Murder at the Bridge (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 20), page 13
‘Has Smart been sniffing around?’
His subordinates exchange glances in a way that suggests there is something they wish not to admit – but it might be imagined; more perhaps that the subject is a perennial bane, in that DI Alec Smart is always sniffing around.
Indeed, DS Leyton answers accordingly.
‘No more than usual, Guv – why do you ask?’
But Skelgill shakes his head.
‘Forget it.’
He looks from one to the other, employing an expression of exaggerated inquisitiveness.
DS Jones – perhaps not unwittingly – calls his bluff.
‘What did you make of our report, Guv?’
Skelgill takes a hurried bite of food and gestures towards DS Leyton with his half-eaten sandwich. He speaks through his chomping.
‘I was just getting into it when Leyton barged in – picking us brains about childcare.’
He flashes a silencing glare at DS Leyton, who shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
It is as DS Jones has suspected.
‘Perhaps I should take us through it from the start?’ Skelgill gives a nod of approval. She addresses DS Leyton. ‘There are a few things I added last night.’
DS Leyton grins appreciatively; this is something of a well-rehearsed routine, the challenge of getting Skelgill to read something that does not have ‘fishing’ in its title (although perhaps here was a missed opportunity).
DS Jones settles herself and spreads the report on the corner of Skelgill’s desk; DS Leyton has his own copy.
‘To set the scene, there’s no reason to believe that our initial assessment needs to change – that Kyle Betony left The Partridge at ten thirty p.m. – using the garden door – with some aim in mind – most likely that he was either in pursuit of someone, or was following them by arrangement.
‘His wife told us he was excited about attending the dinner; all accounts of him are that he was in his usual upbeat mood, his head full of plans. He told Ruth Robinson and Jackie Baker that he would speak with them later. For these and other reasons it seems unlikely that he committed suicide. He wasn’t drunk, and there is no logical explanation for why he would have walked alone to Ouse Bridge in total darkness, and suffered an accident.’
She has spoken without reference to notes, and has watched Skelgill carefully. He chews, unblinking, but shows no sign that he demurs. She continues, now picking up the first page to refresh her mind.
‘Forensics have produced a second stage report. They ran the analysis of damaged cranial tissue through a computer model that is accurate to the 95% confidence level – in other words it would be wrong only one time in twenty. It indicates that the interval between the head impact and heart failure due to drowning could have been as long as five minutes.’
‘It doesn’t take five minutes to drown – not when you’re out cold.’
It is Skelgill’s interjection. He seems to be going along with the argument.
DS Jones nods, encouraged by his reaction.
But she offers a caveat.
‘Naturally, I pressed Dr Herdwick on this point. He wouldn’t be any more definitive – for example, Kyle Betony could theoretically have floated on his back, unconscious, before becoming waterlogged and drawn under by the current.’
The gravity of this finding, however – presented in the context of DS Jones’s opening remarks – does not escape any of the three. It plays into a sinister narrative; put crudely, a five-minute gap between bash and splash. But none of them now volunteers to iterate such a conclusion.
DS Jones, however, takes a small step in that direction.
‘It tips the scales away from the possibility that he hit his head as he fell.’
She puts down the typed sheet and picks up the next in sequence.
Skelgill has started on a second bacon roll. Again, he seems part-entranced.
‘If you turn the page, Guv.’
He does so, but it is apparent that his focus has blurred; he munches pensively.
DS Jones persists.
‘This is the list of hotel guests. DC Watson has spoken to at least one person from each couple – with the exception of the ‘Smiths’ – whom I’ll come to in a moment. They were all one- or two-night stays who were checking out on Sunday. Not surprisingly, no one paid much attention to the angling committee, who for the most part were out of sight in the restaurant. It was noted that the men were wearing dinner jackets, but no one was recognised, and the majority of residents had gone to bed before the dinner began to break up. However –’
Now she pauses – and the small cliffhanger finds Skelgill turning his gaze upon her.
‘One chap –’ (she glances at the page) ‘Mr Brian Cotswold, 67 – went down to his car to get a pillow for his wife.’
‘Pillow?’
Skelgill is bemused.
DS Jones responds patiently.
‘Some people travel with their own pillows – either for reasons of comfort or perhaps hygiene.’
Skelgill is frowning, somewhat indignantly.
‘I reckon that would rile Charlie.’
DS Jones does not contest his assertion.
‘This was at or shortly after ten-thirty p.m. As he was taking the pillow from the boot, a car arrived. The driver turned off the engine. But the person didn’t get out. Mr Cotswold thought that was strange. But he was feeling conspicuous because he was wearing his pyjamas under a white hotel dressing gown – so he didn’t dwell and went back inside.’
‘What make of car?’
DS Jones shakes her head.
‘He didn’t notice. It drew into the row, a few spaces along – he was dazzled by the lights in the darkness, then when it parked he could only see the back. But he was able to state that it wasn’t a minicab – there was no PHV plate.’
‘A cab would have parked across the doorway.’
It is DS Leyton that chips in.
DS Jones waits for a few moments. When there are no further comments she resumes, and exchanges the page she holds for another. But when it might seem she will move on to a new aspect, her voice becomes lowered and conspiratorial.
