Murder at the Bridge (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 20), page 17
‘Want me to ask the others? Saskia’s not on tonight – but I can probably track her down.’
Skelgill nods.
‘Aye – owt you can find out.’
‘Thing is, Danny – any member of staff seeing something – they would have intervened. We lose towels left, right and centre – and those Smiths took a woman’s bathrobe. But in the public areas things are mostly screwed down.’ He gestures in the direction of the missing item. ‘I’d understand that rugby photo – there’s a market for sporting memorabilia. But a local fishing press-cutting. And why would anyone take an old rock door-stop?’
Skelgill grins somewhat ironically.
‘You’d be surprised at how many anglers are closet geologists, Charlie.’
The man looks perplexed – perhaps in case Skelgill is not joking – but now he receives a plaintive entreaty from the bar; the queue has grown and help is needed. He inclines his head and makes a face of apology.
‘I’d better pitch in.’ And he indicates to their drinks. ‘I’ll leave you in peace.’
Skelgill takes a moment to examine the brass screws; the average penknife would do the trick. He pockets them and he and DS Jones resume their seats.
They remain in silence for a minute or two, taking pensive sips of their drinks.
It is DS Jones that speaks first.
‘From what we know – this is where Stephen Flood was sitting – and where Kyle Betony came to join him.’
Skelgill nods but does not reply.
DS Jones continues.
‘And then a what? A fishing article disappears. It seems like a connection.’
Skelgill makes a choking sound. She looks to see him regarding her sideways as he takes a great gulp of beer.
‘There’s something you’re not telling me.’
Skelgill pauses for breath and nods.
‘Is it the stone?’
His answer is to stand and drain the remainder of his pint.
‘Come on lass, drink up.’
DS Jones flashes him a look of alarm.
‘Where are we going?’
‘First stop – the ladies’. Second – Buttermere.’
*
‘We’ll need to have some tea, lass.’
‘You mean – like, dinner?’
Skelgill glances over his shoulder – he is just about to push open the back door of his mother’s house.
‘Aye – whatever.’
‘I don’t mind – although I suppose you could say you’ve already eaten – if you count that cake. If you don’t want to spoil your appetite?’
Skelgill looks like this suggestion does not compute.
But as they enter the old terraced cottage in the growing gloom there is the sense of no one being at home. A faint glow emanates from the kitchen hearth, and a cast-iron pot simmers on the range.
‘She must be round at Renie’s. They’ll be watching Ennerdale and caning the port and lemon.’
Skelgill lifts the lid of the pot and with the spoon that has been used for stirring takes a taste.
DS Jones watches with interest; he seems entirely inured both to the heat of the metal lid and the food itself – until he gives a sudden sharp intake of breath.
‘Hot?’
‘Spicy, aye.’ He puts the lid back in place. ‘She’s discovered chilli powder in her old age. She calls this Texican Hotpot.’
Skelgill makes a sound of further discomfort and moves across to stick his head under the cold tap. He gulps thirstily, and pronounces with some admiration as he comes up for air.
‘That makes the Taj Mahal’s vindaloo taste like korma.’
DS Jones is grinning, shaking her head.
‘Are you going to tell me why we’re here, now?’
He looks uneasy, as if the little pantomime with the food is just to put off the inevitable, whatever that might be.
‘Reet. This way, lass.’
He leads her from the kitchen into a narrow hallway and immediately into a small room on the right. It is a traditional front parlour, set aside for formal use. DS Jones does not have much time to take in her surroundings – there is the sombre ticking of a casement clock – for Skelgill crosses to a walnut sideboard and from its middle drawer brings out a large flat book of the family album type. He places it on the mahogany drop-leaf dining table and turns quickly to a spread that he obviously knows well. He shifts partly aside, but rests the index finger of his left hand upon a press-clipping held in place beneath yellowed cellophane.
DS Jones understands she is to step forward.
‘Alice reminded me of this. That’s why I noticed in the bar.’
DS Jones pores over the article.
