Murder at the Bridge (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 20), page 14
DS Jones shakes her head slowly.
‘DC Watson has submitted a request for his tax records. That might give us some indication of where he worked and lived when he was last in the UK. I called his wife last night – but she said he had told her very little about his life prior to meeting her – other than she reiterated that he was originally from London.’
‘Might as well say he’s from Timbuktu, for all that means.’
DS Jones is nodding.
‘I asked whether he had been previously married. She said she didn’t know – which I thought was interesting. She said she pressed him once and he got upset and so she decided she ought to let sleeping dogs lie – my words. She’s obviously much younger than he was. I think culturally she regarded herself as subordinate. And she’s quite inscrutable in her own right.’
Skelgill has evidently been listening more closely than his demeanour might suggest.
‘Have you knocked on the head the idea that Betony was up to no good?’
She understands he refers to an affair of the heart. But before she can answer, DS Leyton interposes.
‘What if she were the one that turned up in the car?’ He waves his copy of the report. ‘We didn’t think of that.’
But Skelgill has retained the facts of his own experience.
‘Leyton – she doesn’t drive. His car was left at The Partridge.’
DS Leyton shrugs.
‘That don’t mean she can’t drive, Guv. And she could have got a ride.’
DS Jones seems distracted by the possibility, as if she is recalculating her analysis; but Skelgill is determined.
‘Leyton, you’ve not seen her – you could knock her down with a feather. I doubt she’s six stone.’
Skelgill’s inference is that she would have been physically incapable of having some role in whatever fate might have befallen her husband. DS Leyton tries again, more half-heartedly now.
‘There could have been an accomplice.’
Skelgill’s expression is scornful.
‘What – the woman he was supposed to be seeing?’
DS Leyton pulls in his neck, hunching his shoulders, tortoise-like.
‘I was thinking their disgruntled partner.’
Skelgill folds his arms and shakes his head. ‘We’re barking up the wrong tree.’ He turns to stare at DS Jones.
She is forced to concede.
‘I know – it seems less likely. Things might become clear, depending upon what detail we can obtain from Kyle Betony’s mobile phone operator. The initial tracking report shows it went out of service at seven fifteen on Saturday night and never rejoined the network. Presumably it lost the signal when he entered the hotel.’
Skelgill gives a nod.
‘There’s no signal indoors. The walls are four foot thick. You see folk hanging out of the bedroom windows.’
DS Jones concurs.
‘Naturally, I’ve checked with The Partridge – the handset wasn’t left on a table or handed in.’
‘Happen it’s at the bottom of the Derwent.’
Skelgill’s remark prompts DS Leyton to emerge from his shell.
‘But if he took it to the bridge – don’t you reckon it would have reconnected?’
‘No guarantee – the signal’s patchy all round Bass Lake.’
His long-suffering subordinates might pause to think that especially so his signal. Patchy to the point of vacuity.
DS Leyton, however, remains focused.
‘What chance of finding it – in the river?’
Skelgill looks alarmed at the prospect.
‘Leyton, between Ouse Bridge and the Colonel’s Pool above Isel Bridge you’re talking two miles of fast-flowing murky water. Divers could never operate in that current, let alone see owt. It must have been easier to find the Titanic.’
DS Jones offers a more hopeful perspective.
‘Isn’t it most likely that it would have slipped from his pocket beneath the bridge?’
Her suggestion causes some reflection; but they are each aware that there is no real way of knowing.
She takes up several new pages, but now hesitates and regards DS Leyton with a look of uncertainty; he appears to know what is coming, and responds with an encouraging nod.
She addresses Skelgill directly.
‘While you were away we conducted some desk research – just to see what came up for the various DAA committee members. No one has a criminal record – but there are several points of interest – possible motives.’
Before Skelgill can object, DS Leyton weighs in on his colleague’s behalf.
‘This is the brainstorming I was talking about, Guv – opportunity – and motive.’
