Murder at the Bridge (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 20), page 25
‘Aye.’
He is no more forthcoming as to how he heard. Then he listens dispassionately as DS Jones explains the routine elimination process and their obligation to verify employment and domestic details.
He stares for a moment longer.
‘I was at BNFL Sellafield. Started as a graduate apprentice. Magnox storage ponds.’
‘Was that your only employer, prior to Cumbria Water?’
‘Aye.’
‘You graduated – where did you study?’
‘Dundee.’
‘University?’
‘Tech.’
She has the form on a clipboard and is steadily moving down the page. Though he answers without evasion his suspicion seems to grow; he checks each time he speaks for Skelgill’s reaction.
‘And are you originally from Dundee?’
‘Dourness.’
DS Jones glances at Skelgill, but he remains in impassive mode.
‘Could you provide us with an original home address?’
Now Stephen Flood shifts uneasily on his feet – yet blocking their exit there is something of a Tolkeinesque dwarf about his demeanour – that he is torn between cooperation with the forces of good and his orders that none shall pass. Reluctantly he yields name of a farm on the southern shore of the Tay estuary.
Skelgill’s ears prick up. He has to refrain from what might be a distracting question. He wonders if indeed the man is a native Fifer. He has uttered “bark” for “back” and that he “stayed” rather than “lived”. Skelgill’s friend Cameron Findlay would no doubt be able to place the rich brogue.
‘And when you worked for BNFL, sir?’
Now he provides two addresses in Egremont; one rental, one owned.
‘Was there anywhere else in between there and your current address?’
He gives a curt shake of his head.
‘This was the wife’s mother’s place. Ah moved up here before I left BNFL. I wasnae keen on the commute – waste of two hours a day.’
It is the first time he has expanded upon an answer.
In return, DS Jones strives to make it seem like she is nearly done. However, she hesitates, and frowns.
‘We don’t have anything filled in for your marital status.’
Skelgill affects a yawn; it is perhaps intended to deflect from the white lie.
‘I’m a widower.’ Stephen Flood answers evenly – then he makes a strange movement. It could almost be imagined that he has stopped himself from stepping back and looking at the run-down property and the gone-to-seed garden. ‘Three years.’
DS Jones seems not to notice anything untoward – she continues to scrutinise her form, as though she is unfamiliar with its contents.
‘And – do you have a current partner?’
‘Why do you need to know that?’
There is a sudden change in the man’s tone – just a hint of aggression when the belligerence thus far has been of a more defensive nature.
DS Jones looks at him in surprise.
‘Sir – there’s no obligation to provide any information – we appreciate your co-operation.’ She half-tilts the clipboard towards him. ‘A standard set of data are collected – it’s more or less automated.’
Stephen Flood looks unconvinced.
‘No.’
‘Sir?’ She thinks he disagrees.
He seems to harden his stance.
‘Nae partner.’
‘Ah – right. Perfect.’
It appears she has ticked off her list and is relieved to have reached the end. She lowers the clipboard to her side and regards him in a collaborative manner.
‘It’s because of the possible drugs connection, sir. There are national procedures that we all must follow.’
The man nods – perhaps he can empathise with the blight of the ivory tower.
Skelgill affects further boredom; he guesses what is coming.
‘In view of what we now suspect – did Mr Betony give any hint of what he might have been about to do – since you were the last to see him?’
‘Ah wasnae.’
The denial is vehement.
DS Jones blinks a couple of times. She might almost be apologetic.
‘Oh – it’s just that – naturally – we have spoken to the other members of the committee. And you mentioned to DS Leyton that Mr Betony joined you after the dinner. When he left you, it seems that was the point at which he also left the hotel. He’d been bothering you – I wondered if that was because you disapproved of what you described as a hare-brained scheme?’
Skelgill is craning up at the stream of drips that batters the flimsy roof; it seems to be gathering force – rather like his colleague’s impressive verbatim recall and creative use of DS Leyton’s interview.
