Murder at the Bridge (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 20), page 15
‘Exhibit number one. Stephen Flood. Area Supervisor, Water Quality. It turns out that our Mr Flood is mentioned in despatches. He was over his head in it. And he didn’t come up smelling of roses, neither.’
He has Skelgill’s attention.
‘To cut a long story short – and you probably know much of this, Guv – there was a pollution incident. Silage effluent escaped into the water course. The farm – industrial-scale contract operation – tried to claim it was a one-off leak. But it turns out it had been a systematic thing – they’d got away with it for a couple of years at a lesser concentration. The Environment Agency investigators suspected something fishy – there would have been regular inspections, which suggests someone in authority turned a blind eye. The spotlight fell on Stephen Flood, senior inspector for that area. In the end they couldn’t prove anything, and the farm took the rap. They were handed a fine, and Flood escaped with a slap on the wrist. The local press reported that the fine was small beer compared to the money the farm must have saved, and the insinuation was that someone took a bung.’
DS Leyton pauses, both for breath and to take a drink of his tea, and to allow Skelgill to absorb the implications; the latter sits stern-faced, however.
‘Point being, Guv – looks like our man Flood’s got a skeleton rattling in his closet – and it being angling related it might be just the sort of thing that Betony would come across. He was obviously inquisitive by nature – and didn’t he tell Jay Chaudry that he’d been doing his homework – which was what had prompted him to come up with the idea of the merger?’ The question is rhetorical, and DS Leyton continues swiftly. ‘Now – if you had to ask me, of the geezers I interviewed, who’s the likely nasty piece of work – then Flood stands out like a sore thumb. He’s hard-faced in looks and manner – and we know that Betony was hounding him on Saturday night. He admitted as much and that he wasn’t happy about it.’
Skelgill shifts in his seat, as if to object, but again DS Leyton keeps up his narrative.
‘Yeah – I know – that arguably works in his favour – but the others knew as well, so he could hardly say otherwise. But what he also admitted was that he left at exactly the same time that Betony seems to have seen someone – and disappeared. We’ve only got Flood’s word that he went to the gents’ and that Betony was gone when he got back to his table in the bar. What if Flood had left directly from the gents’ – out through the garden exit – and then Betony followed him? Or vice-versa, even.’
Now there is a silence; and an air of plausibility. However, DS Leyton presses home his point, for Skelgill always keeps a little scepticism tucked away like a spare cigarette behind his ear.
‘The thing is, Guv – something like this must have happened.’
Any counter that Skelgill might bring to bear is confounded. In these plain terms, his sergeant is right. Kyle Betony slipped from the inn while his associates were all going about their own business. Yet surely one of them must have been involved. Who – exactly where – and how – these are questions that remain tantalisingly beyond the detectives’ grasp. He nods for DS Leyton to continue.
His sergeant again appears to confer silently with his female colleague before he begins afresh.
‘Righto – Jay Chaudry, then. On the face of it – a decent cove – a bit of a mini-philanthropist. He seems to be trying hard to ingratiate himself with the locals – and he’s not been shy of opening his wallet. The others speak well enough of him. But how about this – it’s what Emma was about to say when I interrupted – unfortunately, this is the thing that might play into DI Smart’s hands.’
DS Leyton seems for a moment reluctant to expound.
‘Out with it, Leyton.’
His sergeant seems to steel himself.
‘He’s built a successful tech company – but that stands on the foundations of several bankruptcies and phoenixes. Okay – that’s not illegal, or unusual – especially in IT where it’s all boom and bust. But his current incorporation is involved in litigation with Greater Manchester Police. His company has developed a secure communications app that’s being used by – among others – drug dealers. On the advice of its solicitors the firm has refused to divulge the encryption code – using the argument that hundreds of other bona fide organisations that bought it would be compromised.’
Skelgill looks like he has put two and two together, but DS Leyton spells it out, raising the fingers of one hand in quick succession.
