Murder at the Bridge (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 20), page 19
Skelgill grimaces. He is thinking about the allegorical lecture courtesy of Alice Wright-Fotheringham – the tale of the fictional detective – and his bravado that caused an unnecessary death.
DS Leyton swings in behind the central proposition, the brief flirtation with the notion that Kyle Betony could have been Toby Jubb now set aside.
‘So what are we saying, Guv – in case Jubb’s got someone in his sights – we’d better be on our toes?’
‘I don’t know about toes, Leyton – but from first thing tomorrow we’re treading on eggshells.’
11. NEWS
Police HQ, Penrith – 7.44 a.m., Tuesday, 28th September
‘Bang go the eggshells, Guv.’
DS Leyton’s tone carries a mixture of resignation and trepidation as he lays a copy of a crisp half-folded newspaper before Skelgill and simultaneously deposits two mugs clasped by their handles in his other fist and takes one for himself. Skelgill’s gaze reluctantly shifts to the periodical, the Westmorland Gazette. However, he picks up his tea and drinks without testing the temperature. When he does not speak, DS Leyton weighs in again.
‘Looks like Emma’s little pal Minto’s been up to his tricks.’
Skelgill frowns. He dislikes the description but the news item has to trump his personal feelings. He is obliged to squint – right now his office is gloomy; heavy rain falls silently beyond the glass; though it is well after sunrise, they could do with lights on.
The headline leaves nothing to the imagination:
EXCLUSIVE: OUSE BRIDGE DEATH BANGKOK DRUGS LINK
He has to admit that if Minto has no other use on this earth he communicates well. And there is a sub-heading:
DECEASED LOCAL BUSINESSMAN SUSPECTED GO-BETWEEN FOR FAR EAST HEROIN SYNDICATE
Skelgill’s expression darkens as he scans the body copy.
Kyle Betony, 45, Cockermouth resident and self-employed financial adviser, recently found dead in suspicious circumstances in the River Derwent, was connected to an opiate-smuggling ring with its origins in Thailand, it has been exclusively revealed to the Gazette. It is alleged that Mr Betony fell afoul of a midnight rendezvous at the isolated rural bridge.
Now he produces some colourful local dialect that DS Leyton comprehends only in sentiment. He pushes back into his sprung seat as if to distance himself from the article.
‘It’s got Smart’s name written all over it.’
DS Leyton has read the piece in full.
‘It says a confidential source in the criminal underworld.’
Skelgill scoffs, almost choking on his tea.
‘Aye, that’ll be right.’
But no sooner has he said this than he raises a warning hand – to silence any rejoinder from his sergeant.
In the corridor voices slowly approach – or at least – one male voice that is regaling another person.
They listen. It is the distinctive nasal drawl of DI Alec Smart – and it becomes evident that he is speaking to DS Jones.
‘My money’s on the Manchester connection – plain as day. Gear coming up the ship canal right into Salford Quays. It’s where your man Jay Chaudry lives. He’s probably a user himself. He’ll crack under pressure.’ DI Smart gives a wheezy laugh. ‘Get your glad rags packed, Emma. I’ll sort it with the Chief. Escape the country bumpkins for a few days, eh?’
They come abreast of the door.
Skelgill swipes the newspaper from his desk and holds it out of sight.
DS Jones makes no pretence that she dives for the safety of Skelgill’s office, flashing glances of discontent at her colleagues. She is wearing close-fitting yoga pants and a matching top that are revealing of her figure, and she yanks a sweatshirt from her sports holdall and, seated, pulls it over her head and down as far as it will go. She shows all the signs of having been unwillingly accosted.
DI Smart – despite his new training gear – looks uncharacteristically dishevelled, his lean face beetroot red and his hair plastered down with perspiration. He lingers at the threshold – perhaps just cognisant of his previous roughing-up.
‘Alright, cock?’ He addresses Skelgill without making eye contact. ‘I was just showing the younger ones how it’s done.’ He cackles, and reaches to pat the seated DS Leyton on the shoulder, and winks at DS Jones as he turns away. ‘Course – I’m one of the younger ones – hah! Sound.’
