Murder at the Bridge (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 20), page 12
Skelgill has another take on her reaction.
‘Aye – but why’s it funny?’
DS Jones shakes her head and gives a shrug of self-reproach.
‘Oh, it’s nothing – silly – I was just reminded of the plot of Murder on the Orient Express.’
Skelgill makes a scoffing sound.
‘So – Miss Marple’s solved it now!’
DS Jones grins wryly.
‘Actually, it was Poirot.’
Skelgill gives a further gasp of exasperation.
But DS Jones is not done with her allegory.
‘We’ve already got Sir Montague Brash effectively lying. If one of the others stayed the night with him, that’s two. And – as you say – who else?’
Skelgill folds his arms and sinks back into his seat with a hiss of frustration.
‘We’re singing off the same hymn sheet.’ He inclines his head to indicate the papers on the table. ‘We just don’t know the words yet.’
‘Seems to me we agree on the chorus, Guv.’
DS Leyton seems to have something up his sleeve.
‘What’s that, Leyton?’
DS Leyton makes a face of pre-emptive apology to DS Jones.
‘That Betony was a bit of a pain in the backside. Like I said – Stephen Flood was fed up with him – and tried to find a quiet spot in the bar. And how about this – seems Betony was flying another kite – he was touting a merger between your club and that Allerdale lot.’
Skelgill instantly rebuffs the suggestion.
‘Leyton, you donnat – there’s more chance of you and me getting wed than the DAA joining forces with the AAA.’
DS Leyton does not take the shooting of the messenger personally.
‘Funnily enough, Jay Chaudry – who seems to have a good business head on him – he reckons it would be common sense.’
Skelgill scoffs again.
‘Since when did common sense trump politics? Why would turkeys vote for Christmas?’
But DS Leyton gestures that he rests his case – Skelgill’s very reaction is the proof of the pudding. Any such proposal would likely have provoked the majority of Kyle Betony’s fellow committee members; they are not a crew that desires its boat to be rocked.
A silence descends while they consider the possible ramifications of this line of thought. There is not one of them that thinks seriously that a murder would be committed on the strength of a controversial resolution. But there is no doubting the common thread – the confrontational character and persistent unpopularity of Kyle Betony.
‘What’s your gut feel?’
Skelgill surprises his colleagues; it is a question that runs against his regular grain. He unfolds his arms and leans forward, as if to indicate he is genuinely open to suggestions.
His sergeants regard one another tentatively; DS Jones indicates she will go first.
‘I think we can be confident that the last sighting of Kyle Betony was at ten-thirty. I think he followed someone out through the door to the garden. I think he was probably intent upon buttonholing them.’
Skelgill nods pensively. He might split hairs that these are thoughts not feelings. After a few moments he looks to DS Leyton.
‘Leyton – gut feel?’
‘Same.’ He seems a little flustered by the question, and sends it back. ‘What about you, Guv – what’s yours?’
Skelgill promptly rises and makes a smacking noise with his lips.
‘Cheers, Leyton – a pint of ordinary bitter in a straight glass.’
*
‘What’s this, Guv?’
‘An academic exercise, Leyton.’
While his sergeant has procured their drinks, Skelgill has appropriated the mounted map of the immediate district that normally hangs near the front door, alongside a rather dog-eared but nonetheless imposing antique stuffed perch.
DS Leyton is obliged to deposit their glasses on an adjacent table – although Skelgill avails himself of a swift sup before placing his pint in the deep recess of the small window at his back.
‘Cheers, Leyton.’
‘Good health, Guv. Emma.’
Skelgill and DS Jones are seated on the settle, facing the bar; DS Leyton takes a chair at the end of their table. He taps the map.
‘You don’t sound very confident, Guv.’
Skelgill does not answer directly; certainly, his tone has imbued into the phrase ‘academic exercise’ a pessimistic leaning. He digs into his trouser pocket. He brings out a fistful of loose change. After a moment’s consideration he places a £1 coin on the map.
‘There’s Ouse Bridge.’
