Murder at the Bridge (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 20), page 26
DS Jones has the copy of the Westmorland Gazette in her shoulder bag. She arranges it and presents it across the table for Jay Chaudry to look at. It seems he quickly takes in the content of the article, scanning first superficially and then with a little more care, working through the layers.
He has his elbows on the table, arms folded – and just when it looks like he might be about to read the fine print, he looks up, first at Skelgill, and then at DS Jones, paying respect to her role as questioner.
‘That sounds improbable, don’t you think?’
DS Jones has Skelgill at her side – she has to restrain herself from looking at him – for her first reaction is that, yes, it is improbable. It is likely a figment of DI Smart’s imagination, convenient wishful thinking when he came across the words app, drugs, gang, quay, Manchester, Thailand (in no particular order) and fitted them together into a future custodial sentence. She sees the fingers of Skelgill’s left hand drum a silent beat on the table.
‘Why do you say that, sir?’
The man regards her questioningly.
‘Well – from a practical point of view – is there actually a drugs trade up here? Out here? I mean – the sparse population – is it worth their while?’
DS Jones opens her mouth a little before she speaks – it would reveal her assumption to be premature, were the man a mind-reader.
‘You’d be surprised, sir. The tentacles of county lines leave few corners uncorrupted. We’re only twenty miles from the city of Carlisle – and there’s a sizeable population through the West Cumbrian towns – and they all have thriving ports.’
‘Yes – good point – I live at one, albeit inland. I do wonder what goes on there, sometimes.’
It seems a further contradiction – that he refers to his home in Manchester in this way – naturally unsuspecting of their disreputable colleague’s determination to pursue that geographical line of inquiry. Not to mention his own firm’s litigation with the Manchester police force, and the link – if indirect – to the local drugs scene.
DS Jones has agreed with Skelgill that they will avoid this matter – for it can only put him on the back foot, a counter-productive outcome. Stay on track – the routine elimination of contacts of Kyle Betony.
But she makes a mental note: the civil legal action might have been something that he would refer to – and surely by association he knows more about the distribution of drugs than he would wish to admit.
She does, however, pick up on one aspect of his response. She opens her clipboard; she has prepared it with a new interview form to the fore. She lays it down.
‘We do have your address in Manchester, sir – and obviously here. How long have you been at Salford Quays?’
He has waited patiently for her question; now he answers without hesitation.
‘It’s just coming up to eight years – since I returned from India. My flat number has changed a couple of times – I have subsequently bought six more apartments in the same block, as they have come on the market.’ He grins, contritely. ‘I’m waiting for the penthouse so I can move up in the world, but as yet the owner is sitting tight. Believe it or not it’s a Man U footballer – you wouldn’t think he’d last so long, given their recent record.’
His expression of personal wealth is conveyed without any hint of conceit.
‘And prior to that, sir?’
He looks surprised – his dark eyes widening a little and showing contrasting white.
‘Ah, well – I lived in Bangalore – at a variety of addresses. I could probably dig them out with a bit of time spent raking through old emails. The last one, however, was at Purva Zenium – Hosahalli. It’s a gated community out towards Kempegowda airport.’
When DS Jones pauses to reflect upon her shorthand, he seems to feel that he ought to elaborate.
‘Bangalore is India’s IT capital. I got an opportunity there straight after I graduated. It’s where I started my business. The UK operation is officially a subsidiary of an Indian-registered limited company – even though it’s now by far the biggest part.’
‘So – you graduated – in what year, sir?’
‘Well – I was twenty-two – so that’s –’ He makes a pained face, as though the admission of age is uncomfortable to bear. ‘Exactly twenty years ago. Wow. Where did it all go?’
DS Jones looks up to find him regarding her thoughtfully.
‘So, you were in India for twelve years?’
‘That would be right, yes.’
‘And where did you study?’
He hesitates for a moment, as if his current thoughts have not quite finished with whatever microprocessor is the brain’s RAM.
‘Ah, yes – I was at De Montfort in Leicester – I grew up and went to school in the Belgrave district. My parents couldn’t afford for me to go away – they needed me to help with the family business.’ Now he chuckles reflectively. ‘We had online ordering long before anyone had ever heard the word Deliveroo.’ He shakes his head. ‘I missed a trick there. That said – at least I’m not having to fight with governments and trades unions over workers’ rights.’
DS Jones has listened evenly – and she smiles at his small digression. However, she sticks to her script.
‘Can you provide an original home address?’
He responds with the name and location of a restaurant; DS Jones detects a small pricking up of Skelgill’s ears. However, he makes no sign that he will interject.
She scowls at her form; thus far, it seems to have been a convincing tactic.
‘We have a blank for marital status, sir?’
He lifts both palms towards her, but then wraps his hands around his elbows and slumps back in his chair.
‘I have failed miserably to find myself a farmer’s wife.’ He glances at Skelgill, without giving any real clue that he is looking for some moral support. ‘Most of the ladies I seem to meet favour the metropolitan lifestyle – a trip to the country for them is shopping for a crocodile-skin handbag in Alderley Edge.’
