Murder at the Bridge (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 20), page 22
‘It is complete BS, as the American euphemism goes.’
‘Right.’
‘My editor forced me to write it.’
‘Are you allowed to do that?’
DS Jones’s tone verges upon admonishment.
Kendall Minto, reporter for the Westmorland Gazette, erstwhile schoolmate, actually seems quite pleased with himself. He has perhaps not detected that there is the underlying suggestion of having wasted police time.
‘We were short of a scoop – short of any news of merit. For weeks. It was a message left on the answerphone late at night. I swear the voice is your Detective Inspector Smart – making a poor fist of a Liverpool accent.’
‘Ah.’
DS Jones relents somewhat. If not fiction on behalf of the esteemed publication, then just wishful thinking.
Kendall Minto, however, rather doubles down on his employer’s misconduct.
‘I suppose if he’s got a reliable snout – who is unwilling to stick his head above the parapet – he feels entitled to step in as spokesperson. He claimed to be a worker at the customs office at the mouth of the Manchester ship canal – Eastham, on the Wirral. Perhaps you can track down the real man?’
DS Jones hesitates. Rather pensively, she stirs the creamy froth that tops her cappuccino.
Kendall Minto watches; he seems a little perturbed that she destroys the heart of sprinkled chocolate powder.
‘Try your cake.’
She is jolted from her little moment of reverie.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s called Westmorland pepper cake – their new signature dish.’
She regards him, now with just a glint in her eye.
‘Can you have a new signature dish? Isn’t that like a reliable snout? Or pepper cake, come to that.’
‘Good point – but, oxymorons aside, at least you can see I have spared no expense.’
She does not bite, except at the cake.
‘You and your expense account.’
He flushes, and glances about sheepishly, as though he thinks they may be overheard.
But she nods approvingly, endorsing his choice of snack, at least.
He seems a little encouraged.
‘But I take it I can help. Unless you are just here to see me.’
‘My boss forced me to do it.’
His face falls a little; but he remains resilient.
‘Touché.’
DS Jones does not react; she continues to eat, looking pleased.
‘It’s really good.’
‘That makes two of you.’
Kendall Minto grins boyishly; there is no doubting his winning looks, and there is something in his irrepressible persistence that keeps him just on the right side of bothersome. And perhaps there is the novelty of unbridled flattery.
He must detect a softening in her manner.
‘You see – you get to have your cake and eat it, too.’
She cannot suppress a chuckle.
‘You mean – I could have just phoned you?’
Now he acts more casually, taking a mouthful of his own portion.
‘Well, there is that.’ He raises his fork over his shoulder. ‘Isn’t this place a bit close to home?’
DS Jones flashes him a glance that may be conspiratorial. He refers to what is the attic café of Skelgill’s favourite outdoor gear emporium.
‘Call it hiding in plain sight.’
The idea seems to intrigue him, and he tips back his head in a knowing way. Clearly, he is torn between wishing to believe he is favoured, and past experience that tells him he is usually outwitted by present company.
He opts to revert to the surer ground of their professional interests.
‘Is there some juicy morsel that you have to trade?’
Now she flashes him another look of reproach.
He raises his palms; the affable dog that knows a small, sleek feline bristles with a hidden armoury.
But his rolling over does the trick.
‘There’s something that would help us get to the bottom of this case.’
While she pauses – and eats – he offers a suggestion.
‘I take it your Inspector Smart is playing agent provocateur?’
DS Jones nods thoughtfully.
‘As my colleagues say, he’s a one-trick pony.’
Kendall Minto frowns – a little reservedly, as if he cannot quite conceal some affinity with such methods. Indeed, his response suggests so.
‘There are times when one must stir up the hornets’ nest.’
‘Even if it involves someone else being killed?’
Her sharp rejoinder is a shock tactic.
He rocks back, realising his misstep.
‘Ah, well – of course – I don’t know the precise circumstances.’ And he makes a face of contrition. ‘I hope we have not put our foot in it?’