The cutting is rather untidily cropped – torn by hand, in fact. There is a headline and two columns of text, and a photograph that looks like it was of a group but now shows only a boy at the end of a row with half an adult at his side. They stand to attention, like sentries with fishing rods for rifles.
‘Is that you?’
Skelgill’s embarrassment now increases.
‘Aye – I were beaky-looking then.’
She chuckles. She leans over to peer more closely.
‘How old were you?’
‘Nine.’
Now she reads aloud.
‘“The Derwentdale Anglers’ Association scored its first-ever victory over local rivals the Allerdale Angling Association in their annual match, staged this year at Bassenthwaite Lake. A last-gasp catch by junior member Daniel Skelgill of Buttermere, a specimen perch of two pounds thirteen ounces taken on a brandling minutes before the hooter, tipped the scales in favour of the jubilant DAA, pictured here.”’
DS Jones hesitates for a moment, and then she looks up at Skelgill.
‘This is what was taken from the inn.’
‘Aye – except in The Partridge it were the full version. The photo of the whole team – not just what me Ma’s ripped out.’
DS Jones looks again at the article; but now it is plain that she is making some calculation.
Skelgill waits patiently for her to pronounce.
‘Kyle Betony recognised someone.’
She looks up again to see he is nodding.
‘Do you know which newspaper this is?’
Skelgill grimaces.
‘The arl lass might know. We didn’t get a paper – happen it were a local freesheet. Most of them have gone bust.’
DS Jones presses a finger on the page of the album.
‘This lists the team line-up.’
She leans closer again and begins to read out the names. Skelgill being on the right of the picture, she ends with “D. Skelgill”.
She regards him hopefully – he understands her unspoken query. But his reply does not reciprocate her optimism.
‘You can see for yourself – I were a bairn. I were hoyed in at the deep end.’
DS Jones grins.
‘It seems you swam.’
Skelgill cannot prevent a modicum of swagger from fleetingly possessing his demeanour. But he does at least move to play down his success, albeit after the fact.
‘Aye, well – it were Bass Lake. My home turf. Some of their lot were fishing with maggots.’
DS Jones declines to advance any debate over the merits of various baits; instead she reverts to the crux of the matter.
‘If not by name – would you know any of them by sight?’
But he shakes his head.
‘I had nowt to do with the team – it were a total one-off for me.’
She nods reflectively.
‘Would the club have a copy – maybe of the photograph? Someone must have supplied it to the newspaper.’
‘I reckon you’re talking Georgina Graham’s department. Secretary keeps the archives.’
There is a note of warning in Skelgill’s tone that DS Jones entirely appreciates; if it suited the woman’s purposes, it would be only too easy for Georgina Graham to report that there is no such item.
They stand in silence for a few moments, both gazing at the press-clipping as if, like a ‘magic eye’ picture, the missing portion of the photograph will materialise and reveal its hidden content. Eventually DS Jones slips her mobile phone from the hip pocket of her jeans.
‘I’ll take a shot of it – maybe we can get an online match.’
Skelgill makes a disapproving growl.
‘Can you miss us out.’
She chuckles.
‘Don’t worry – I shan’t post it on my Insta.’
10. DYNAMITE
Police HQ, Penrith – 11.21 a.m., Monday, 27th September
‘That’s just the right size, Guv.’ DS Leyton weighs the hefty river-pebble in his right hand. ‘It’s smooth – but it’s got enough of a point. What does the Doc reckon?’
Skelgill makes a face that is on the whole disparaging and only a small part optimistic.
‘Hedging his bets.’ He takes a drink from his mug as if to illustrate this concept. ‘The impact area matches up – assuming the actual stone was more or less the same size and shape.’
‘So it ain’t ruled out.’ DS Leyton rehearses a series of aggressive strikes. Then he pronounces more thoughtfully. ‘A geezer?’
Skelgill regards his subordinate without divulging whether or not he agrees with this diagnosis.
‘It were taken from the gents’ – I’ll give you that much.’