Now he selects further coins and methodically lays them out. Finally, he explains.
He begins by indicating four 50p coins in turn; they are all to the north of the River Derwent.
‘Ruth Robinson, Kirkthwaite. Jackie Baker, Applethwaite. Jay Chaudry, Orthwaite. They would have driven over the bridge. Sir Montague Brash, too – if he’d gone home.’
His colleagues watch with interest.
Now he points to each of three 20p coins; these are south of the river; one to the west of the bridge, two to the east.
‘Stephen Flood, Cockermouth. Georgina Graham, Swinside. Anthony Goodman, Keswick. They would have just turned onto the A66. To cross the bridge would be an irrational detour.’
There are two coppers. DS Leyton touches each in turn.
‘How about these, Guv?’
‘The Prof – and Alice. Braithwaite and Keswick. You can forget about them.’
It seems as if Skelgill has assigned a monetary value proportionate to some likelihood that he does not choose to explain. Or it might just be a matter of availability.
He stares broodingly at the map.
DS Leyton joins him in looking rather like a pupil defeated by a geography master’s question – when asked to point out a church with a spire, a public telephone, or – something he never could quite see the significance of – the crossed-swords icon that marks the site of a battle. But after a few more moments he does raise a tentative hand.
‘Where’s Bewaldeth, Guv?’
Skelgill regards him reproachfully.
DS Leyton hurriedly enters a plea.
‘Yeah – I know we had a case there – but I was on holiday.’
‘Why Bewaldeth?’
DS Leyton turns to DS Jones.
‘Can I borrow your list of committee members?’
DS Jones obliges.
DS Leyton peruses the page, having to extend his arm and squint in the subdued light.
‘Here we go – Lucy Bedlington.’ He looks up at his expectant colleagues. ‘Anthony Goodman got a lift from his fiancée – I haven’t had chance to tell you this. She’s on the committee but couldn’t go to the dinner because she’s a GP and was on call. Look – her address is Bewaldeth. I didn’t ask him – but they might have gone to her place. I had an idea it was in this neck of the woods.’
Skelgill takes the page and scrutinises it. Then he hands it back to DS Jones and produces a second £1 coin. He places it on the map, just above that which marks Ouse Bridge.
‘It’s close.’ DS Leyton sounds pleased with himself.
Skelgill has a further question.
‘What time did he leave?’
DS Leyton makes a quick check of his notes.
‘He reckons she picked him up at ten past eleven. They’d agreed eleven fifteen but he saw her through the window – she arrived early, just after the Chaudry geezer had gone.’
Skelgill folds arms. He seems to be regarding the map rather sniffily, as if it is some amateurish attempt to use Cluedo to solve a crime and he wishes to dissociate himself from it.
‘Fact is – the bridge is so close – anyone could have made a detour – or come back. There’s not one of them lives more than fifteen minutes away.’
A silence follows. DS Jones makes an observation.
‘It must only have taken us a couple of minutes on foot.’
Skelgill nods, his expression rueful.
Then, like a losing gambler in defiance of the croupier he makes a sudden two-handed lunge and scrapes together his chips.
‘Talk of the devil!’
DS Leyton’s hissed alert does not seem to make sense – but he reaches out and gives Skelgill’s forearm a warning rat-a-tat-tat.
Skelgill looks up sharply.
A couple have entered the bar; a tall man in his forties with thinning hair and wearing a slightly creased business suit, and a shorter woman of similar age and of striking appearance that is out of kilter with that of her somewhat odd-looking chaperone. The cliché might be of the not-so-handsome boss and his moderately glamorous assistant. A strawberry blonde with straight shoulder-length hair that curves around a well-proportioned face, she wears a short-skirted suit and comparatively high heels. Skelgill notices that her gaze has swiftly if casually homed in on DS Jones. But she turns and smiles affectionately to the man when he presumably asks her what she would like to drink.
DS Leyton intones such that his voice is inaudible beyond their table.
‘That’s Goodman.’
Skelgill frowns questioningly.