She allows him to stew for a moment. Then she grins.
‘I should say don’t worry. If anything, you’ve set an entirely different hare running.’
He is intelligent, quick, and gets it.
‘A red herring, indeed?’ He regards her optimistically. ‘Helpful?’
She considers this proposition. As Skelgill has tacitly agreed, there is a silver lining to the apparently bogus Manchester drugs connection – but the clock is ticking.
Rather peremptorily, she finishes the last of her cake, and drains her cup.
Kendall Minto watches on with an expression of growing alarm – she appears to be readying herself to leave. And she does indeed rise. She checks the time on her mobile phone. But rather than take her waterproof from the back of the chair, she reaches down and places her shoulder bag on the seat. She produces a foolscap envelope, unmarked. She hands it over.
‘If you can trace the complete version of this, you could be an overnight sensation.’
His eyes widen as he takes the envelope. He seems to understand he is not to open it in public view, and merely gives an exaggerated wink and slips it inside his jacket.
‘My meter expires in five minutes.’ DS Jones smiles disarmingly – and he has no recourse but to bow his head. ‘Thanks for the pepper cake.’
As she descends the open curving staircase down onto the second floor, DS Jones is too deep in thought to notice, across in a section to her left, beneath a hanging banner that reads, “Autumn Sale – Men’s Waterproofs” a tallish individual is trying on a black cagoule, rather fighting with it, in fact. The hood is raised, and the figure turns away as she passes, and only a prominent protruding nose might give a clue to the prospective buyer’s identity.
A minute later, as she is adjusting her own garment for better protection, hurrying past the churchlike edifice of the Moot Hall, her mobile phone rings. She picks up, and slides the handset inside her hood.
‘Guv – hi.’
Skelgill does not trouble with pleasantries.
‘Where are you?’
‘Keswick – I’m running to avoid a parking ticket.’
There is a slight pause.
‘Stick in another hour. We’ll meet at the Mountain Café. Leyton’s on his way.’
*
‘Oh – what’s this?’
Skelgill, already queuing at the counter, has directed DS Jones to claim a secluded corner table. Now he joins her with a loaded tray. He grins, wryly it seems.
‘They’re calling it Westmorland pepper cake. I reckon it’s not selling.’ Rather defiantly he puts down a plate that holds four slices. ‘Two for the price of one. No point getting three.’
Before DS Jones can remark upon their good fortune they are disturbed by the arrival of a panting DS Leyton, damp and dishevelled. He seems, however, to be in good spirits.
‘New cagoule, Guv?’
‘What?’
Skelgill has not yet divested himself of his waterproof; his reaction suggests a certain defensive embarrassment – a familiar Skelgillism, that anything concerning his attire and shopping habits is a matter to be kept shrouded in secrecy. Or perhaps it is just the small ignominy of being caught buying in the autumn sale.
DS Leyton reaches and gives a tug to the back of the jacket.
‘You’ve left the price tag on.’
But DS Leyton does not seem bothered, and he settles, eyeing the cake. Perhaps to his surprise Skelgill slides a mug of tea in his direction, and offers around the Westmorland pepper cake. Skelgill watches DS Jones as she rather gingerly accepts a slice and puts it on her side plate without attempting to try it.
But DS Leyton now pre-empts any further small talk.
‘I just saw Minto – he went into the Keswick Chronicle office. That’s his lot’s sister publication, ain’t it?’ Though he looks at his colleagues he does not wait for an answer. ‘Seemed deep in thought. Walked right past and blanked me.’
DS Jones can feel Skelgill observing her; she opts to explain.
‘I’ve put him on the trail of the photograph – as back up.’
She turns hopefully to DS Leyton – he understands she is querying his success – but he responds with a face that conveys otherwise. She continues quickly.
‘Most of the media use a central agency that sources stock and archive photography. They’re probably our best bet, under the circumstances. I gave him a photocopy of the incomplete article.’