Stephen Flood, who has hitherto stood with his hands resolutely dug into his pockets, brings them out and folds his arms; what little they can see of his features between his upturned collar and the shadow of his cap seem to become grimmer; he looks like he might be about to lose his temper. Skelgill shifts a little closer to his colleague; a reminder of his presence – they have, after all, borne witness to a domestic altercation that did not sound entirely pleasant.
The response is abrasive.
‘Ah wasnae bothered by him.’
DS Jones regards him artlessly.
‘Isn’t that what you told my colleague, Sergeant Leyton?’
‘Tch. He couldnae understand us. Cockney yin.’
DS Jones appears concerned – but in a way that seems willing to accommodate the man’s point of view.
‘Just to straighten the record, then, sir – could you describe what actually happened?’
He glances furtively at Skelgill; Skelgill flashes a forced grin.
‘There isnae much tae tell. He came and sat fae a few minutes. He was haverin’ – nonsense – like he was killing time. I said I’d get him a drink. He asked fae a whisky. But I went tae the gents’ first and when I came oot he was awa’. I thought, good luck tae ye, pal. I didnae bother with another. Finished ma drink – went. I’d planned tae leave then, anyway.’
DS Jones is listening earnestly.
‘You said when you left The Partridge you didn’t see anyone?’
He begins to shake his head.
‘Ah caught a glimpse of Jay – in the Snug – the door was ajar. I didnae speak to him. He was looking at his phone.’
‘That’s Mr Chaudry?’
‘Aye.’
‘And outside – no one, no cars waiting?’
Once again – a brusque shake of the head.
‘Which way did you drive home, sir?’
Perhaps Stephen Flood realises he has adopted a defensive posture; now he puts his hands back into his pockets. He shrugs, his tone verging on the precocious.
‘Usual way.’
‘The A66?’
‘Aye.’ His intonation seems to question why she might imply he would do any differently.
DS Jones appears to have a sudden thought. She raises her clipboard and briefly checks some point.
‘You gave us your car registration. Is it in your name or is it a company vehicle?’
‘Company car. Why?’
Skelgill finds himself stiffening. But he need not fear, for his subordinate evidently knows exactly where she is going.
‘There’s an APNR camera on the Cockermouth stretch of the A66. We’ll be cross-checking the registration numbers of cars that passed at that time of night. If there were a drugs gang, it’s probable they will have used cloned plates – but we can still identify that by eliminating legitimate vehicles, such as yours.’
The man seems to sway a little, but he does not speak.
Skelgill remains tight-lipped; they are letting him stew.
DS Jones folds over the cover of her clipboard and slots her pen away.
‘Well – that’s all for now, sir. We appreciate your help.’
She looks at Skelgill and they both make to move – but the man does not step back to let them pass.
‘Wait. Mebbe I didnae.’
‘Didn’t what, sir?’
‘Go along the A66.’
‘Why not, sir?’
Now it is plain that he does not want to answer. He looks at Skelgill – there might almost be a small hint of panic in his eyes – the sense that he is perhaps trying for understanding and leniency, and that the male of the two will provide it.
Skelgill takes up the invitation.
‘Which way did you go?’
That he does not condemn the attempted deceit, but has merely moved on to the facts, seems to release a response.
‘Aye – now I think about it – I took the back lanes.’
‘It takes longer that way – especially at night.’
The man shrugs; he is in a cleft stick.
Skelgill waits for a moment more, and then lets him a little off the hook.
‘But no coppers waiting in laybys, eh?’ He grins wryly.
Stephen Flood lowers his eyes; to the extent that such a hardened countenance is malleable, he winces in apparent relief.
He brings out a hand and indicates a mid-range Vauxhall parked in front of the house.
‘I cannae work wi’oot the car.’
Skelgill seems to have discounted the implied misdemeanour.
‘What about when you went over Ouse Bridge?’
‘I didnae cross the bridge.’ His reply is swift. ‘That’s the turn fae Bothel. I carried on along Bitter Beck Lane – that comes past the castle. But I didnae see oot – if that’s what you’re getting at. Nae car – nae drugs gang – nae Kyle Betony.’
