Murder at the Bridge (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 20), page 20
‘He isn’t here today – but I can certainly pass on any message.’ And now she surprises Skelgill. Like a girl in a bar might share a confidence with a friend she leans forward and stretches out her hands, one flat over the other, her fingers ringless. Her shirt is not fully buttoned and a scarlet shoulder strap is revealed to Skelgill before he can make the eye contact that is almost equally disconcerting. Her smile is coy. ‘If I can be trusted.’
Skelgill feels unnerved, though he fights not to show it. The heat is becoming more intense and a bead of sweat trickles disconcertingly down his spine. He cannot tell if his urge is to recoil or just the opposite. For a moment the room seems to swirl and he suffers an uncomfortable sense of suffocation – and in grasping for something tangible he resorts after all to a version of his poorly planned patter.
‘I’m a member of the Derwentdale Anglers’ Association myself. There was some concern – given the timing of Mr Betony’s death – that there could have been a connection.’
Fenella Mansfield’s eyes have become large dark pools.
‘There has been a development?’
Confronted with the opportunity, Skelgill discovers himself unwilling to relay what he deems to be a fabrication by DI Alec Smart. He hears his voice, curiously disembodied, trotting out a platitude.
‘It’s looking like there’s an alternative explanation.’
The young woman’s eyes seem to sparkle now.
‘So, we are in the clear?’
It is a slightly shocking rejoinder – and, not least that banter on the hoof is not Skelgill’s forte, he cannot discern where on the spectrum between flippant irony and genuine relief her remark lies.
Certainly, she is smiling – and while it seems improbable that she would joke – her manner is such that they (and ‘they’ includes her employer and the Brash family institution and she herself and the DAA and indeed Skelgill) are intimates one and all.
And yet now a small quip does come to Skelgill’s aid.
‘You wouldn’t say that if you knew my boss.’
It makes her laugh – again the unexpected throatiness. But it only serves to reinforce his impression that she holds there to be some common understanding. Indeed, now she reaches further and takes up his cup and saucer from under him.
‘I’ll get us a refill.’
Before he can object, she is moving accordingly.
And she speaks again.
‘Inspector, I really think you should take off your cagoule.’
There is the clear impression that she is aware of his discomfort. He rises – but he struggles to shed the garment. Apart from that it is damp and clammy on its inside, it is a size too snug – a spare smock-type that he keeps in the back of his car for others; his own newest incarnation suffered an irreparable rent on a recent impromptu fly-fishing jaunt when he was too impatient to dig out his Barbour.
‘Here – let me help.’
From behind, she reaches on tiptoes to tug the waterproof over his head, and turns him like in a game of blind man’s buff to pull off the sleeves. The jacket is entirely inverted and in the process his shirt is briefly rucked up around his chest.
He feels a flush come to his cheeks.
‘Aye – it is quite warm in here.’
The woman stands before him for a moment – then she hands over the jacket and turns back to her coffee making.
‘We have a small leisure facility – through the door there.’ She gives a light toss of her blonde hair towards the rear of the office. ‘A sauna – that’s probably what you feel – and a plunge pool – and a modest gym – though it has all the essentials.’
When he would normally voice his regular antipathy – why pump iron within four claustrophobic walls in conceited company when a free natural gymnasium abounds – Skelgill is uncharacteristically circumspect.
‘Must be handy – if you like that sort of thing.’
Her response is swift.
‘But you obviously work out.’
She speaks without turning. It is plainly not a question – her intonation making plain that it is a view based upon recent observation.
Skelgill makes an unconvincing attempt to downplay the flattery.
‘Aye, well – I do what I can.’
‘What is your fitness routine?’
And now he hears himself again – and this time also a second, inner voice that tells him the words are factual, even if the impression is misleading.
‘Well – there was Pilates last night – and spin this morning. Problem is fitting it in – I’m normally out and about.’
She turns with his coffee and another for herself. She places the cups so that they may resume their seats. Now she speaks casually.
‘You could come here – you would be welcome. Monty’s fishing guests find it a good antidote to a day spent cramped in a boat. You might be pleasantly surprised.’
Her familiar use of her employer’s name and her largesse with his private facilities catches Skelgill off guard; and there is the rider that hints at something more.
‘What – like – just rock up?’
She smiles; she seems to detect his discomposure, and perhaps just slightly revel in it.
‘Certainly – you can try it now, if you wish.’
‘Aye – well – I’ve got no kit.’
Skelgill grimaces theatrically, though he senses it is a weak objection.
Now there is the throaty laugh.
‘We have towels – that’s all you need for the sauna.’
Skelgill is dumbfounded and in the muddle he more or less completely drains his coffee. The woman watches him with undisguised amusement.
But it is an alert from her mobile phone that comes to his rescue. It diverts her attention. She leans to look at the screen – and then picks up the handset and holds it such that it is facing her, almost a little secretively. She reads the message and it brings a smug smile to the corners of her mouth. However she does not reply, but instead carefully places the handset face down.
The hiatus has allowed a small tide of unease, hitherto held back by events, to flood Skelgill’s mind.
‘Something urgent?’