DS Leyton chuckles.
‘Looks like he’s straight on the case. Must be trying to impress you, Emma. Hah.’
She dares to look at Skelgill. His expression is as anticipated, largely disapproving – not least that she has handed over a photograph of him as a ‘beaky’ kid. But she quickly heads off what can be his only professional objection.
‘I said nothing about our line of inquiry – that we’re trying to identify Jubb. And he came clean about the Manchester drug story – he says he’s sure it was DI Smart that left the message on their out-of-hours voicemail.’
Being proved correct seems to mollify Skelgill. And as DS Jones relates the reporter’s account of the purported customs worker, he silently eats cake. Indeed, he even appears to give consideration to the explanation, now that flesh upon the bones give it a ring of authenticity. If he is unnerved, however, he shrugs it off, and turns abruptly to DS Leyton.
‘No joy, then?’
DS Leyton makes another face of frustration, though he flashes a grin at DS Jones.
‘Not unless you count the spirit of Mary Queen of Scots.’
Skelgill regards him as though he will tell him he is tapped – but DS Jones is amused.
‘Was that your excuse – that you’re a ghost hunter?’
DS Leyton chuckles ruefully.
‘Cor blimey, Emma – I should have thought of that.’ He glances at Skelgill, checking how far flippancy can go. ‘Nah – I invented a wartime ancestor – I reckon it did the trick.’
But for a moment he halts and frowns introspectively – before moving again, pulling out his mobile phone.
‘No photo or press article – and, to be honest, no way of knowing if the documents had been tampered with. And your fishing match only got a brief mention in despatches. But I did get an address for one Mr T. Jubb.’
He has Skelgill’s attention – indeed his superior takes the handset and devours the information as hungrily as he has despatched his first slice of cake.
‘From their list of members in the same year as your fishing match, Guv.’
Skelgill stares hard at the little screen.
Then, without speaking, he passes the phone to DS Jones.
It is she that raises the question of him.
‘Does this mean anything to you? He would have been single – four years before the car accident.’
Skelgill, who knows Cockermouth better than most, is pensive. He pictures the locality. Gote is the settlement on the north bank of the Derwent, and Spital Ing Lane a rather curious backwater – almost literally so, an ing being a water meadow.
But he shakes his head.
DS Jones speculates further.
‘It gives the impression that he was in lodgings – that it says “care of” the property. I wonder what chance it’s still in the same hands. If he lived there for a while, someone might remember him – or a neighbour, perhaps.’
Her tone is neutral, and Skelgill looks even less optimistic. A lot can change in twenty-eight years; the property may not even be there. But they can all agree without needing to discuss it that it is something they will soon investigate.
DS Jones returns the mobile to DS Leyton. For a moment he, too, seems a little deflated – but then he remembers he has another small card up his sleeve.
He looks inquiringly at Skelgill.
‘What about this DAA committee meeting tonight, Guv?’
‘How do you know that?’
There is something about Skelgill’s reaction – quickly disguised – that hints at consternation.
DS Leyton contrives to continue evenly.
‘Georgina Graham – she’d left her laptop open. She must have been finalising the agenda before she circulates it this morning.’ He picks up his mobile phone. ‘Here – I photographed it, an’ all. You’ll have to fiddle about, to read it.’
Skelgill grimaces as he manipulates the too-large image. He sees, however, that his sergeant is right. Today’s date. The Partridge. Seven p.m. in the Smoke Room.
Skelgill’s gaze drifts away, through the skylight window that would give a view of the distinctive summit of Grisedale Pike on a clear day – but he is as unseeing as the elements are unrevealing. Why did Fenella Mansfield not tell him? As Sir Montague Brash’s PA she would certainly know about the meeting. Yet all she said was that he was away today. He reaches no conclusion, but feels deeper stirrings that disturb his equilibrium. Eventually, he addresses DS Leyton.