DS Leyton nods and contemplates the egg-shaped door-stop. If not perfect, it is certainly an adequate weapon for despatching an unwary opponent.
‘Suggests spur of the moment – don’t you reckon, Guv?’
Now Skelgill narrows his eyes. He has not allowed himself to speculate inordinately since the revelation of the rock. However, he gives a twitch of his head which his sergeant takes as a green light to expound.
‘Betony last seen heading in the direction of the gents’. We know he’s agitated about something. Has a bit of a barney. The other geezer says let’s go outside and discuss it.’ Now he raises the stone. ‘Picks up the nearest weapon. Coshes him from behind.’
Skelgill listens implacably.
‘Reverses up to the side gate – there’s hardly any lighting. And it’s not like Betony was a big bloke – what was he – about nine stone? Lumps him into the boot of the car – dumps him over the bridge. Two minutes – job done.’
There ensues a silence; Skelgill and DS Leyton stare at one another, as if in a game of who will blink first – until they are both distracted by the appearance in the doorway of DS Jones. Her cheeks are flushed and she clutches a sheaf of papers to her breastbone, as if they are of special importance.
But DS Leyton takes the opportunity to restate his case. He addresses DS Jones.
‘I was just saying – if some geezer whacked Betony and drove him to the bridge – he could be back in the time a person might spend in the toilets.’
DS Jones passes between her colleagues and takes her regular seat before the window. She is alert to the possibilities.
‘There was the car that arrived at just after ten-thirty – the driver who was reluctant to get out while the hotel guest was retrieving his pillows. There aren’t many spaces along the front of the inn – yet it was able to park in a vacant one – as if it were returning.’
She intones quite casually, and does not press her point with any insistence, or imploring glance at Skelgill. DS Leyton, however, is nodding with satisfaction.
Skelgill folds his arms onto his desk and rocks forward on his elbows. It is body language that combines the urge to act with self-restraint. But his brow is furrowed; a suggestion that uncertainty still holds the upper hand.
DS Jones now brandishes her papers.
‘This might be something – for your next meeting with the Chief.’
She hands out a stapled set to each of her colleagues. The first page is a print of the photograph she took from the family album at Buttermere. She is about to speak when DS Leyton interjects.
‘S’cuse me, Emma – but – this article reminds me. I should say this first.’ He tugs his notebook from his jacket pocket and quickly thumbs through it. ‘Here.’ He reads silently for a moment and then regards his colleagues, his gaze settling upon Skelgill. ‘When Jay Chaudry told me what Betony had said – I took it that the controversial point was the merger. So that’s what I conveyed to you, right?’ Skelgill nods, accepting this logic. DS Leyton raises the notebook and prods at it with a chunky index finger. ‘But Chaudry preceded that by saying Betony had got the idea because he’d discovered there used to be a fishing match between your lot, the DAA, and the AAA.’
There is the impression that DS Leyton feels somewhat remiss for this late entry. But Skelgill merely snaps out a question.
‘When did he say it?’
DS Leyton checks his notes.
‘This was at the dinner. Jay Chaudry was the only one who could remember the conversation.’
‘The only one prepared to admit it.’
Skelgill’s caveat is swift.
But now DS Jones has a point to add.
‘Remember – one of the waitresses told us Kyle Betony was late arriving at the dining table. But we know he left home early to get to The Partridge.’ She displays the partial image from the newspaper. ‘Maybe he was in the bar beforehand and saw this?’
Skelgill seems to accept that he is the oracle as far as the legendary fishing match is concerned.
‘It’s not widely known – Alice remembered – and Jim Hartley would recall it.’ He taps on his own copy of the clipping, before him on the desk. ‘I knew this were on the wall – because I’m in it. But you’d have to go out of your way to notice it amongst all the gubbins – it was in cobweb corner.’
His phrase is suitably graphic, if unfair to charlady Edna.
More silence ensues. But DS Leyton can contain himself for only so long.
‘It fits again, Guv. Betony’s gone and said something, ain’t he? And he’s trod on someone’s toes.’ He too displays the page in question. ‘And that person’s even sneaked back and removed the evidence.’