‘Manchester – drugs – Chaudry – Lakes connection – too good to be true for DI Smart. He’ll be all over it like a rash, Guv. He’ll pin Betony’s death on Chaudry before you can say Jack Robinson.’ In a sign of frustration, DS Leyton lays his papers on his lap and with both hands tousles his hair, rendering the proverbial ‘hedge backwards’ look. He sighs. ‘Thing is – I don’t reckon we can ignore it, neither. What I’ve told you is public information – it’s all reported online. Betony could easily have dug it up. He was a financial advisor – I wouldn’t have been surprised if he researched the backgrounds of people he came into contact with.’
Skelgill is listening pensively. He places a palm flat upon the report on his desk and turns to DS Jones.
‘I take it this is just a rough draft?’
She nods urgently.
‘Purely work in progress. I don’t think we need to load anything onto the system until we begin to approach the committee members again.’
Skelgill folds his arms and exhales broodingly.
Surely DI Smart cannot really have struck a seam. He must be operating in the dark – guessing – or, as DS Leyton has put it, cherry-picking from their preliminary report. But now there is a limit to which they can investigate this new Manchester angle without informing the Chief. And she would be inclined to hand it to DI Smart, along with DS Jones. Her job is to get from A to B by the fastest, most efficient route – not to make it a favourable ride for a journeyman like himself.
DS Leyton seems to read his thoughts.
‘Guv – I’m not saying there’s something in what DI Smart’s come up with. It’s like a TV crime drama – a deadly double-cross on the bridge under the cover of darkness. But hype aside – Chaudry was left alone in the Snug for the time it took Anthony Goodman to fetch their drinks. He could easily have nipped out of the front door without being seen – and the time was ten thirty. Later – at just after eleven – he left on his own – also unwitnessed, as far we know.’
DS Leyton waits, but when there are no further comments he turns the page.
‘Last of my bunch – Anthony Goodman. Like I said – he’s a cheerful sort – tries to please – seems perfectly above board. But there was a bit of a scandal a few years back. A resident had changed their will at the eleventh hour in favour of the care home. The relatives believed she would never have done it. When the Care Quality Commission investigated they found at least two other instances. Now, there was no suggestion of impropriety. No personal connection or benefit to Goodman. And it does happen – some people are left alone by their relatives and decide they want to bequeath to those who’ve treated them well. But he’s Director of Finance, and it was on his watch. His name was in the press. An article by our old pal Minto, no less.’ DS Leyton glances at DS Jones, but she keeps her gaze lowered. ‘Once again, it’s all public information that Betony could have found on the internet. And I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s why Goodman’s girlfriend was so touchy – she’s concerned about his medical condition and she don’t want these old coals raked over, if they’ve caused him grief once before. That might not have bothered Betony.’
DS Leyton glances at his fellow sergeant, as if this latter point has been the subject of specific debate – and now there is tacit agreement to share their suspicions with Skelgill.
‘As Emma touched upon, Guv – what no one on the committee really wants to admit to – is the suggestion that Betony was more than just pushy. What if he weren’t averse to digging up a bit of dirt? His regular MO – to win friends and influence people. Find their Achilles’ heel. He was clearly ambitious – wanting to make his mark on the DAA. Twist a few arms, get some wins under his belt. Claim the credit and stand for election for one of the bigger jobs. One way or another, that kind of behaviour could put someone’s nose out of joint.’
DS Leyton methodically folds the cover over his copy of the report; he regards Skelgill earnestly.
Skelgill rocks a little from side to side, as if buffeted by an unseen wind, but without revealing which way it blows.
‘You’ve been busy.’
When his tone – using such words – might ordinarily be sarcastic, it is possible to draw from his observation the semblance of a compliment, that his team have done a thorough job in unearthing possible leads in trying circumstances. However, he rests in contemplative silence, exhibiting neither marked enthusiasm nor outright despondency. In his mind’s eye, however, there plays out a most peculiar daydream. Where the old coaching inn ought to stand against the rising wooded fellside, it is as if he faces a wild bank that is excavated in places, small entrances recently dug, well trodden and marked by fresh spoor. But which of these holds their quarry? Does he bite into the mushroom and take his chance? To venture randomly down a particular rabbit hole is a risk in itself; to become lost in the dark twisting labyrinth of a warren would be doubly foolhardy.