And he leaves them.
Skelgill is suitably fuming – even in the truncated salvo is a series of jibes to rile him – not least the parting shot.
Sharing a birth year with Skelgill, DS Leyton takes up the offence.
‘He’s only two years younger than us, ain’t he, Guv?’
Before Skelgill can reply DS Jones moves to pour a little oil upon troubled waters.
‘I thought he was going to die. I can’t see him coming back to that class.’
Her male associates regard her a little expectantly. But she says no more, and reaches back to pull a band from her hair. She shakes out her fair tresses. Sportswear aside, she shows little sign of having exercised.
Skelgill produces the newspaper and slides it across his desk.
‘You might have no choice.’
He has skipped a couple of sentences; but she nods slowly as she reads, lines creasing her brow. She understands her probable fate.
DS Leyton offers some commiseration.
‘Guvnor reckons it’s a plant. DI Smart. He’s leaked it so the Chief has no choice but to open up the Manchester inquiry.’
DS Jones ponders over the fine print.
‘At least there’s no mention of Manchester in here – nor Jay Chaudry. It’s all based on Kyle Betony’s Thai connections.’
She looks at Skelgill – his expression is pained – she speaks imploringly.
‘In a way, isn’t there a silver lining – if we move fast?’
Skelgill seems conflicted, as though in part he grasps her meaning – but suffers also some inner resistance.
DS Leyton is more unequivocal. He turns to Skelgill.
‘Anything that beats DI Smart, surely, Guv?’
Skelgill indicates with a jerk of his head to DS Jones that she should explain.
‘The Chief has given us until tomorrow, right?’
Skelgill gives a curt nod.
DS Jones raises the journal.
‘Surely this is our excuse to speak to the main suspects? We act like we’re investigating Kyle Betony for drugs. We continue to treat them as witnesses.’
DS Leyton claps his hands together.
‘Sounds good to me, Emma.’ He looks to Skelgill for a response. ‘Saves your worry about spooking one of ’em, Guv.’
Skelgill certainly is conflicted. Sure, there is the appeal of thwarting Alex Smart (in more ways than one), but the idea that a second round of interviews might bear fruit does not convince him. A witness engaged under such circumstances is at best a fight with gloves on. And there is always the danger of landing a punch that rouses rather than stuns. It might just provoke the adverse reaction he fears.
DS Jones is first to read his reluctance. She knows him well enough to understand his ambivalence; there is a distant look in his eyes. She has watched him, aboard his boat, becalmed, surveying Bass Lake, absorbing those subliminal signs that will coalesce and lead him to where it is most propitious to fish. There is no gain in casting into barren waters; and right now he does not look ready to drop anchor.
She offers a concession.
‘Guv – do you want me to contact Kendall Minto – to find out exactly what he knows?’
Skelgill emerges from his little trance. He folds his arms. His gaze drifts across to DS Jones, though he seems to be contemplating the rain that falls beyond her; the wind has strengthened and rivulets are running down the pane.
‘Aye. Speak to Minto – see what’s behind this story.’
Then Skelgill turns to DS Leyton.
‘Leyton. I’m not holding out any hopes – but while we’re waiting for Interpol – like you said, the photograph would be a game-changer. You call on Georgina Graham. Don’t give her any warning. Ask to see the archives. She must keep them at her place – there’s no base for the DAA beyond that they meet at The Partridge. Don’t mention what you’re actually looking for.’
DS Leyton looks just slightly panicked. The task seems something of a poisoned chalice. But he knows it is no good asking what he should say he is looking for. He swallows.
‘Righto, Guv – I’ll do me level best.’
DS Jones is regarding Skelgill questioningly.
‘Guv – do you still think Georgina Graham had some role?’
Skelgill returns her scrutiny, but his eyes still have something of a vacant cast, despite that he has dispensed orders.
‘I’ll maybe know more when I’ve seen Brash.’