The logic is powerful – but clearly so is the weight of conjecture that Skelgill in particular feels to be circling their little clique. He shakes his head slowly; but it is an act of ruefulness rather than outright rejection of his sergeant’s proposition.
DS Jones, having patiently stayed her own news, sees that the moment is opportune. She reaches across and turns the first page of Skelgill’s copy of her report. She indicates a column of sub-headings, with annotations alongside each – at a glance several are marked “deceased”.
‘These are your erstwhile teammates.’
Skelgill glowers at the list. There are seven names, his own omitted.
He casts a sideways glance at DS Jones.
‘As you can see – four of them are no longer with us. Two are in their late seventies and have left the district.’ There is a sense that she speaks with intentional understatement. ‘The last one is interesting.’
She sees that both her colleagues are staring at the name, “T. Jubb”.
‘PTO.’
They do as urged – the final page is a copy of an official report and is covered in dense type; Skelgill immediately sinks back into his chair. DS Jones grins and begins to recite – it is plain she knows the content – for she paraphrases with ease.
‘Jubb is an unusual name. I can’t find any others in the county. But twenty-four years ago a Toby Jubb from Carlisle – and aged twenty-four at the time – was involved in a car accident in which his newly wed wife was the only passenger. He was driving a red Vauxhall Vectra. He swerved to avoid a deer in the Whinlatter forest and plunged off the road and hit a tree. He was thrown clear but knocked unconscious. When he came round, the car was engulfed in flames. His wife perished. He was badly burned trying to rescue her. It is possible that she was killed by the impact of the crash – she was certainly insensible, and would have been overcome by smoke before the fire took hold.’
DS Jones pauses to allow her colleagues to envisage fully the picture she paints.
‘It was considered whether Toby Jubb should be charged with any offence – right up to causing death by dangerous driving, for which he was initially cautioned. The investigators concluded that he was travelling too fast for the conditions, but it was a sixty-limit road and he was within that. Under the circumstances – the loss of his wife – the CPS eventually decided it was inappropriate and the charges were dropped.’
DS Jones glances up at DS Leyton to see that he is gazing at Skelgill with a puzzled expression. When she looks at Skelgill she realises she has lost his attention entirely. Nostrils literally twitching, he is staring at the open door with concentration that she has only seen from the opposite end of his boat when he detects a bite and is preparing to strike.
And suddenly he does strike.
In a blur he leaps from his chair and launches himself through the open door.
There is a loud exclamation – a male voice – not Skelgill’s – and Skelgill backs into his office wrestling a struggling hooded tracksuit-clad figure.
‘Skel!’ (There is an accompanying entreaty, less printable. FFS, the digital version.)
The voice belongs to DI Alec Smart.
Skelgill – evidently now realising – lets him go, but not without a shove against the wall.
DS Leyton has risen; DS Jones watches on, wide-eyed.
DI Smart looks like he is expecting a duffing. He shrinks against the wall and raises both hands.
But his survival instincts kick in, and he swiftly turns his wrong-doing into a virtue.
‘A fine welcome.’
He folds back his hood and straightens the garment. It is apparent that the sporty outfit he wears – designer trainers included – is brand new. He makes eye contact with DS Jones.
‘I’ve only come to ask Emma what time’s the fitness class.’ He smirks, his weaselly features sharpening; but his tone remains excessively injured. ‘If I’d wanted judo I’d have signed up for it.’
Skelgill has slowly retired to his seat. DS Jones can see from his taut demeanour that he is still in a state of battle. When it might actually be appropriate to offer, if not an apology, then at least an explanation for his manhandling of a fellow officer, she knows that none will be forthcoming. Were Skelgill seeking an excuse for his precipitousness, it would not be unreasonable to suggest that DI Smart had been mistaken for some interloper who had absconded from the custody suite, hoping to make good their escape along the ground-floor corridor. But Skelgill is fizzing, and incapable of speech – which is never a good sign for an opponent.