9. WONDERING WITH ALICE
Bassenthwaite Lake – 5.38 p.m., Saturday 25th September
‘I should say that actually catching a fish is rather like the cherry on top of a cake, wouldn’t you agree, Daniel?’
Skelgill looks distinctly uncomfortable with this notion. He has in one hand a piece of the plain but delicious home-baked ginger cake that his angling companion has supplied. After a few moments’ consideration, he offers a reluctant compromise.
‘Aye – maybe the icing.’
Alice Wright-Fotheringham gives a knowing chuckle.
‘Do I take it that your competitive spirit is undampened?’
‘We’ve still time, if you like?’
‘I think my aged wrists have had enough for one afternoon. Your plugging method is demanding.’
Skelgill frowns.
‘It’s not often the paintbrush draws a blank. I’ll give you the pool cue, next time.’ He refers to his improvised lures, which dangle from the pike rods that extend from the stern of the rowing boat, beached a few yards along the shore from where they sit. He tilts back his head and examines the sky; there is high cloud of indeterminate form, beginning to reflect hints of evening. ‘This high pressure – it can play tricks on the fish – interferes with their lateral lines – they don’t seem to recognise the vibrations as a sign of distress.’
He senses that the retired lawyer and judge is examining him as though he might almost be alluding to his own condition; a state of being partially enfeebled. He resolves not to appear downcast. Besides – he would fish on. It is a long-promised expedition – albeit that she has had to call to remind him. And then he had suspected she was just a little peeved that he had not been to interview her about the present investigation into Kyle Betony and the DAA.
‘There are times when the catching of fish spoils an angling expedition. A rude interruption of what can be a transcendental experience.’
Skelgill looks a bit baffled – does she suggest that this might have been one such event? To his mind, the time has passed fitfully, as he has manoeuvred from place to place in search of some action. He would feel more revitalised had they wetted the landing net, and that it was hanging out to dry. He gazes pensively across the silvery meniscus; at roughly half way there is the inverted skyline of Sale Fell, curiously distorted by invisible undulations in the lake surface. A couple of migratory black terns dip for fry, and he wonders what they might be feeding upon.
‘This is Scarness Bay, am I right?’
Skelgill is jolted from his empty reverie.
‘Aye – it is.’
‘I must enquire of Jim about the etymology. I would have thought the Vikings were within his ambit; their time here was medieval, was it not?’
Now Skelgill turns upon the distinguished elderly lady an expression of more complete bewilderment – that this could possibly be a question intended for him. However, she regards him searchingly – and with an effort he hews a reply from the abandoned quarry of his historical knowledge.
‘Arthur Hope reckons the Herdwicks have been here above a thousand years. They say they came with the Vikings.’
‘It conjures an image that rather belies their macho reputation.’
It could almost be a mischievous remark, and Skelgill feels a blush on his cheeks. Unsure of how to reply, he stretches forward with an involuntary groan and gives his Kelly kettle a shake. There is a modest sloshing sound.
‘I can put on another mash.’
Alice Wright-Fotheringham seems to understand his diplomacy. She raises her tin mug to indicate it is not empty.
‘You have what is left. I should probably get back soon. I have to pick up Justitia from the vet – she has an ingrowing dewclaw. The dog, that is.’
Skelgill cannot suppress a short laugh at the unexpected quip. He notes a sparkle in the still-vital pale blue eyes.
‘Good luck with your bank balance.’
‘Oh, I believe the insurance covers it as standard – rather like a cracked windshield on a car.’
Skelgill makes a face that is revealing of some failing on his part in this regard.
Again Alice Wright-Fotheringham is sensitive to his predicament.
‘Cleopatra is well, I trust?’