*
‘He changed his story, Guv. Twice.’
Skelgill drives in silence. The town’s narrow streets are treacherous; motorists lack visibility, and unseeing pedestrians bent under umbrellas lurch at random across their path.
He seems reluctant to embrace his colleague’s enthusiasm.
‘There’s plenty of folk take the back lanes to avoid the breathalyser.’
DS Jones is dissatisfied with the vicarious excuse.
‘If he was over the limit – he got away with it. So why not just tell us he drove past Ouse Bridge?’ She raps a knuckle against her folder. ‘Besides – he’s now claiming he offered to buy Kyle Betony a drink.’
‘Reckon our Cockney yin got it wrong?’
DS Jones shakes her head.
‘No, I don’t. Stephen Flood is trying to hoodwink us. He could have gone outside with Kyle Betony and driven him to the bridge – and then just continued on home.’
Skelgill has his attention focused on the road ahead. He seems in no hurry, and hesitates before choosing which way to turn onto Main Street. His voice seems to sound a corresponding note of caution.
‘What about the car that came back? And why didn’t he cover up in the first place – why tell Leyton he’d fallen out with Betony, when it would put him in the frame?’
DS Jones does not have an immediate answer – but Skelgill’s words prompt a literal connection.
‘He was best placed to be the person that took the press cutting from the wall.’
Skelgill does not contest this point.
DS Jones turns to scrutinise him, as if to gauge his thoughts.
‘Do you think I pushed it too far?’
‘In what way?’
‘We said we must avoid anything that would cause the killer to act rashly.’
Skelgill exhales lengthily.
‘It’s a hard line to tread. I reckon you did as good a job as you could. You stuck to the drugs story.’ He turns and grins. ‘Mind, you spooked him when you said he was the last to see Betony alive. No wonder he’s running scared. And that APNR camera’s been bust for months.’
DS Jones reacts a little sheepishly. These seem mainly to be compliments. It saves her reminding him that she is a student of his playbook. And now she shifts into her mode of efficiency. She opens her clipboard to reveal the form she has completed.
‘I’d better send these details to DC Watson.’ She gives a small sigh. ‘‘Trouble is, Guv – if his back story checks out, he’s not a good match for Toby Jubb. No more than is Anthony Goodman.’
Skelgill does not answer. On the face of it, neither man to date could be the would-be killer, who disappeared – presumably to the United States – in his mid-twenties. Their theory could be a complete fallacy. But he is also thinking – more feeling, perhaps – that it is the nature of police investigations: there are bridges that can only be crossed when they are reached, and the knowledge that they lie ahead is a handy chimera for the apathetic detective. How often has he ignored a ‘bridge ahead closed’ sign to find the workers long gone, tarmac rolled, advance warning notice forgotten – or abandoned as too much trouble to retrieve. He grins; some farmers even keep them to deter tourists during lambing.
And, Toby Jubb or not, someone surely killed Kyle Betony.
‘When’s Chaudry due at Orthwaite?’
DS Jones makes a quick check of her mobile phone.
‘No advance on four p.m.’
Without warning, Skelgill hangs a sharp right turn.
‘Time for some Cockermouth sticky bread.’
CASTLE HOW FARM, ORTHWAITE – 4.10 p.m.
‘Sorry to keep you Sergeant, Inspector. My housekeeper should have been in to fire up the Aga. Shall we make a dash for it?’
Jay Chaudry shields his eyes from the rain; he has pulled alongside them in an executive car – DS Jones has lowered her own window by a few inches. She gives a brief wave of assent.
The car – what must be the pride of the BMW stable, a sports sedan with its iconic motorsport badge – emits a throaty roar and slips in front of Skelgill’s decidedly less flashy shooting brake.
The house is set directly on the public road – indeed the narrow single-track lane that has brought them here jinks through what is a working yard, lined with a cluster of buildings and gated side-tracks into the farm. It is a relic of the past, when the only purpose of these obscure back roads was to reach and connect isolated homesteads; no need to be further still off the beaten track.