Skelgill seems to grin a little inanely; but DS Jones regards Jay Chaudry with some interest, a sparkle in her eye.
But she has already noted that the man himself is no stranger to high fashion. There is the subtle embroidered branding of his black merino Hugo Boss sweater, and while he had prepared tea she identified Moschino jeans and Prada loafers, an ensemble running comfortably into four figures.
But she cannot find fault with his unassuming manner.
‘Is there a partner – of long-standing?’
He gives a nod as if to show he understands for their purposes this could be of equal significance. Then he shakes his head pensively.
‘No, I – am the proverbial bachelor.’
He looks suddenly at Skelgill, more pointedly now – and perhaps his eyes even scan about to see whether either of the pair opposite wear rings. And then he starts, as though he has been led astray and now catches himself trespassing.
‘Look, frankly – the reason I went to Bengaluru – to Bangalore – was to escape an impending arranged marriage. Ironic, you might say.’
He brings up both hands and gives a brief vigorous rub of his short beard, like he has in a peculiar way washed himself of some uncomfortable presence. He exhales; he has been unwittingly holding his breath. But now he smiles, showing bright white teeth.
‘All history, thankfully. Meanwhile I have been so focused on growing the company – it can be overwhelming. Hitherto, I would not have made a good husband or father.’
Inevitably there is a small and slightly awkward hiatus. Jay Chaudry leans forward and pushes the plate of biscuits towards Skelgill. It seems he has worked out the natural hierarchy.
‘Assist me with these ginger drops, Inspector – Sandra could arrive at any moment. She’ll want to know if I have urgent laundry.’
Skelgill interprets his entreaty as permission to help himself to a handful. Jay Chaudry generously tops up their mugs from the teapot. DS Jones takes a single biscuit, and places it beside her mug. She glances a little smugly at Skelgill – she can see he is desperate to dunk, but that he is rather thwarted by the inconvenient shape of the rounded sweetmeat.
She brings the meeting back to order. She raises her clipboard two-handed, and then replaces it. It is an illustrative action.
‘That’s more or less what we need, sir.’
Jay Chaudry nods; though he regards her carefully; he seems to anticipate a supplementary question.
She does not exactly disappoint, although she takes a moment to peruse notes held beneath the standard questionnaire.
‘Sir – looking at the information you gave to my colleague, DS Leyton – about the evening of the dinner and your interactions with Mr Betony – is there anything that now strikes you as relevant?’ She indicates to the newspaper which still lies on the table. ‘In particular with reference to this possible lead.’
Jay Chaudry takes a moment to compose himself. He intertwines his fingers, his forearms resting on the edge of the table. He regards her earnestly.
‘Sergeant – I bow to your superior knowledge concerning drugs gangs – and I appreciate you would correctly tell me there is no stereotype for someone mixed up with drugs – but it just strikes me as absurd that Kyle could have been involved. You see – things seemed to be all-consuming for him – and I think it would have done just that – consumed him. It would have been obvious. He shot from the hip, wore his heart on his sleeve.’
DS Jones nods, conscious that the man is only reiterating their understanding, though she cannot reveal such. She endeavours to put to better use his candid attitude.
‘I gather Mr Betony was commending a merger between the DAA and the other society, the AAA.’
Jay Chaudry does not seem slighted that she sidesteps his analysis – but perhaps her question is sufficiently on point to hold with his logic.
‘Yes – he was. I don’t recall that the subject gained any traction. The aim of the night was to avoid talking shop. But I’ve been reflecting since your colleague mentioned it. From a purely commercial perspective it’s a sensible suggestion – I think I said that.’ He raises one hand and now rubs at his chin more introspectively. ‘But, to be honest, I’m still a relative newbie to these parts – and I imagine there would be many perfectly good reasons why, after three-quarters of a century, there are still two organisations squabbling over the same stretches of water.’
He seems to be implying that he would take a more diplomatic path – and not raise such a controversial subject. DS Jones turns to glance at Skelgill – he has a mouthful of biscuit but he merely scowls, leaving her to read into it what she may. For her part, there is no value in going over old ground – DS Leyton has reported his movements and what little he saw. And she does not wish to expose the true purpose of their visit.
However, Jay Chaudry is perhaps ahead on this score – at least as far as the bigger picture goes. He clears his throat, a little apprehensively. He engages eye contact with each detective before he begins.
‘It’s not for me to do your job for you – I’m sure you’re a thousand times better qualified than I am. But – I take it you don’t have any CCTV – that would have recorded Kyle leaving the hotel?’
DS Jones shakes her head.
‘There’s no surveillance at The Partridge, sir.’
‘How about his mobile phone?’
She would like to see Skelgill’s expression. But for two detectives to cross-reference one another is too revealing of an unspoken agenda. While the absence of CCTV at The Partridge is a simple matter of public observation, she concludes that Kyle Betony’s mobile phone is not up for discussion.
‘We are working on that, sir.’
He regards her intently. He nods.
‘Actually – I seem never able to get a signal – even outside. I was having to use the Wi-Fi while I was there. Would have been no use tracking mine.’
