Murder at the Bridge (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 20), page 21
‘Sergeant Leyton, how about I bring you a cup of tea or coffee?’
DS Leyton demurs.
‘Nah – don’t you trouble yourself, madam. Thanks all the same. You must have stuff to be getting on with. And I’d probably only spill it and make a mess.’
The attic is chilly. However, much as he would appreciate a hot drink, he is thinking she may return at some inopportune moment.
Rather reluctantly, she begins to step away.
‘Well – I do have emails to attend to. They start early in our New York office, and I like to have last night’s queries answered.’
The door has swung to without DS Leyton noticing; it must be the way it is hung; Georgina Graham now props it open with a handy golf driver. It must be a regular hack. To his surprise, she now laughs – it seems by way of explanation.
‘I shouldn’t like to leave you alone in the dark.’
‘What’s that, madam?’
His question comes quickly.
She must sense some anxiety in his tone, for she seems to adjust her response.
‘Oh – just my little joke.’ She waves a hand, indicating the property around them. ‘A small claim to fame – by repute, Mary Queen of Scots rested here during her flight from the Battle of Langside. Unfortunately, it did not end well, and she lost her head, as you will know. But at least the DAA’s records do not stretch back that far.’
DS Leyton taps the rim of the chest.
‘Let’s hope they go far back enough.’
‘Quite so, Sergeant – I shall leave you in peace.’
He waits until the sound of the footfalls on the stair have faded before he takes stock of his situation. When all is quiet he casts about. Although silence would not be an accurate description because there is the rumble of rain falling on the slate roof-tiles; a curious sound, neither a pattering – the precipitation is too dense – nor a single pure note; but a sustained susurration. He has heard Skelgill use the term ‘syling’ – perhaps this is it? There are other faint noises, too – although ineffable disturbances in the air at some distance. He covers the bulb momentarily, but in the sudden change the depths of the attic seem darker still – and the pinpricks of light where tiles must be chipped or there are ventilation gaps at the soffits are of no help.
He shines his diffuse beam once more on the trunk.
The piles of papers are tightly packed, and it takes him a couple of minutes to remove the first stack piecemeal. He reinstates it as a single column on the rough boards of the floor. Now it is easier to gain access to the remainder, and he is able to extract these half a stack at a time. His plan is to return them to the casket as he works through them.
Without particular analysis of the kind a workflow consultant would perform, a certain innate common sense tells him there are two key aspects that will make this ostensibly impossible task possible. The first is comfort. He drags a heavy suitcase into position as a low stool that puts both the papers and the trunk within arm’s reach. Then he jams his mobile phone into a crevice between a batten and a loose tile to produce a hands-free overhead light.
Second are the odds. Having grown up with an influential if somewhat disreputable bookie in his family he is familiar with the concept that maths – or arithmetic, at least – can be an ally of the hard-pressed police officer. Provided these documents have not been totally randomised – which seems an outside bet – while they might be out of broad sequence, individual years’ worth of papers ought to have been kept together. He eyes the nearest stack. Each pile is worth roughly a decade, which means that every two to three inches represents a year. All he needs to do is to take ‘core samples’ at such intervals.
His hunch proves correct – no more than ten minutes have passed when – bingo – halfway down the third stack he locates the era he seeks – and, indeed, he quickly isolates the documents of twenty-eight years ago.
He sits back, giving an involuntary groan – which seems to echo from the far end of the barn roof. The sound distracts him for a moment, though he can see no further than the little cone of light that envelops him. He feels his heart is beating faster than normal – but it must be the small excitement that he is closing in upon his quarry. Perhaps this is how Skelgill feels when fish are circling his boat.
Now he proceeds more carefully. The Monopoly game is just within reach, and he pulls the old worn box across his knees. The pieces inside rattle, and for a moment he feels a thrill of pride, remembering that his very own Old Kent Road is first square on the board. With its familiar red-and-white livery and tiny grinning banker brandishing a wad of sterling notes, it serves as a makeshift desk, and now with a teller’s attention to detail he leafs methodically through the pages, peering as close in the pale light as his unwilling focal length will allow him.
The papers include minutes of monthly committee meetings and the same year’s AGM; angling reports; correspondence; audited accounts; club rules; details of fees and permits; and blank membership forms.
But there are no press cuttings, and no photographs.
The fishing match took place in July. He returns to the minutes of that month and those of June and August. There is no mention in June, but in July, under ‘AOB’ he finds the item: “Fishing match v AAA. Bassenthwaite Lake, 22 July. Team captain Mick Heckmondwike making arrangements.”
For a fleeting moment his already busy pulse gives another little leap – for he recognises the name – but then he further realises it is one of those identified by DS Jones as deceased.
He moves to the August minutes.
Given the apparent newsworthiness – that there was the press article, as stolen from The Partridge – the committee, or the author of the minutes, seemed to downplay the event. This month’s entry, again only meriting coverage under ‘AOB’ reads: “Fishing match: DAA beat AAA.” There is no mention of the team captain, of Skelgill’s exploits, or even any hint of triumphalism.