A steady sliding film of surface run-off carries liquefied slurry from the concreted downslope that passes the house on the right. On the left in a walled garden Skelgill glimpses fruit trees – a well-laden apple that looks like Laxton’s Superb catches his eye, and conjures a boyhood urge never to look a gift horse in the mouth.
They watch for a moment as Jay Chaudry makes for the front door. The property is Georgian, red brick, big and square with perpendicular lines; it looks more like a small country hotel – and this is an impression reinforced as they are welcomed inside, for no expense has been spared in redecoration and the purchase of restored period furniture.
‘Nice place you’ve got, sir.’
DS Jones shoots a sideways glance at Skelgill – such congratulations are not his forte; even to notice is uncharacteristic.
‘I wish I could spend more time here, Inspector – but that, of course, is my longer-term goal.’
Jay Chaudry looks a little mournfully at DS Jones; it seems to be a self-deprecating gesture, though he offers no further explanation and turns away.
‘Come through to the kitchen, please. I’ll get the kettle on.’
They follow. The kitchen is in keeping with what they have seen thus far, large and well-appointed, with a panelled door and sash window giving on to the fruit garden at the side. He directs them to carver chairs at a solid oak table.
It is warm – the Aga fired up as he had predicted. He fills and places a flat-bottomed kettle on the hotplate.
It seems his housekeeper has further excelled herself – he makes an “Aha” of discovery, and together with mugs, milk and sugar, he carries across to them a plate covered by a napkin.
‘Sandra – she is the wife of Bill Jackson, my farm manager – he has the next place.’ (Skelgill vaguely knows the name, a reputable farming family.) ‘She comes in and cleans – does for me, as she puts it. She’s a bit of a demon baker. I’m glad you’re here – you can help me with these.’ He has a scrap of paper on which is written a note. He looks at the detectives questioningly.
‘Ginger drops?’
‘Aye, I’ve got an aunt who makes them.’
‘She catches me out if I don’t eat the last crumb.’
Skelgill grins; it is his kind of challenge.
‘You need to get a dog like mine, sir. Eliminates food waste.’
Jay Chaudry has returned to the Aga to fill a large traditional earthenware teapot. He speaks over his shoulder.
‘Actually, Inspector, I was thinking whether I should have a pig – if I lived here – with a family.’
Skelgill seems to take the question at face value; he is happy to be the expert in the room.
‘I reckon it’s a while since farms worked like that, sir. Mind – if you’ve got some land to clear and fertilise, they’re in a class of their own.’ He cocks his head towards the window. ‘That said, sheep’ll prune your garden if you’re not careful.’
The man chuckles ruefully.
‘Don’t worry, Inspector – I learned an early lesson. Who would have thought lupins could be so tasty?’
He carries the heavy pot across and lowers it onto a brass trivet.
‘But I am distracting you from your purpose. Please – go ahead, I’ll be mother.’
Skelgill lifts a somewhat idle hand to indicate that his colleague will speak. She seems a little unprepared – indeed they have both relaxed in the genial, undemanding company of Jay Chaudry; quite a contrast to the combative Stephen Flood, and the unctuous Anthony Goodman.
DS Jones first accepts a mug of tea – and declines a biscuit while she succinctly outlines the background to their re-visiting of the members of the DAA committee.
Jay Chaudry listens keenly, his dark eyes intelligent, his expression intense but collected – as though he is in a business meeting, being told of an issue and evaluating strategic options as he goes.
When DS Jones concludes he raises a hand to rub what is longer than designer stubble, if not quite a beard – though his jet-black hair creates the effect of a dense covering.
‘I did not know that – but I have been in Manchester since – well, since the day after Kyle died.’ His tone is apologetic. ‘We’re mid-acquisition – it has been dawn-till-dusk closeted with venture capitalists and our respective teams of lawyers. I wasn’t sure I would even get away today – but we’ve identified a couple of points of due diligence that require some work in Silicon Valley – they won’t be completed until tomorrow morning, Pacific time.’