It is plain that Skelgill lacks enthusiasm.
But further negotiation is stymied. Skelgill’s mobile phone emits a rarely heard but compelling ringtone.
Bat out of Hell.
The Chief.
Skelgill simultaneously rises and picks up the handset; he takes leave of his colleagues – they hear only his opening salutation, followed by a silence for as long as he is within earshot.
*
‘What’s the news, Guv?’
Whether it is because DS Jones is a more astute reader of Skelgill’s demeanour – and therefore holds back – or just that DS Leyton is saddled with indefatigable optimism, it behoves him to be the one that prompts their superior upon his return; albeit he avoids what would be the more perspicacious question, “Bad news, Guv?”
In the avoidance of any doubt, Skelgill responds with a line of Anglo-Saxon iambic pentameter that ends with “Smart”.
‘I’ll get my coat.’
DS Leyton rises, as if in disgrace – but as he turns he winks at the alarmed-looking DS Jones. He corrects his statement.
‘Fresh teas all round, I reckon.’
He does not enquire about further food rations – even Skelgill cannot eat another bacon roll.
DS Leyton’s optimism is not dimmed by the ill tidings written across Skelgill’s face. He is ever phlegmatic. If DI Smart is up to his usual tricks it will likely not end well for the usurper – and merely galvanise Skelgill to extra efforts – despite that he would deny any such competitive reaction.
Indeed, when the stoical sergeant re-enters the office in short order with drinks (one oversized mug piping hot) Skelgill already looks to have descended from the upper level of anger to a state of grim determination. He even acknowledges the procurement of the beverage with a vaguely condescending nod.
Evidently he has saved the explanation for the return of his colleague.
‘Smart’s come up with some fantasy solution. Supposedly on the say-so of a snout. A drugs connection to Manchester. Links to some wider investigation – a gang that imports from Thailand.’
Skelgill looks like he wants to bang his fist on the desk – but realises that his tea might become collateral damage – and he is obliged to let off the steam in the form of a pained gurning expression that would be unsettling to anyone unfamiliar with him.
He leaves it to his sergeants to join the dots. DS Leyton makes the first stab.
‘What – like Betony was in on it? That it was a drugs deal on Saturday night – that’s why he went out to the bridge?’
Skelgill does not answer, but neither does he contradict the suggestion.
DS Jones offers a more reasoned analysis.
‘Kyle Betony has the Thailand connection. Jay Chaudry is Manchester-based and –’
She is cut off as DS Leyton interjects indignantly.
‘He’s flippin’ well cherry picking! Taking the bits of our investigation that fit his cock-and-bull story.’
When Skelgill ought to be nodding in accord, instead he stares severely at DS Jones. It appears there is more.
‘He’s requested that you’re seconded to his team.’
DS Jones does not immediately react – at least, not verbally; but there is no mistaking her body language as she crosses her legs and lowers her gaze.
DS Leyton seems to sense he is called upon.
‘How come he never asks for me, Guv?’
He wins Skelgill’s attention – and perhaps there is a glimmer of amusement in his presently greyer-than-green eyes, that his sergeant has resorted to self-deprecation in an attempt to defuse an awkward moment. Of course, DS Leyton is not blind to DI Smart’s supposedly professional interest in their attractive female associate.
DS Leyton sees that he has the initiative.
‘I know you’re way smarter than me, Emma – but you’d think my worn shoe-leather in the Met would count for something when it comes to urban crime. I mean – Manchester – it’s not even Britain’s second city, is it?’
Skelgill accedes to the diversion; though his tone is cynical.
‘Leyton – are you volunteering to work for Smart?’
DS Leyton is quick to respond.
‘Not likely, Guvnor – it’s the principle I’m complaining of.’ But then he glances again at DS Jones. ‘Course – if I could save your bacon – you can count on me to jump into the frying pan. Call me a rhino – but being thick-skinned has its uses.’
