. Kyle put himself forward. He came prepared – he handed round a little biography. He was proposed and seconded and there was no objection. I processed the admin afterwards. I can supply you with a copy of his appointment – I don’t suppose one can breach the data privacy of a person deceased?’
DS Jones is nodding, treating the caveat as rhetorical.
‘Did he have a specific role?’
The woman shakes her head.
‘We have only three officers – Chairman, Treasurer and myself as Secretary.’
DS Jones does not respond immediately; it seems she allows a pause in order to reorientate her line of inquiry.
‘There’s been a suggestion that Mr Betony did ruffle a few feathers?’
Georgina Graham appears untroubled by the suggestion.
‘I think that was just his nature – a bit of an ‘Ideas Man’ – that’s how he saw himself. ENTPs, we call them in my field. Myers-Briggs.’
‘The Debator. Don’t try to out-compete them.’
‘Correct!’
The woman regards DS Jones with a look that might almost be one of congratulation; certainly there is satisfaction, the small endorsement of a technical aspect of her profession.
Skelgill looks on, a little bewildered – perhaps it is the revelation that it is possible to pay attention to police management training courses.
DS Jones takes the point further.
‘Did that pose any problems?’
‘Oh, I don’t believe so – just healthy discussion. There was nothing wrong with Kyle putting forward proposals – but the DAA is not a public company charged with maximising the returns for its shareholders. It is a conservative organisation concerned with maintaining the status quo. So there is no great appetite for innovation. I think it was his tendency to apply his entrepreneurial principles in other walks of life.’ She hesitates, but inhales as if to continue speaking, and her gaze falls reflectively upon the coffee table before them. ‘I’m sorry to hear that he leaves a young widow. But I believe at least there are no children?’
She looks up as DS Jones is about to reply; but it is Skelgill that interjects.
‘Mrs Graham, how did you come to be involved in the DAA?’
There is another seemingly informed smile; she is neither wrong-footed by the sudden change of tack, nor perturbed by the thrust of Skelgill’s question, the implication that she makes for an unlikely Secretary of a fishing club.
‘If I may quote Hamlet, you might say it is a case of to the manner born.’ The pale blue eyes lock with Skelgill’s and it takes all his effort to maintain the contact. Then something in her expression relents, and she speaks more offhandedly. ‘We have a family beat on the Greta, at Fosthwaite. I have fished since I was a child. My father was for many years Chairman of the association; we like to show our support.’
Skelgill folds his arms and nods; he looks like he is putting two and two together – and when their interview is shortly concluded, and he is back in the privacy of DS Jones’s car, he shares his thoughts.
‘She must be Lord Fosthwaite’s daughter.’ As DS Jones performs a three-point turn, he casts a hand up at the property. ‘That explains all this. This’ll be their land hereabouts. It stretches right up to where the Greta meets the Derwent. No wonder she’s hobnobbing with Sir Montague Brash. These families – they’re birds of a feather.’
DS Jones concentrates upon manoeuvring judiciously around a series of steep hairpin bends that bring the neat tarmac driveway to its junction with the fellside lane above the property.
‘Clear.’
Skelgill checks for her to their left. She brings the car up to speed and now responds to his observations. Anticipating his point of view, she begins with a little devil’s advocacy.
‘Between Uber and Alexa, she left a verifiable alibi.’
Skelgill – it is true, unduly influenced by the recency effect and striking appearance of the woman – turns sharply to regard his colleague. She has brought him up short – but he stifles any objection and sinks down into the passenger seat.
‘So, we can knock that one on the head, eh, lass?’
But despite his words there is more to his statement, and DS Jones knows it. She turns her own argument around.
‘Well – she could have simply driven herself back to The Partridge – any of them could. But if there were a Mrs Smith – there’s no saying it has to be one of these three.’
Skelgill emits a hiss of frustration. For him there is the sense of drifting rudderless and with a single broken oar down a great broad river, amidst an unfamiliar landscape, the sky overcast with not even the sun to provide a bearing, and no recognisable landmarks on the horizon. Becalmed inlets where mysterious fish rise provide tempting harbours, but promise little progress.
‘Don’t forget you started out with the idea that Betony were the one playing away.’
His criticism is perhaps unfairly aimed at his colleague – for he did not demur to the idea in the first place. But she chooses not to argue the point.
‘We at least have more on Kyle Betony – at ten thirty he was exercised by some matter – and that may also be the point at which he disappeared. Georgina Graham walked through and didn’t see him.’
Skelgill rubs the knuckles of his left hand pensively against a weekend’s worth of stubble, his front teeth bared. This much is true – although Georgina Graham in her own words was both uncertain about the time and vague about whom she saw. And he doubts she checked each public room. He inflicts a small ascetic punch upon his belligerently jutting jaw.
‘Let’s hope Leyton changes the habits of a lifetime and surprises us.’
FELLVIEW NURSING HOME, BOTHEL – 5.30 p.m.
‘Thanks for hanging back, sir – much appreciated. I’m running a little late.’
‘Oh – it’s no bother, Sergeant – I’m not a clock watcher. Where vulnerable elderly people are concerned, there’s no room for a nine-to-five mentality.’