There must be a hopeful note in his voice, for Fenella Mansfield glances at him as though suddenly she sees him in a different light.
She answers, speaking slowly, a note of reluctance in her voice.
‘Yes – there is something I perhaps ought to attend to.’
Skelgill drains the last of his coffee and rises. He lifts his waterproof from the back of his chair. Then he steps across to the sideboard to return his crockery to its place. He hesitates for a moment before he swivels to look at her.
‘Me too – now you mention it.’ He makes a face of exaggerated resignation. ‘No rest for the wicked, eh?’
Though the Labrador senses change and struggles to its feet beneath the desk, Fenella Mansfield remains unmoving. Despite Skelgill’s abrupt action she smiles and regards him with look of considerable satisfaction.
That she does not speak, however, is disconcerting, and before he knows it he has blurted out a farewell of sorts.
‘Next time – I’ll bring my bathers.’
She holds his gaze.
‘Good morning, Inspector.’
Coatless, Skelgill has to make a run for his car.
Inside, he sits for a moment. In discerning sounds, he realises that distinct from the drum of the rain on the roof is the beat of his racing heart. It cannot be the short dash – it must be the extra caffeine; coffee is largely alien to him, and it seems to have a strength of its own, despite what they say about tea.
But there is more to it – albeit he is unwilling to explore sensations that at once massage and confront his ego – the former desirable, the latter discomfiting. The signals were surely plain, and yet he is left with the uneasy feeling of having been processed and shelved for future use.
Such introspection, however, does not come easily – his radar is on the wrong setting to detect the subtleties of the fairer sex, and his standard default is to proceed with caution and self-doubt, and the odd flirtation with vainglory. He knows this, at least – and now he rather cringes at his ill-considered parting remark. But in so kicking himself he shakes off the passenger’s lethargy that had lulled him with its subliminal rhythm – and into the forefront of his mind comes an image, a small shock that had not been enough to derail him a moment earlier, but which now assumes tangible import – as though he had witnessed a murder from the window of his train and only now realises what he saw.
In replacing his crockery he had glanced at the adjacent arrangement of periodicals. There was Country Life, today’s Daily Telegraph and – with its Minto-inspired headline in clear view – this morning’s edition of the Westmorland Gazette.
The car is steamed up. He turns on the ignition, and pulls levers for wipers and heater.
The screen clears to reveal – just visible, standing back but looking his way, undoubtedly watching – the blonde-haired form of Fenella Mansfield.
A woman who thinks strategically.
He selects first gear and slews away.
SWINSIDE BARN, 9.52 a.m.
‘Your great-grandfather?’
‘That’s right, madam. Wing Commander Edward Leyton, DFC. Stationed nearby in the war – RAF Kirkbride. Proper dedicated angler he was. We believe he was a big fish in your DAA, if you’ll excuse the pun.’
Georgina Graham looks somewhat flummoxed. She is unprepared to receive a visitor, being dressed only in loose-fitting pale pink loungewear, without make-up and her blonde hair still damp from showering.
For his part, DS Leyton has followed Skelgill’s orders to turn up unannounced. Not daring to fail, and having got no answer at the main door, beneath dripping eaves he has doggedly skirted the converted property and found a second entrance on the upper level. With some persistence he has gained admission into the no-man’s land of a small stone-flagged hallway between a laundry room and the kitchen. A narrow staircase fitted with a hessian runner rises ahead and curves out of sight.
The householder could hardly have left him standing in the rain – but now she seems unwilling to entertain him further. Not least there is his drenched condition. Sensing borrowed time, DS Leyton has launched into an opening salvo that has her regarding him doubtingly.
‘But Sergeant – someone who lived in the area three generations ago. How will this advance your investigation?’
The situation has the makings of a stalemate. In the cold light of day, DS Leyton’s contrived excuse to examine the DAA archives appears to have its limitations.
He shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other, and smears the fingers of one hand across his eyes, as if to clear his vision of raindrops. He would appear stymied – until a small rabbit is produced from the hat.
‘If only I knew, madam.’ He makes a face that combines resignation with contrition. ‘But you’ve met my Guvnor. Stickler for detail if ever there was one. Back at the station they call him “Inspector Perfection”.’ Now DS Leyton retracts his head into the shoulders of his raincoat. ‘I wish I’d never mentioned the war. But, once I did – he was onto it like a terrier with a rat. He reckons if there is some connection, we need to know about it. Come clean in any report we write. Conflict of interest, you see, madam?’
Though still bewildered, the latter point does evidently strike a chord with Georgina Graham. It is something she understands in her own professional capacity. She begins to yield some ground.
‘So, you would like to look through the entirety of the DAA’s records?’
That she emphasises the word “entirety” might be a small rearguard attempt to deter him.
‘Soonest done, madam. And I’ll be able to get back to catching criminals.’
And now perhaps an element of pathos plays its part; something about the bedraggled man and his hangdog stoicism that counters the unconvincing logic.
But just when it seems she is about to soften, a thought must strike her.
‘I take that you don’t have a warrant for this?’
DS Leyton affects startlement, theatrically flashing the whites of his eyes.