‘There’s no mistaking those jugs, Guv.’ DS Leyton lifts a hand to one ear.
Skelgill nods.
DS Leyton leans towards his colleagues.
‘Want me to make myself scarce? He won’t know you pair from Adam.’
But Skelgill shakes his head.
‘Why look a gift horse in the mouth, Leyton? Bring them over while I put Charlie’s map back.’
Skelgill rises and, toting the framed map, squeezes past his colleague and exits through the nearer of the two doors that give on to the corridor.
But Skelgill does not immediately reappear.
And when he does attempt to re-enter the bar, some ten minutes later, by the door closest to the counter, he has to step aside to allow Anthony Goodman and his companion to emerge, led by one of the waiting staff who bears their unfinished drinks on a tray. The woman blanks him, and instead seems to regard her partner admiringly.
Skelgill reaches for his pint from the window niche, and resumes his seat as if little has happened.
‘Where did you go, Guv?’ DS Jones sounds concerned.
He studies what remains of his pale ale against a wall light.
‘Had to see a man about a dog.’ Now he grins at her wryly – it seems no coincidence that he has repeated the phrase they heard earlier. But it is evident he is unlikely to elaborate – and indeed he acknowledges his absence. ‘What’s the story?’
DS Leyton seems keen to answer – as this is something of a scoop on his part.
‘That was our missing committee member, Guv. The girlfriend – fiancée – whatever she is. Dr Lucy Bedlington.’
Skelgill nods as if he already knows this.
DS Leyton gestures towards the exit.
‘They’ve got a table booked. Goodman reckons he’s treating her – since she had to miss out on the slap-up committee dinner.’
Skelgill scowls markedly.
‘You didn’t see the menu, Leyton. Even I’d have picked the veggie option.’
DS Jones appears perturbed.
‘You would think he would take her somewhere else – given what happened.’
But Skelgill responds in practical terms.
‘He works at Bothel, aye?’ DS Leyton nods. ‘She’s just up the road. If you wanted somewhere local it’s the Castle Inn, Armathwaite Hall, or here.’
His colleagues do not look entirely convinced. Skelgill, however, is impatient.
‘And?’
DS Leyton has taken the lead.
‘Obviously, Guv – being in public – I said we might need to take a statement from her. She seemed fine about that – I suppose with her being a doctor, she understands about the Coroner and whatnot. We asked if she saw anything – anyone – any sign of Betony. She said she didn’t – apart from a taxi that was waiting – and that Goodman came more or less straight out. Then they went back to her place. So they did cross Ouse Bridge. You were right about that.’
Skelgill does not comment. He drains his pint and now scrutinises the empty glass as if there is some flaw in its manufacture. Then he rises and grins somewhat mischievously at DS Jones.
‘I could get used to having a driver.’
She raises her unfinished drink.
‘Just a top-up of tonic for me.’
‘Leyton?’
But DS Leyton waves his hands.
‘Not for me, Guv – I’m on bedtime story duty. Stig of the Dump.’
With an involuntary groan he gets to his feet. He inhales deeply, and surveys the bar as if recovering his balance. With a sweeping gesture he seems to stir the air of their archaic surroundings.
‘How important is this, Guv?’
Skelgill regards his colleague with a look of disquiet.
‘Leyton – that’s just what I’m trying to work out.’
8. RABBIT HOLES
Police headquarters – 7.27 a.m., Friday, 24th September
Like a fox returning to its lair after a long night quartering the fells, Skelgill halts on the threshold of his office to sniff the air. His hackles have risen and he does not know why. Tod is inured to its own smells, but no interloper – canine, feline, vulpine (especially), or other creature, domestic or of the farm – can pass without leaving some trace of their being. And Skelgill’s olfactory equipment is uniquely adapted to such detective work.