DS Leyton is seated opposite the man to whom he has been shown through by a friendly young receptionist who, in the small window that they had conversed, had told him she was from Rwanda (or did she say Uganda?). A smiling Anthony Goodman sits relaxed at his desk, besuited but tieless, a tall, heavily built man of forty-five who around his neck and jowls alone carries a good few excess pounds, a phenomenon that makes his features – rosebud mouth, upturned nose, small blue eyes beneath pale eyebrows and receding thin light-brown hair – collectively seem all the more recessive, giving an overall impression of a child’s sketch, the outline of the head drawn first and the contents inserted as an afterthought, prompted by the teacher. Moreover, in keeping with this cartoonist evolutionary theory, are round ears which, if not overly large, protrude at right-angles from the head – it is a distinctive look that, transporting DS Leyton back to his youth, in the playground would attract for those so afflicted cruel nicknames such as ‘wing nut’, ‘FA Cup’ or ‘jug ears’ – the latter tautological in his Cockney neighbourhood, where ‘jug’ is synonymous with ‘ear’.
So distracted, he finds the man looking at him, perhaps with the beginnings of concern (does he read his thoughts?). DS Leyton starts, and throws out a question.
‘But – you’re not on the clinical side, sir?’
The man responds with a patient smile and a languid hand gesture that indicates the computer at his side; he is well spoken and his low voice carries hypnotic undertones.
‘No, no, Sergeant – I’m in charge of finance. But it is a role that inevitably brings me into contact with our residents. Without due consideration to funding, their welfare could be adversely compromised.’ He leans forward and rests his elbows on the desk, interlocking hands that are small and short-fingered for his size. The pose makes DS Leyton think of a well-fed praying mantis – another image that he tries to dismiss as the man continues. ‘For some care homes it is a just a numbers game. Here at Fellview, we are first and foremost a community.’ He smiles in a marginally sickly way; nevertheless, DS Leyton finds himself nodding. ‘For our charges, their time here is the most precious of their lives. We have a collective responsibility to get to know them as individuals, whatever their condition. Our nursing staff are stretched – and some of our residents, would you believe, receive no visits. So I say to the admin staff – and I’m not always popular – sacrifice your cigarette break and go and have a chat.’
He leans back in his sprung chair – and for a moment, in a way that contrasts with his manner to date – there is a sudden contortion of his features, as though he has been beset by a spasm of pain. But it must pass quickly, and he makes no mention of it, and merely smiles in a way that might be seeking approbation. DS Leyton is momentarily alarmed – but he too refers only to the man’s stated philosophy.
‘Very good, sir – I reckon that must be very reassuring for relatives.’
Anthony Goodman nods regally, but does not comment further.
DS Leyton is thinking about the time, and that he should make progress. There is no obvious segue, and so he has no choice but to launch directly into his brief. He opens his notebook as a sign of his intent.
‘As my colleague DC Watson will have explained on the telephone, sir – we’re speaking to the members of the angling committee who were at the dinner on Saturday night. We’re trying to understand just what happened to Mr Betony.’
Now the man raises both hands and places the tips of his fingers against his doughy jowls; to DS Leyton’s eye it is a rather Munch-like gesture, of underlying dreadfulness, and the silent scream.
‘Terrible, terrible thing.’ His tone is certainly anguished. ‘How is his poor young wife? It must have been so distressing for her – and for your officers, having to break the news – and for you to investigate Kyle’s demise.’
DS Leyton looks a little self-conscious, that he has garnered some underserved sympathy.
‘It’s all in the line of duty, sir. Any sudden or unexplained death – the Coroner’s Office wants a report before they’ll issue a certificate. I guess you’d know about this, sir.’
The man nods reflectively – he turns his head and DS Leyton follows his gaze through a side window – across a courtyard, in the growing gloom, lights are beginning to show in the old manse that is the main residential building – ghostly shadows shift about and death needs little explanation – it is routine, expected, welcomed by some.
DS Leyton involuntarily inhales more deeply – and he detects the hospital smell of disinfectant that pervades even this separate administrative block. It is like a small dose of smelling salts, and it provokes him to press on with his questioning.
‘So – it’s really just a case of identifying Mr Betony’s last known movements – and whether he said anything to anyone that might cast light on why he went down to the river.’
DS Leyton looks up from his notebook to see that Anthony Goodman is staring at him; there is curiosity in his eyes – a look that seems to convey surprise (or is it doubt?) that the police are short of some significant intelligence.
‘He was a bit of a strange character.’
There is a questioning inflexion in the man’s voice. He is sufficiently diplomatic to present the idea as optional.
DS Leyton is careful not to climb on the bandwagon set in motion at his previous two interviews.
‘My Guvnor would probably say that about me, sir.’ He chuckles self-deprecatingly (despite that he is thinking the exact opposite would be closer to the truth) – but the point being there are plenty of strange characters who do not end up drowning at midnight – and certainly not committing suicide when it seems their head is full of plans. He does not iterate this perspective, however, and Anthony Goodman is inclined to elaborate. Again he intertwines his fingers.
‘Well, of course – we all have our foibles, I don’t doubt – but, well – I would venture he was troubled – some longstanding issue – an insecurity perhaps stretching right back to his early childhood.’
DS Leyton regards the man pensively; he is pontificating as though he might be a clinical psychologist – across the desk in this well-appointed office, with his well-tailored appearance and calm, confident, pleasant bedside manner, he entirely fits the bill.
DS Leyton takes the pragmatic line.
‘Did he seem particularly troubled on Saturday night, sir?’