She is a little taken aback.
‘Sir Montague? But – he saw you – at The Partridge.’
Skelgill shrugs.
‘I’ll have to take a chance on it. He only glanced at me. I’ll play it chummy. I’ll tell him straight out that I’m in the DAA – that we’ve crossed paths once or twice without speaking. I probably know Jim Hartley and Alice Wright-Fotheringham better than he does. Even if he recognises me, he’ll think I’m in his camp – that I’ve come to brush it under the carpet.’
DS Jones does not hide her alarm. Despite his angling credentials, she doubts that Skelgill will pull off such optimistic subtlety – she has been subject to the penetrating intelligence of Sir Montague Brash. And as to what he might discover that will move them forward, that is difficult to envisage.
She casts a worried glance at DS Leyton, but he merely twitches his shoulders in time-honoured fashion.
Skelgill, however, seems to understand that he should make some form of valedictory pronouncement. He checks his wristwatch.
‘See where we’re all up to at about eleven. We’ll meet somewhere in the middle.’ His expression stern, he looks at each of his colleagues in turn. His gaze lingers on DS Jones. ‘That still gives us plenty of time to try out your silver lining.’
12. LEADEN SKIES
Morning, Tuesday, 28th September
BRASH HALL, 9.19 a.m.
‘May I help you?’
Skelgill starts.
As always in heavy rain, he feels invisible, knowing that most mortals do not venture out. Though he is not best equipped for these conditions; just a thin shell cagoule that affords some protection for his upper half, and he does not even have the hood raised – another of his mores, that makes him less likely to be caught unawares.
Yet he has been caught unawares.
For a second he continues to peer into the passenger window of the vehicle which he has parked beside. It is a smart Land Rover Defender 110 in Coniston green. His arrival at Brash Hall has brought him past the long seemingly vacant sandstone frontage and round into a substantial cobbled stable yard. The Defender bristles with extras – a winch, a snorkel, roof-mounted spotlights – it is a machine as far from his financial reach as ownership of the great Georgian pile itself; the registration plate alone probably cost more than his annual salary – MTY 1 – leaving little doubt over to whom it belongs. But without any sense of envy he has afforded himself a look to admire whatever interior modifications there might be. The key has been left in the ignition – a country habit and a statement to boot. Besides, the car is being watched.
He pulls away, leaving a distinctive nose-print on the glass, for the forensic team should he be abducted, dismembered and fed to the pigs.
But kidnap seems unlikely. The voice is friendly, well spoken, and female.
It emanates from a section of what is a converted coach-house that has its frontage replaced with a large window from waist level up to the stone lintel; framed in the open doorway a slender young woman. Of about medium height, shoulder-length blonde hair and regular features, she regards him with an enigmatic smile and dark eyes that convey additional curiosity.
‘Pandora!’
The woman’s exclamation is not an invocation of spirits but a vain entreaty to an elderly overweight chocolate Labrador retriever that slips out from beside her and hip-sways towards Skelgill. Instinctively he drops to one knee to intercept the creature – it seems affable enough – but it performs an about-turn when no treat is forthcoming and the realisation of the downpour sinks in. Skelgill remains in his knight-elect pose. He notes that the woman wears stylish Dubarry boots and a Derby tweed skirt; but just a Tattersall shirt, and with arms wrapped protectively she is patently unwilling to step out into the rain.
‘Would you like to come into the warm?’
Her offer confirms his assessment; for his part, he does not consider it to be cold; the prevailing Atlantic depression is typically mild and humid. But evidently his reception of the dog has seen him through the first stage of gatekeeping. He supposes she might think he is a sales rep – though neither his outdoor apparel nor his well-travelled shooting brake would really pass muster; more likely a tradesman with some line in country sports.
He decides he ought to show his credentials.
But she is trusting and before he can retrieve such she turns and leaves him to close the door.
‘Coffee? It is freshly percolated.’
‘Aye – please.’
He finds himself answering in the affirmative despite that he does not fancy coffee.