‘There is one person who might not have wanted to get out of their car.’
She raises the page illustratively. It is headed ‘Mr & Mrs Smith’.
Skelgill makes a noise that might be a small inner protest that has escaped – or it might be his stomach in rebellion at being overworked. But as ever, it is both his instinct and his role to dampen heated speculation, if not pour cold water upon it. It is a fine line the detective must tread between progress and misguided meandering; one could fill one’s day chasing idle fancies and tilting at windmills. But neither are there prizes for sitting on one’s hands.
Moreover, when most residents had long gone to bed and other patrons were beginning to leave, it is reasonable to consider that a car turning up near closing time might have contained someone of interest. The emergency exit at the top of the external steps, conveniently left ajar, would provide easy and clandestine access to a bedroom. Even the main staircase can be gained in a matter of seconds from the porch without the requirement to pass through a public room or within sight of the generally unmanned reception.
‘If there were a Mrs Smith.’
This is becoming an uncomfortable mantra for Skelgill – a sort of Pavlovian response to an unwanted stimulus. But DS Jones can put his mind at rest.
‘It seems there is. I interviewed the girl who checked her in. She’s a new member of staff – a trainee – a school-leaver, aged sixteen.’ She makes a face that acknowledges the limitations of the evidence to follow. ‘There was a sudden mini rush at reception. Three rooms checking in at the same time. All she remembers is a woman that she thinks was blonde and well-spoken. She filled in the register and the girl gave her the room key. She said she didn’t need any help with bags. The girl also described her as “quite old” – which I narrowed down to being in her thirties.’
‘Old!’
It is Skelgill’s protest.
DS Leyton joins in.
‘Flippin’ right, Guv. Late thirties? That’s a spring chicken nowadays.’ Although DS Leyton rubs his chin pensively. ‘Mind you, when the nippers have given me the run around – I’m not so sure. I don’t know how the Missus keeps it up. Makes police hours seem like a stroll in the park.’
Skelgill frowns at what might be an unintentional if somewhat barbed comment upon the erratic time management he inflicts upon his team.
DS Jones returns to the matter of hair.
‘Each of Ruth Robinson, Jackie Baker and Georgina Graham could be described as blonde – albeit not originally so. But it’s hard to see how any of them would risk checking in under a false name. Charlie says he personally knows Jackie Baker through the hoteliers’ committee. You would imagine the other two are not unfamiliar faces at the inn, given the monthly meetings.’
She realises her male colleagues are regarding her with matching bafflement. Also blonde – although of an ineffable quality with streaks of natural bronze that gain ascendancy in some lights – is her hair the subject of their distraction? Or is it that she alone knows which of the women have resorted to cosmetic treatment?
She presses on regardless.
‘The address and mobile number that ‘Mrs Smith’ entered into the register do not exist. And she left blank the space for car registration.’
This prompts Skelgill to scrutinise his copy of the page. The address is an obscure midlands town. It means nothing to him – but he frowns all the same. A person would rarely come up with something that is totally random. More likely there is a past association – knowledge that lends the borrowed information some authenticity. And a person may use their date of birth or bank account or some other familiar sequence to construct a telephone number.
DS Jones reads his thoughts.
‘It’s the kind of thing that might make sense if we ever get halfway to knowing who she is.’
Skelgill nods pensively.
DS Jones wants to keep up her momentum.
‘The thing is – if she were outside The Partridge at around ten-thirty, she may have seen something. She could be a material witness to Kyle Betony leaving – and anyone else who did.’
DS Leyton lends weight to their argument.
‘And Brash is keeping schtum about it – otherwise that blows the gaff for him.’
Now, however, DS Jones adds a word of caution.
‘She may not have mentioned anything to him. She may not be aware that she has seen anything significant.’
There is a silence, but Skelgill signifies they should move on. One degree of speculation is enough. This case offers exponential potential for clogging up grey matter.
But DS Leyton has not quite finished.
‘We might have to resort to getting Brash to come clean, Guv?’
He puts the suggestion tentatively, knowing it is not a simple issue, bereft of politics or local loyalties – never mind the intractable moral dilemma of when it is acceptable to drop a bombshell into a person’s private life.
But Skelgill has an alternative point of view.
‘Brash could probably successfully deny he ever stayed the night. A case of mistaken identity. My word against his.’
Again a pause ensues – but Skelgill is clearly mulling over the situation, for now he provides a small concession.
‘I might delegate that decision to the Chief. She hob-nobs in those circles.’
DS Leyton cannot contain a sudden exclamation.
‘Hah! At least she’s a redhead, Guv!’
Skelgill looks genuinely alarmed. It is a mischievous inference.
DS Jones steers the debate back onto a less contentious course.
‘There’s more to come on Sir Montague Brash. I think we’re right to keep our powder dry about his affair, in case we conclude we should investigate him further.’
The suggestion appears to gain acceptance.
DS Jones moves on.
‘I took a telephone statement from Dr Lucy Bedlington. She’s based at a practice in Keswick – although she’s a geriatric specialist and spends most of the time in community facilities. She told me that’s how she met Anthony Goodman – about three years ago.’