DS Jones smiles gratefully – but she transfers her inquisitive gaze to Skelgill. She is anxious to know what is the outcome of his negotiation with the Chief.
Battle of wills might better describe it.
Skelgill folds his arms and rests his elbows on his desk and glowers unseeingly at the papers spread before him. What he has not told his colleagues is of the ominous backdrop painted by his superior – and – he suspects – sketched out to her by the scheming DI Alec Smart. Smart cannot reveal his sources – but has sworn on his (probably still living) grandmother’s grave that the lead is gilt-edged. This is unlikely in any circumstances – but unprovable, and there is nothing Skelgill can do. Smart has no doubt pointed out that Skelgill and his team have made limited progress (no crime scene, no suspect) – moreover, he has clearly insinuated that the root cause of such ineptitude might just be that Skelgill is too close to the investigation for comfort. He is not only a member of the angling club that is effectively under investigation, but also a close personal friend of at least two of its management committee. How can he be expected to act objectively, to operate at arm’s length?
Skelgill’s immediate counter was of course that this is the very reason why he can and will solve the case. His insider knowledge is no different to the reason that Mancunian DI Smart spends much of his time working on cases with links to the drab metropolis. Moreover, that Skelgill’s knowledge of the DAA, its mores and methods – his ‘inside contacts’ (who have impeccable credentials, by the way) – is far more likely to get him to the heart of the matter. Patient fieldcraft is required – when a swashbuckling Smart would wade in swinging and cause total mayhem.
Skelgill’s riposte did at least give pause for thought – but not before he was forced to use what little real ammunition he had. In the crisis he saw looming he detonated his nuclear option and dropped the Brash bomb. And perhaps this was the deterrent that stalled Smart’s vicarious advance in the shape of their superior. But it has left his arsenal empty.
The Chief has granted an armistice of sorts – until the middle of next week before she makes (or rather implements) the decision. Skelgill is to achieve progress, otherwise she will temporarily dismantle his team and scale down his involvement in this particular operation in favour of DI Smart’s line of enquiry. CID have enough fingers in the dam that holds back a flood of misdemeanours; they cannot afford parallel investigations on a case that appears to pose no downstream threat to the public at large.
Accordingly, Skelgill – without directly responding to DS Jones’s obvious entreaty for information – now exhibits what must seem to his colleagues like something along the lines of an epiphany. He sits back in his sprung chair and takes a drink from his steaming mug and indicates with a sweep of his free right hand the papers before him.
‘What’s this opportunity and motive idea, then?’
But the effort of the change of heart is a little too much for him. He abruptly rises and turns to look at his map on the wall; after a moment he moves across to the window beside DS Jones and stares out at the attenuated clouds that scud across a pale autumn sky, still creamy dawn blue on the southern horizon; small flocks of migrating woodpigeons battle into a light headwind. His agitation is plain: he would rather be out hunting varmints than indoors chasing shadows.
His colleagues regard him with expressions of mild suspicion mixed with limited optimism.
But DS Jones wastes no more time; Skelgill might change his mind.
‘Guv – the premise is that if Kyle Betony knew something – had discovered something – then that knowledge might have made him a target.’ She holds up her hands in response to Skelgill’s deepening frown. ‘Kyle Betony had a deficit of tact – and a big mouth – and might have put his foot in it to someone else’s detriment.’
Skelgill is perhaps mollified by her creative use of the idiom – he grins, though there remains a certain pained edge to his expression. However, he resumes his seat and buries his nose in his mug; it is a sign of grudging attention being paid.
DS Jones references the report.
‘Based on what we know from our interviews, and what we’ve subsequently found out, the obvious person to start with is Mr Smith – aka Sir Montague Brash.’
She pauses to gauge Skelgill’s reaction – but he remains deadpan.