‘Did she mention it?’
DS Leyton seems to understand something of Skelgill’s concern – but he plays down any underlying suspicion on his part. ‘Nah – she didn’t, Guv. But don’t get me wrong – she wasn’t cagey – just the opposite. I noticed the agenda on her screen and snapped it on the spur of the moment. To be honest, I’d got that address and I wanted to get out of there before she blew my cover.’
Skelgill seems unmoved by his sergeant’s explanation. Now, rather than attempt to read the small detail, he passes the handset to DS Jones.
More adept in such matters, she quickly analyses the agenda.
‘It’s mainly standard items – Apologies – only Lucy Bedlington – previous minutes, Chairman’s report, Treasurer’s report – but there’s this.’ She has enlarged a section and turns the phone so both her colleagues can see.
Under ‘AOB’ is the wording: “Mrs Betony – condolences/flowers”.
‘It must have been submitted for inclusion.’
She glances at Skelgill to see his expression is again showing some concern.
‘I take it Sir Montague didn’t mention the meeting, either?’
Skelgill seems to start – as though he were deeper in thought than was apparent.
‘What?’ He folds his arms and leans back in his seat. ‘He weren’t home. I’ll need to go back.’
It seems he has nothing to add; though it is clear he is discomfited.
DS Jones makes an effort to lighten the issue.
‘I don’t suppose we should read too much into the committee meeting. Given your contacts, Guv – it’s hardly something they would think they could hush up. In fact, didn’t Charlie say it’s the last Tuesday of the month?’
A pause ensues. Skelgill has finished his cake and is looking at the spare slice; however DS Jones only prods at hers, and he seems distracted by the duality.
DS Leyton, however, is eager to come to the greater point.
‘What next then, Guv – turn our fire on the big guns?’
Skelgill does not answer, but remains staring at the table. DS Jones, as though she knows how to unlock the impasse, hands Skelgill her plate.
But she simultaneously interjects.
‘Since there’s a committee meeting – then assuming he attends – at least it means Jay Chaudry won’t be down in Manchester.’
Skelgill nods at this. He recognises some crumbs of comfort. For the unity of his team in the short term, this is a small benefit.
But still he is preoccupied.
It smarts, his failure to discern that there is a meeting tonight. What was he up to, in that impromptu encounter with Fenella Mansfield? It was a golden opportunity to dig beneath the surface of the life of Sir Montague Brash – but she walked all over him.
And then there is the DAA committee meeting itself. Yes, it might be scheduled – but the sudden knowledge, and its proximity to the writhing netful of promising leads and puzzling unknowns, trawled up but not disentangled – and the imminent threat of DI Alec Smart diving unrestrained into the midst – these factors unnerve him out of proportion.
For what?
No – not for what – but for whom?
Who is in danger?
And who is the threat?
13. ELIMINATION
Derwentdale – 12.30 p.m., Tuesday, 28th September
Skelgill is under pressure. The feeling is nothing new – but the type of pressure is. He might be about to meet a killer – a serial killer, indeed. And one with whom he may have interacted before. Twenty-eight years ago, as a nine-year-old boy unobservant of his peers, when most grown men looked and smelled the same. A man who would have been twenty then and is aged forty-eight now, possibly changed beyond any hope of recognition.
He is glad for the company of DS Jones – yet in certain respects a showdown might be more productive were he to be alone. Two men meeting are finely attuned to one another’s body language; the presence of a third party alters the dynamic in a thousand little ways; and in several big ones when that person is a desirable female.
But the detective trio has discussed the pros and cons.
A stay was the first option – but this was dismissed almost as quickly as it was mooted. Yes, more background information would surely help them home in on their quarry – but the inevitable delay may render some other prey exposed and helpless. And there is DI Smart to worry about. So, while parallel inquiries can take place – and new information gleaned can be relayed to headquarters for investigation – they will forge on in the hope that, questioned with a new purpose in mind, someone might slip up.