As he waits, he casts about. The room is not what he would expect of a traditional estate office – old oak and worn leather; the smell of tobacco and fish and feathers and dogs; paraphernalia, tack, tackle and bills and reminders tacked to an overflowing noticeboard. There is little of the sort. It is modern, minimalistic, more like the reception area of an upmarket legal practice. On the woman’s desk is just a small silver MacBook, the latest model iPhone, and some mail that she is mid-dealing with. A further internal door at the rear is closed. To one side, where she has moved, upon a cabinet stand creamy white lilies in a vase; perhaps the sight of them alerts Skelgill to a vaguely familiar fragrance – a flash of something uncertain – and oddly redolent of Parma Violets and the memory of childhood, those disliked purple sweets that he occasionally came by, that were just slightly better than no sweets at all.
Beside the vase the coffee pot is plugged into a wall socket, and there are the other accessories, and some newspapers and magazines laid out, perhaps for visitors’ convenience.
‘Have a seat, please.’
She speaks without looking back; Skelgill senses she is unfazed that he might be appraising her form; her outfit is closely tailored and her figure worthy of such self-assurance.
‘Milk and sugar?’
Skelgill hesitates, but ends up repeating himself.
‘Aye – please.’
He will have to take it as it comes.
The woman places a stylish cup and saucer before him; does he imagine that she leans closer than is entirely necessary? In her disturbing of the air he detects a comingling of aromas, the cloying violet and the rich coffee.
She rounds to her side with a drink for herself. The Lab lies beneath the desk.
Now she sits and carefully brushes back her hair with a small sweeping movement at her temples; it might almost be an act designed to draw his gaze to her own.
‘What can I do for you?’
Skelgill feels awkward in displaying his warrant card – but she seems to react only with intrigue, the chestnut eyes questioning.
Now he remembers his fleeting sighting of the young woman on horseback.
‘Madam you’re – er, Miss Brash – Sir Montague’s daughter?’
Her voice is not deep – indeed light and girlish – but now she gives an involuntary throaty laugh.
She opens a slim drawer at her side and produces a calling card.
‘I am Fenella Mansfield – Sir Montague’s personal assistant.’
Skelgill is tongue-tied – but she quickly reads his misery.
‘Inspector, why would I take offence to be mistaken for an eighteen-year-old girl?’
He resorts to drinking from his cup, when a misguided compliment is surely in the offing. But he realises now that she is at very least of an age with DS Jones – perhaps even closer to his own.
He is not where he had anticipated being. Here to interview Sir Montague Brash, instead he is settled in the company of the landowner’s attractive PA. She does not make the obvious suggestion that she will telephone through to her employer. Yet nor does he move to state his specific purpose.
The chair is comfortable and the room undoubtedly warm; there must be a concealed heat source. And though it is not cold outside the downpour to which he was a few minutes ago inured now seems like a prohibitive barrier. And there is the cloying, heady, mildly intoxicating scent of violet. Together these sensations contribute to a sense of well-being – that he has arrived for some appointment and is ready to let others take charge. He is compliantly hijacked.
‘Would you like to take off your waterproof?’
His inquisitor seems to appreciate his predicament.
But now he experiences a small flicker of resistance.
‘Aye – well – I hadn’t better hang about.’
He takes a further drink, which perhaps only serves to emphasise his ambivalence.
‘I expect you are here to see Sir Montague?’
He wonders why she is the one asking questions.
He summons further resources, his better judgement battling with less sentient forces. But now he must improvise. His half-arsed spiel intended for Sir Montague Brash is no longer valid.
‘Aye – I were just passing. There’s a little bit of news – concerning the incident by the Derwent.’ He holds back to gauge her reaction, but she merely bows her head in understanding – and that he should continue. ‘I just wanted to bring him up to speed.’
Fenella Mansfield exhibits no trace of guardedness or suspicion. Nor signs of indifference or contempt. And yet there is a certain professional detachment from what might be considered a matter for commiseration, however indirect.