Skelgill raises an eyebrow – she elaborates.
‘I was curious how come both of them are on the DAA committee. It seems Anthony Goodman enlisted her – prior to their becoming an item. The care home where he works is on her patch. There was a best interest conference to discuss a patient – they got chatting and discovered a mutual interest in angling. At the time the committee had been trying to fill a vacancy for a female member. She agreed to it – although she admits she doesn’t make many of the meetings because of her job.
‘As we had already established, she was on call on Saturday night and didn’t attend the dinner. But she confirmed what she briefly told us at The Partridge on Monday evening. She arrived to collect Anthony Goodman at ten past eleven, and he more or less came straight out to her. She didn’t see anyone while she was waiting – other than the minicab – and they drove back to her cottage at Bewaldeth. They did cross Ouse Bridge, but didn’t pass anyone on the road.’
DS Jones allows time for any reaction, but when nothing is forthcoming she continues.
‘I asked her what she thought about Kyle Betony. I didn’t put this in the report. I wondered if being a doctor she might have a sympathetic view of him. But actually she was dismissive. And of his death – although I put that down to her professional familiarity with the subject. She said Goodman found him a pest – because he is Treasurer, and Betony was wont to harry him to get his backing for project ideas. I asked if the view was widespread. She said she assumed so – and she suggested we should speak to Jay Chaudry – because he had made a couple of substantial donations to the club and that Betony was probably pressurising him for more of the same.’
DS Leyton has of course interviewed Jay Chaudry; he leans forward.
‘I don’t recall he said anything about that happening on the night.’ DS Leyton glances at Skelgill. ‘Just that merger malarkey.’
But DS Jones is nodding along.
‘I think Kyle Betony consistently comes across as a low-level irritant rather than a threat to be got rid of.’ She raises a palm to acknowledge that she has touched upon the largely taboo aspect of their investigation. ‘I asked Lucy Bedlington if she knew of his merger proposal and she said she did not. She said Goodman didn’t mention it – which supports his statement that he wasn’t aware that Betony had raised it. Also, she attended the most recent committee meeting – and it didn’t come up. It must be a new idea – maybe even one he had on the night, on the spur of the moment.’
DS Jones regards her colleagues in turn. DS Leyton nods in solidarity, but Skelgill merely stares at her, his inner workings otherwise occupied.
But it is DS Jones who now starts.
‘Oh – one thing she did say – and I’m not quite sure why she told me this – Anthony Goodman suffers from MS.’
DS Leyton responds.
‘Multiple sclerosis?’
DS Jones nods.
‘She said stress can be an aggravating factor – it can bring on an attack. I didn’t press her on it – but she raised it unprompted. I took it as an explanation for why Anthony Goodman tried to have little to do with Kyle Betony. But on reflection – well, maybe she was being protective of him – almost warning us off. She was quite blunt.’
DS Leyton is reflecting upon his own meeting with the man.
‘I had him down as a happy-go-lucky type – although now you mention he did act queer a couple of times – I thought he was getting cramp in his legs or something.’
Skelgill appears to have lost interest and is eating again. There is perhaps the suggestion that they are spending time on the one person who has a solid alibi, including a reputable witness to his departure from the inn, while most of the others left alone. DS Jones regards him reflectively.
‘I contacted Georgina Graham. As DAA Secretary she keeps all the membership admin and minutes of meetings. If you recall, she said Kyle Betony had provided a mini biography when he applied to join the committee. She scanned it and emailed a copy to me. It’s in the appendix at the back of the document. To be frank – it’s actually more of a personal statement about what a boon he would be to the committee. But there is one aspect that stands out. In it he says he served on the committee of Moulsford Angling Association – on the River Thames in Oxfordshire.’
Skelgill perks up.
‘Good stretch for specimen chub. Used to be, anyway.’
Unseen by him there is a meeting of raised eyebrows.
DS Jones regathers her determination.
‘The thing is – there is no Moulsford Angling Association – and as far as I can establish there never has been. The nearest I could find – one that has bank rights on that part of the Thames – is the Little Stoke Coarse Fishing Club. Their secretary has confirmed that they have no record of Kyle Betony even being a member, let alone on their committee.’
Skelgill is now more engaged, though he offers a caveat.
‘He wouldn’t be the first person to lie on his CV.’
But DS Leyton is puzzled.
‘If he’s made it up – why would he pick Moulsford?’
DS Jones frowns.
‘Jasmine Betony said he was originally from London. Is it far?’
DS Leyton grimaces.
‘Not even Home Counties, girl – they’ve even got some posh name for the Thames.’
‘Isis.’
Skelgill’s intervention might seem entirely misplaced – were he not something of a fount of knowledge when it comes to England’s rivers.
But he takes a bite of his bacon roll to indicate that his contribution is closed.
DS Jones raps the page she holds with the back of her hand.
‘It’s frustrating – that’s all the progress I’ve made on his background prior to Cockermouth.’
DS Leyton is supportive.
‘But he was abroad – Thailand. How long was that for? Do we know?’