DS Leyton sighs. Again, there is the sense that his own sounds are being reflected from somewhere in the darkness. He holds his breath for a moment – but he is met only by silence, beyond the persistent syling, as he has settled upon calling it.
He checks the names of attendees and apologies for the July committee meeting. Nothing stands out, but now a thought strikes him. He sets aside the Monopoly box and takes up a slice of papers contiguous with the section he has just interrogated. Flicking through quickly, he alights upon exactly what he seeks: a stapled document of half a dozen pages, headed “Membership List.”
His heartbeat is back on the case – so much so that he ignores a definite noise from the far end of the roof space.
And there it is.
Turning to about midway, he finds the entry. “Mr T. Jubb. c/o Derwentside, Spital Ing Lane, Gote, Cockermouth.”
Inexplicably he suddenly feels like a small boy with apples stuffed up his jumper when voices are approaching through the orchard – but he fights the panic and hurriedly gets down his mobile phone. He drops it in the process and the torch switches off – but it is an intelligent enough device to flash accordingly as he photographs all the pages of the address list, and those of the July and August minutes.
Trophies safely captured, he pauses to take stock.
He has not found the group photograph. Still they have no immediate means of identification – but at least he has the address. It is something that could take them closer to the identity of Toby Jubb.
He also senses – despite that he has taken perhaps only half an hour – that he will be outstaying his welcome. Perhaps now that he has found something, he subconsciously feels he will give cause for suspicion. He sets about reinstating the contents of the chest – but not before putting the pertinent documents in first, so that they will be at the very bottom of a pile and easy to retrieve should there be a requirement.
The lid is heavier than he expects. It slips through his fingers and makes a loud crack. Once again – and this time he registers it – the sound that he makes seems to be reciprocated by a vague hushing from the far end of the loft, with too much of a delay actually to be some kind of echo.
He has managed since dropping his phone without the assistance of the torch; his eyes gradually acclimatising to the light that filters in from the open door at the top of the stair.
He stands and straightens cautiously, conscious of the tiles close above his head and the likelihood of protruding nails. He squints, frowning, along the length of the roof space.
Now he can appreciate the steep pitch and the ancient construction of hand-hewn rafters and purlins.
Now the pinpricks of light are indeed illuminating small areas.
And now he realises there is somebody there.
Standing in the distant gloom – no more than a slightly paler form against the darker gable – a figure.
A woman in a long dress.
His heart, already taxed, inches further up inside his chest.
Does Georgina Graham have some other secret means of access?
Has she been watching him?
He has learned from stakeouts with Skelgill how better to see in the dark, by using the extremities of one’s retinas. He turns his head from side to side.
And the ghostly shape takes a little more form – yes, a woman in a long dress – but a woman… with her severed head held under her arm.
And – what is it – a fluttering sound? A death rattle?
DS Leyton is on his way down the little staircase before he can mutter Mary Queen of Scots.
At the halfway landing, however, he halts to gaze out of the window. He resolves to pull himself together; though there is little tangible upon which to fix his mind; the conditions have worsened if anything and there is nothing to see beyond the pale mist of rain.
‘Lumme.’
The word, spoken under his breath, seems to do the trick.
He inhales deeply, several times.
More composedly now, he descends to the hallway between the laundry and the kitchen.
‘Hallo?’
He waits for a moment, but receives no reply to his entreaty.
He looks first in the laundry. As he expects, it is empty – but he tugs down his coat and with a little difficulty shrugs it on. The gabardine fabric has seen better days and has lost much of its water resistance; and there has not been sufficient time for it to dry out. Skelgill scorns the style for use in rural Cumbria and calls it his “Columbo coat”.
The kitchen door is ajar. Tentatively, DS Leyton pushes it open.
‘Mrs Graham?’
It is an imposing space, bright, with windows on both sides, and a further door that passes through a choke point into what might be a sitting room. And it is impressively appointed – there are Belfast sinks at both windows; an expansive range cooker; an American refrigerator; many small appliances; and shining stainless steel utensils hanging in good order.
In the centre is a table that seats ten. At one corner are the traces of recent occupation. A side plate with toast crumbs. A coffee mug, about one-third full. And a laptop computer, open.
Much in the same way as a man locked in a room with a mirror and a tea-cosy would sooner or later try it on, a detective in similar circumstances and an adjacent laptop must inevitably be drawn to such a device.
Showing comportment that belies his stocky form, he glides effortlessly across the polished floorboards and casually observes the screen.
But now he feels his eyes widening and he leans closer.
Then comes the sudden distraction of activity near at hand.
He realises that in the short passage between the kitchen and the sitting room there must be a lavatory. A cistern has been flushed and there quickly follow the additional sounds of a tap running and then a bolt being drawn.
When Georgina Graham emerges, she experiences a small reaction of surprise. It is to see the detective standing in the kitchen, facing one window, looking at his mobile phone.
He turns and waves the device and slips it inside his mackintosh.
‘Headquarters – the Guvnor’s chasing me.’
‘Oh.’ She sounds uncertain. She sees that he has on his coat. ‘You are leaving?’