‘Actually, it has been apparent from the start that he has a potential motive. He spent the night with someone and doesn’t want to admit it.’ She glances at DS Leyton. ‘Setting that aside for a moment, we looked into the incident with the poacher who was burned – remember, that Ruth Robinson related to us?’ (Skelgill appears to nod.) ‘The case was settled out of court. We couldn’t trace the victim – and there are no official records beyond hospital notes that were taken at the time of his admission to A&E. But they are potentially significant. The man had other injuries consistent with having suffered a beating.’
There ensues a silence – but eventually Skelgill speaks.
‘You met him.’
DS Jones understands his shorthand – the suggestion that she would have some insight. She recalls the steely blue eyes beneath the wolfish covetousness.
‘I imagine you wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of him.’
Skelgill gives the slightest nod; but he plays devil’s advocate all the same.
‘If it meant that much not to get caught – why would he take the risk of meeting her at The Partridge?’
DS Jones answers quickly, almost by reflex.
‘Isn’t that part of the fun? The high.’
Skelgill regards her implacably.
She continues, returning his gaze with a hint of insouciance.
‘Kyle Betony saw someone at around ten-thirty p.m. If that was Mrs Smith and he recognised her – or for whatever reason was able to put two and two together – then he might have approached Sir Montague Brash. We know from the hotel guest Brian Cotswold that someone did arrive at about that time of the night. The only witness we have to Sir Montague Brash’s movements during the latter part of the evening is Georgina Graham – and she did leave him alone for a short period at roughly ten thirty.’
‘There’s French doors from the Wythop Restaurant into the kitchen garden. You can get round either side of the building from there.’
It is Skelgill who, perhaps to his colleagues’ surprise, supplies this supporting information.
DS Jones looks encouraged.
‘If you add into the equation Georgina Graham – I mean, that she is Mrs Smith,’ (she looks at Skelgill in a way that acknowledges that this is more of a leap in the dark) ‘then we would have to disregard as false anything she has told us. While I’m pretty certain she can prove she went home at eleven fifteen, she could easily have driven back. But there are caveats. Clearly she was not the person who arrived in a car at ten thirty. Nor would she would cause Kyle Betony any surprise – unless perhaps he saw her heading up the stairs with an overnight bag – something like that.’
They wait, and after a few moments Skelgill speaks again.
‘I let the Chief know about me seeing Brash – and him stonewalling you.’
When he is no more forthcoming, DS Jones seeks reassurance.
‘She wouldn’t tip him off – without telling us first?’
Skelgill instantly shakes his head, his jaw set.
‘But we need to find the woman.’
‘That’s exactly where we came out, Guv.’
It is DS Leyton that interjects – but he signals to DS Jones that he appreciates she has not quite finished her account.
‘As regards the backgrounds of the three women who attended the meeting, nothing particularly controversial has come up. The DAA seems to be running to their satisfaction. Georgina Graham has a longstanding position as Secretary. The Robinsons’ farm gains from a share of permit fees, and Jackie Baker’s guest house attracts angling visitors because of its allocation of fishing rights. They seem content with the level of activity – if they wanted more money, why not actually support Kyle Betony’s scheme to expand permit sales? So it’s harder to see what they might have against him – other than just his nuisance value, and the suggestions they have made that they’re content with the status quo.
‘While we’ve considered Georgina Graham’s probable movements, Ruth Robinson and Jackie Baker we can be less certain about. They left at the same time, ten forty-five, and both drove over Ouse Bridge. Ruth Robinson told us she slept in the spare room, and didn’t wake her husband. Jackie Baker’s return home, we haven’t yet verified. I don’t think we can read too much into these points – but we should just keep them in mind.’
Once again, Skelgill gives a tight-lipped nod.
DS Jones hands over to her fellow sergeant; DS Leyton tentatively clears his throat.
‘You aware of the River Ellen poisoning incident, Guv?’
Skelgill seems mildly affronted by the question.
‘Course I am, Leyton. Killed two thousand wild brownies and set the fishery back a decade.’
DS Leyton taps the side of his nose like a beat copper of old, when asked to reveal some local knowledge. He raises a page from the report.