He gives a somewhat nervous laugh – and then perhaps colours a little, as though he thinks he has revealed that he has been aware all along that he must be a suspect of sorts.
Then his features become confused – such that DS Jones decides she ought to relieve him of the afterthought.
‘What is it, sir?’
He is gazing blankly into his mug. He looks up, still puzzled.
‘Oh – well. It kind of ran through my mind. I mean – a mobile phone. It’s not quite right – what I just said. True – there’s hardly ever a signal, and even if there were, the inn and the river are probably too close to use triangulation to establish a person’s movements. But these days there’s a built-in GPS chip. With location services switched on, one of the apps might have tracked a handset.’
His tone becomes apologetic.
‘I suppose most people know this. Sorry – I am rambling. Have another biscuit – please.’
Skelgill appears not to hear. DS Jones turns to see him staring intently at Jay Chaudry – and only when she snaps shut her clipboard does he emerge from his trance.
Then the man’s words seem to register.
‘Biscuit? Thanks all the same, sir, but we had better make tracks – we have another meeting shortly.’
Jay Chaudry looks a little surprised that Skelgill declines. However, he remembers there is another tack.
‘How about a doggy bag? I’d be delighted to offload the balance.’ He pats his stomach. ‘I’m watching my waistline – and I know Sandra will find them, no matter how hard I try to dispose of them.’
Skelgill grins and shrugs a form of reluctant agreement.
‘In the absence of your pig, then, sir.’
DS Jones regards him doubtfully.
As they are leaving, poised on the threshold, preparing to make a return dash betwixt raining stair rods to Skelgill’s car, Jay Chaudry seems to remember there was something more that he wanted to say. He addresses neither of them in particular.
‘Oh, and Mrs Betony – have you any word of how she is? I feel guilty having been so busy. I know the DAA was only a small and recent part of Kyle’s life – but I feel the committee might do something for his wife. I don’t believe either of them have relatives in the area.’
Skelgill takes it upon himself to answer.
‘We’ve seen her a couple of times, sir. She seems to be bearing up.’
Jay Chaudry regards Skelgill with a frown, as if this platitude does not really provide the reassurance he would like.
‘When Anthony phoned to tell me about Kyle on the Sunday morning, I mentioned sending her some flowers. I don’t know if we’ve got anywhere with that.’
The detectives happen to know it is on tonight’s agenda – but decide not to reveal their hand.
*
‘Where to, Guv?’
Skelgill frowns.
‘If Leyton’s where he claims to be, we may as well meet him at The Partridge. Besides, there’s your motor.’
Skelgill has started the engine and has the wipers set to max. But it is getting dark and the unrelenting rain makes almost any journey seem undesirable. DS Jones peers out doubtfully.
‘How safe is The Partridge?’
‘Not all that safe.’ Skelgill grins. It seems he will add a caveat. ‘I mean – it takes a serious flood. But it’s in a channel only a couple of feet above the normal level of Bass Lake. The water comes at it in a pincer movement – from Peel Wyke on side and Dubwath Beck on the other. The A66 normally stays clear – the lowest point is where you cross from The Partridge towards Ouse Bridge.’
‘Our nadir.’
Skelgill does not respond.
She questions him once more.
‘Do you think we’re in danger of a major flood?’
He is pensive, but after a moment he shakes his head.
‘I wouldn’t mind a look at Bass Lake. But this rain’s supposed to ease in the early hours. I reckon we’ll get away with this one.’
He slots the car into gear and lets in the clutch.
They remain in silence, but for the various sounds of water; tyres splash through puddles and newly formed streams that percolate through dry stone walls; bursts of heavier rain batter the windscreen; the wipers swish and slosh back and forth, inventing new onomatopoeias. The narrow lanes seem especially treacherous; it would be almost impossible to avoid an obstacle in the road, animal or mineral.
Skelgill is thinking that sometimes driving is easier in pitch dark – at least you can see other cars’ lights – when DS Jones interrupts his musings.
‘What did you make of Jay Chaudry?’
Skelgill laughs unexpectedly.
‘You were dancing around handbags.’
‘Really?’
‘Aye – he kept leaving open goals.’
She is trying to piece together the two metaphors when Skelgill interjects.
‘Nay – you did alreet. I reckon you got what we wanted to know. Plus, he’s the first one to admit he was out of the country at the time of the Jolene Jubb incident.’
DS Jones turns sharply to look at Skelgill. It is not like him to be the one that so succinctly propounds the case for the prosecution. But he remains phlegmatic, gripping the helm, craning forward, eschewing his mirrors – abaft is of no significance when all concentration is needed aweather.
‘Was there something I missed?’
It takes him a moment to answer.
He sniffs.
‘Seems like a decent bloke.’
She is perplexed by his response – it is blatant obfuscation; there is plainly a feeling he cannot yet iterate; small but pertinent, it has sunk in but not yet bobbed back up to break the surface of his consciousness.
She waits a moment longer before she replies.
‘Actually, I agree – he does seem to be both sensitive and likeable.’
‘Not your average neighbourhood psychopath?’