Roughly, he raises the venetian blind. The window is ajar, as is customary – to enable him to assess changes in temperature and humidity; to hear what calls of nature may abound – although in September Britain is bereft of birdsong, until the robin finds its melancholy autumn voice. Woodpigeons continue to coo their five-note stanza; otherwise there is just the inane chatter of juvenile delinquent magpies, the impatient ventriloquy of jackdaws, and the hungry craa of the carrion crow. Autumn smells are beginning to supplant the cut grass of summer, more earthy, fungal spores on the breeze, leaf mould.
Some would find such aromas unpleasant – but for Skelgill it is a connection with where he would prefer to be. Only a smoker somewhere outside the building – even a hundred yards away if they are upwind – will see him rise from his desk reluctantly to exclude the polluted outdoors. He inhales again, more deeply. Does he imagine hints of cologne and tobacco? Outside, the air is still; the alien presence does not come in on the breeze.
Without touching anything he casts about. His desk looks just as he left it three days ago – this same time of morning, when he called in to collect his papers – not having made it back as he had expected on Monday night. But before he can investigate further, he is interrupted.
It is a Keystone Cops-like entrance that DS Leyton performs, a kind of skidding on ice as if to emphasise the efforts he has made to arrive on time. He looks a little dishevelled. His hair is still damp. And there is a waft of fresh deodorant of a different order altogether, and one that is familiar.
‘Phew. How was your conference, Guv? Barnard Castle, wasn’t it?’
The query is made out of politeness, but Skelgill regards his subordinate in a way that makes plain he does not wish to relive the three-day residential experience. Skelgill could not be accused of being unsociable – but he is sociable on his own terms. There is the adage, one can choose one’s friends but not one’s family (albeit in the latter case he is a fascinated observer of some great social experiment) – but for colleagues there is no such equivalent. And anathema to him are faux camaraderie and fawning sycophancy (the latter for which he has a less printable term).
‘Hard to see the point of it. I suppose the scran were alreet.’
DS Leyton guesses he refers to quantity rather than quality. And here he finds a little off-ramp.
‘On which note, the ever-resourceful Emma is at this very moment cashing in favours in the canteen kitchen.’
DS Leyton sinks into his regular seat and rubs his ample stomach in anticipation. He gives an exasperated gasp.
‘Snap, Crackle and flippin’ Pop. Mixed up uniforms. Kits under the bed. Missing socks. Packed lunches. The littl’un screaming blue murder. Bedlam.’
Skelgill is watching his associate with widening eyes. DS Leyton is content to continue with his parental lamentations.
‘I felt bad walking out the door. Too early for me to drop them off at school.’
Skelgill remains a detached observer. He has no qualms about calling a seven-thirty meeting. He has already been fishing. On his left thumb he nurses a throbbing bite from a spunky jack pike.
He eschews any opportunity to commiserate with his colleague.
‘I take it I would have heard if there’d been a breakthrough.’
Skelgill’s intonation is of the statement variety; DS Leyton looks like he doesn’t want to disappoint his boss, and he makes a ‘so-so’ hand gesture.
‘Nothing earth-shattering. But quite a few interesting snippets – and me and Emma have been brainstorming.’ He looks hopefully at Skelgill’s desk, but appears not to see whatever it is he seeks. He does however observe Skelgill’s frown approaching over the craggy horizon of his brow. ‘I’ll wait until she gets here – she did all the typing.’
Skelgill might be about to speak – but he is distracted – his keen nose again; he has detected on the draught from the open door the aroma that precedes soft footfalls.
He makes a strange sudden grab and tilts his stack of mail trays and pulls out from beneath it a slim manila folder that is marked confidential, for his attention. He flips through several pages and is poring over the document as DS Jones enters.
He looks up – and he visibly brightens.
It would appear he is happy to see her, after three days away – but this would be a safer estimation were she not carrying a tray of teas and bacon rolls.
For her part, she seems pleased that he is reading her report.
‘Oh, good – you found it – I didn’t like to leave it on display.’
It is an arrangement they have used before.
Skelgill wastes no time in tucking in – it is his own adage, “never compete with the tea lady” – but hunger once stimulated must be quelled before concentration again becomes feasible. Mid-bite, however, he has a query which may to relate to the concealment of the document.