But Skelgill remains just a tad on the defensive.
‘She’s with next door. It’s her second home. They spoil her rotten.’
‘I hear she made another arrest.’
Skelgill has taken a drink from his mug and now almost spits out his tea – but he emerges grinning – for he gets that humour is intended.
‘She’s daft as a brush. Thinks everyone’s her marra. She wouldn’t know Snow White from Dick Turpin. But flattens them, all the same.’
‘Yes – Jim was telling me – the Canine Cannonball. I suppose it avoids the wrong person being bitten – when a convivial head-butt achieves the same effect.’
‘Comes in mighty handy.’
‘And yet Jim was saying she behaves impeccably whenever you visit.’
‘Aye, that’s because he’s always got a tray of scones on the go.’
The woman regards Skelgill as though she is thinking it is likely not just the dog.
‘Nevertheless, a feather in your cap.’
Skelgill seems reluctant to bask in any such praise.
‘You’re only as good as your next case. When the powers that be have the memory span of goldfish.’
He picks up a pebble and flicks it into the shallows. It must land amidst a shoal of fry, setting off a swishing panicked chain-reaction. There is a small hiatus as they watch the ripples extend and fade.
‘Do I deduce that you face some challenge with the present case?’
Skelgill throws another, larger stone – an act of some resignation. He simultaneously exhales in frustration.
‘Aye – a colleague of mine. Some story he’s fed to the Chief. That I’m too close to see the wood for the trees. Wants to jump in with his size twelves.’
But Alice Wright-Fotheringham – a long career of prosecuting behind her – is far too shrewd not to see through his superficial excuse.
‘This is hardly witness tampering, Daniel. Show me the rule that says how evidence must be collected. If you draw the inside lane it is your prerogative to run in it.’
Skelgill nods ruefully. That he is part of the fabric of the land is, in his mind, undoubtedly a strength – and his wise companion seems to be reflecting this view. Moreover, if anyone were to tear up the rules it would be Smart – who would in a heartbeat resort to thumbscrews, lies and deviousness to achieve his ends – and who, as an outsider, bears no burden of loyalty to the community and no qualms about laying waste to all in his path, nor the destruction and resentment that would lie scattered in his wake.
Skelgill gets a sudden flash of clarity – that Smart might either solve it completely, or completely queer their pitch – and he is not sure which he dislikes the most.
Alice Wright-Fotheringham interrupts his thoughts.
‘You are right to be judicious in your approach. It reminds me of when Mrs McGinty died.’
‘Come again?’
Is this some infamous felony he has completely forgotten – or perhaps one drawn from her extensive personal canon of case law?
‘Agatha Christie – surely you have read it?’
Skelgill cannot help digging the beginnings of a small hole for himself.
‘Er – there’s so many – I struggle to remember. Er … Miss Marple –’
‘It was Poirot – but an uncharacteristic authorial flaw if you ask me. The great detective arrives at the village broadcasting to all and sundry that he knows ‘whodunit’ – when in fact he has no idea – and hey presto there’s another murder as the killer panics to cover their tracks.’
With a prosecutorial flourish of one hand, she rests her case.
There ensues another silence while she allows Skelgill to process the aphorism. But she clearly senses that he is willing to talk. Eager, perhaps, though he will not admit it.
‘You have enough to be suspicious of foul play?’
But Skelgill begins with a sharp intake of breath in lieu of explicit self-reproach.
‘We’ve got no suspect – we’ve got no crime scene. But one minute Kyle Betony’s there – the next he vanishes into thin air. He washes up at the Colonel’s Pool with an injury that could hardly be self-inflicted.’
‘Then you are right to speak to me.’
Skelgill regards her with a look of surprise.
But now she rows back a little. She holds up a palm.
‘I mean rather than keep me at arm’s length out of misguided loyalty or lip service to police protocol. And it is true – neither Jim nor I were there at the crucial time. I have little to add that is top of mind – but if you were to prompt me, who knows?’