‘I shouldn’t like to do that, madam. It’s bad enough me turning up here – disturbing your – your work.’ He has gestured towards her before he knows it – in her flimsy leisure outfit she does not look like she is at work. He continues, hurriedly. ‘Now, a warrant – that would suggest some kind of jiggery-pokery. And you with your important position, an’ all.’
The respectful answer seems to have a mollifying effect.
‘Oh – well – yes, of course.’
Without making clear his meaning – it might be that he refers to her occupation, or her senior role on the committee, or indeed her social status – DS Leyton doubles down.
‘That’s probably why the Guvnor sent me – someone inconsequential – keep it low key.’
His lack of hubris seems to do the trick – despite the small risk of offence, that a minion has been despatched to visit her.
She indicates to the open door of the laundry room.
‘You had better hang your mackintosh on the dryer in here.’
She moves ahead and lowers a pulley. DS Leyton divests himself of the sodden garment.
‘Much obliged, madam.’
‘You’re welcome, Sergeant.’
Now she leads him out and begins to mount the staircase.
‘I have all the current files in my study. And many of our communications are digital. But there is an archive of sorts. Though I have not looked at it for some time. A great wooden chest in the attic – it would take four men to bring it down.’
‘I’ll do whatever’s the least disruption for you, madam – just show me where it is, and I’ll have a sort through. No need for you to trouble yourself.’
They have reached a small landing. The woman moves easily, but DS Leyton pauses beside a window to catch his breath. There is a sense of elevation – on the lake side of the building, set on the steep hillside, this is the second floor – but while there ought to be a spectacular view of Derwentwater and the fells beyond, just a grey amorphous curtain hovers somewhere in the middle distance. DS Leyton is reminded of Skelgill’s local lexicon for degrees of rain, and he decides to try one out.
‘It’s stotting down out there.’
Georgina Graham looks back, a hint of amusement in her eyes. In this one moment DS Leyton, hitherto subsumed by his anxiety in accomplishing his task, and half-drowned by the rain, suddenly realises what an attractive woman she is – and there is more. Despite the doubt and suspicion that circles the characters in this case (including Georgina Graham) – and notwithstanding her reticent reception of him, he detects only ingenuousness, and he is sure in this instant that she is entirely innocent in the matter.
It is rare for such an insight to strike him – and he can put no finger on exactly why – unless, perhaps, she has taken a liking to him.
‘There may be floods if the forecast is accurate. I am lucky here, of course. Although there is a small beck that runs past the side of the barn – during Storm Geronimo it burst its banks and swamped the boiler room.’
DS Leyton makes a sympathetic face – but now she turns and continues to climb, a cramped uncarpeted staircase that brings them directly to a small bare oak door with a traditional cast-iron latch. He has to wait a couple of steps below while she pulls it back and ducks into the dark opening.
‘Mind your head, Sergeant.’
‘Not usually my problem, madam.’
He says it flippantly and she seems to murmur a chuckle; certainly the woman is at least his own height.
She feels to one side – there is the click of a switch – a brief moment of light – and then splink – and darkness again.
‘Oh, how inconvenient. And I have bulbs on my shopping list.’
DS Leyton does not permit himself to think it might be convenient.
‘This should do the trick, madam.’
He has the light from his phone at the ready. He steps cautiously alongside her. The old boards creak underfoot. The bulb is bright, but it has little penetration. In the immediate vicinity he can make out objects that would be expected, plywood packing cases, small items of furniture, lamps, paintings, suitcases – and a collection of sports gear, golf clubs, skis and what might be a surfboard. Just inside the door is a tea chest from which protrude boxes of board games and suchlike; he recognises Monopoly, and Mousetrap.
The deeper recesses are not discernible – though tiny chinks of light give a sense of considerable distance. The attic appears to be long and narrow – beneath a pitched roof of old beams it must run the entire length of the property.
But now Georgina Graham draws his attention to an enormous steamer trunk, covered with worn leather and reinforced with cane bands.
‘Here it is.’
She hauls back the lid and rests it against the sloping rafters behind.
DS Leyton plays his light over the interior. It is brim full – but the contents at least look neatly ordered – eight piles of documents, each of about two feet deep. He resists a calculation of page numbers – though at two inches per ream he knows it will number in the tens of thousands.
Georgina Graham, however, seems to be thinking about a different aspect of his task. She reaches down and takes up a document. She angles it into the light.
‘Yes – this takes you up to at least 2010 – see – these minutes. As I say, I have more recent documents downstairs – but you want something far earlier. I wish I could say these stacks were in chronological order – but I think they have become mixed over time. I think to find the 1940s you will have to sift through it all. Are you sure you want to do this?’
DS Leyton, however, is breathing a surreptitious sigh of relief. All that matters to him is that the period of these documents spans that of twenty-eight years ago – which, thanks to a junior Skelgill’s participation in the fishing match, his present-day incarnation has been able to nail down to the month.
‘Not to worry, madam. I’m well versed in these dogsbody jobs.’
She seems a little unwilling to leave him – perhaps now sympathetic to the confinement in which he must work.