DS Leyton also makes observations. She has changed into more formal attire and has applied make-up – and with it she seems to have acquired a somewhat businesslike manner.
He notices now that she steps over to the laptop. As she looks at it, the screensaver displays a photograph – of her with wild sunbleached hair, wearing a yellow bikini and wielding a blue cocktail. She makes an embarrassed murmur and presses down the lid. She looks pointedly at him, however. And her features take on an expression of concern.
‘Are you alright, Sergeant? You are looking a little green about the gills.’
‘What’s that? Yeah – nah – I’m fine, thanks, madam. I reckon being in the dark – and then coming out into the light all of a sudden – ran down the stairs too quickly –’
He does not finish – and in fact a smile creases the woman’s face – not just in the superficial curve of her now-crimson lips but genuinely in the glisten of her pale blue eyes set within contrasting borders of mascara. It is an expression that DS Leyton reads as both amused and sympathetic, as though she feels some responsibility for his condition.
‘I meant to say – I remembered after I left you. My young nephew and niece were playing in the attic last weekend. There’s a dressmaker’s dummy – and a dressing-up box. It seems they made an effigy of Mary Queen of Scots, after she had lost her head. They abandoned their efforts – we have bats up there – a protected colony of Daubenton’s – I think the fluttering scared away the children.’
DS Leyton makes a face of some trepidation – but he is plainly too embarrassed to admit to any such encounter.
‘Well – I don’t know, madam – I was just concentrating on the archives. That’s some amount of material you’ve got there.’
Georgina Graham shows just a slight hesitation – as though she would wish to reassure herself about his condition. But she picks up his point.
‘And did you succeed – find your great-grandfather?’
‘What’s that?’ DS Leyton has answered before he knows it – if potentially to show his hand is to answer – and he scrambles to recover. ‘Ah – well – I tried my best. But I couldn’t find anything dated before 1947 – and there was no mention of him.’
What might be two white lies are, as it happens, factual.
But the woman furrows her brow – she takes a step towards DS Leyton. She is both perplexed – and evidently annoyed – but perhaps it is with herself.
‘Are you sure your great-grandfather was in the DAA?’
DS Leyton makes a determined face.
‘As sure as I can be, madam. Naturally, I’m relying on hand-me-down information.’
He is less convincing when it comes to actual white lies – but Georgina Graham seems uninterested in questioning the basis of his claim.
Instead she folds her arms; it is the posture of a schoolmarm, trying to coax an answer from a confused pupil.
‘Could he have been in the AAA?’
‘The AAA?’
‘Yes – the Allerdale Angling Association. Our territories overlap.’ She raises a hand to her chin. ‘I should have thought of this in the first place. But now that you mention 1947.’ She holds out her other hand, palm upward. ‘You wouldn’t have found anything earlier. The DAA was formed in 1947 – two years after the war ended.’
DS Leyton turns out his pliable bottom lip and reaches for his hair, in a passable impression of Stan Laurel, caught out once again doing a dumb thing that is hardly his fault but for which he knows he is assigned the entirety of the blame.
‘Stone the crows.’
The woman, however, regards him with a look of optimism.
‘But doesn’t it answer your issue?’ When DS Leyton remains evidently puzzled, she elaborates. ‘Surely it eliminates the conflict of interest that was of concern to your Inspector?’
For a second DS Leyton exhibits a kind of childlike glee – the first discovery that inside inedible silver foil lies delicious chocolate – until he perhaps senses he ought not to overact.
‘Quite right, madam. I was just thinking that, myself. But I’m sorry to have put you to the bother.’
She presses her hands together in mid air.
‘It has been no inconvenience, I assure you – but – would you not like a coffee before you leave? It must have been cold up in the attic.’
Now he wonders if she is actually trying to delay him – and why that might be. Might it be to find out more of what he knows? He doubts he could withstand any clever questioning. He has achieved his goal – and he should get out of here. There can be too much in one morning for a bear of very little brain.
‘Thanks all the same, madam.’ He taps the breast of his overcoat as a reminder of the presence of his mobile phone. ‘Like I was saying – Inspector Perfection, an’ all that.’
She yields gracefully.
‘Of course, I quite understand.’
He moves again – but now she checks him.
‘Oh – I can take you out via the front door – down the main stairs – it will be closer to your car.’
But he waves away her offer.
‘No problem, madam – this old coat’s pretty sodden, anyway.’
When the back door closes after him he finds himself facing it for a moment, his eyes cast down in thought. He seems not to notice the teeming rain or the lines of drips that cascade from the overflowing gutters.
It takes several moments before he does become aware of one particular stream of drips; it splashes directly upon a large oval pebble that is propped against the wall just where the door might reach to when opened; a doorstop, perhaps.
A doorstop.
His features become alarmed and his heart once more makes a little leap – until he notices, arranged in a continuous line dividing the gravel of the path from a narrow herbaceous border, a whole array of similar pebbles.
‘Flamin’ Alan Whickers.’
MOUNTAIN CAFÉ, KESWICK, 10.27 a.m.
