Murder at the Bridge (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 20), page 27
His tone invites her to contest his point.
‘Well – I don’t suppose I would go that far. But – for someone who’s done so well for himself – he’s not even your average neighbourhood braggart.’
Skelgill does not answer – and DS Jones replays what she has said, for fear of it having irked him – when he reveals it has.
‘Eligible bachelor, eh?’
DS Jones gives herself a small mental kick in the pants.
‘But, Guv – what if his fortune comes from drugs?’
The remark is facetious, but it helps.
14. THE LOCUS
The Partridge Inn – 6.00 p.m., Tuesday, 28th September
‘Here he is. Better Leyton than never.’
‘Yeah – very funny, Guv. I got stuck in flippin’ mud at Ruth Robinson’s farm. Her old man had to pull me out with a tractor.’
Skelgill leans from his fireside seat to examine DS Leyton’s attire. His overcoat is soaked through, but his footwear looks none the worse for his ordeal. Skelgill has commandeered the Snug. He has talked Charlie into putting a sign on the door, “Private Meeting” – under protest that he will need it for the DAA committee in the Smoke Room a little later.
DS Leyton reads his superior’s critical gaze.
‘I stayed in the motor, Guv. Lucky I had a signal – so I was able to phone back to the farmhouse. Just as well – the water was rising all the time. You know me and boats.’
Skelgill scoffs. He gestures to a pale-yellow pint in a tall, slim modern glass, coated with condensation and somewhat incongruous in the ancient beamed surroundings and the cosy heat of the blaze.
‘Set yourself down.’
DS Leyton gives a token glance at his wristwatch.
‘Ah, well – after six – I suppose we’re technically off duty.’
There might be a small complaint in his verdict – though he catches DS Jones’s eye and winks.
But if it is an attempted wind up, Skelgill does not seem to notice; he takes a decorous sip of his own pint of amber Jennings ale – and he lingers a little, staring into the glass. Its place of origin, six miles hence, the old brewery sited on the isthmus where the Cocker meets the Derwent, is one of the first places to flood.
DS Leyton smacks his lips and rouses Skelgill from his reverie.
‘Recognise anyone, Guv?’
There is the sense in his tone that DS Leyton knows what is coming – it would be the first thing they would tell him – but he sees that DS Jones is alert and looking keenly at their boss, as if she hopes he will reveal something hitherto kept close to his chest.
But Skelgill only lifts his glass and takes a longer pull. His taste buds thus occupied, he shakes his head, and then tilts it to indicate that DS Jones should provide a debrief.
She looks a little disappointed. But she raises her electronic tablet; she has been busy on the shaky Wi-Fi while they have waited.
‘I’m expecting an update from DC Watson any minute. We got biographical detail stretching back to cover the period from before Lynette Jubb’s death – when all three claim they were in England. Likewise Anthony Goodman and Stephen Flood at the time of the Jolene Jubb incident. Jay Chaudry says he was based in India.’
DS Leyton makes another clutch at the original straw, though he must know it is futile.
‘But nothing rang a bell, Guv?’
Skelgill, when he might be irked, being asked the same question twice, seems rueful. It is a source of genuine chagrin that he has such scant recall; that he went about in his own little bubble as a small boy.
DS Leyton manufactures some enthusiasm.
‘They’re like the Ugly Sisters between them – Goodman and Flood – I’d hoped one of them would jog a memory. Surely that’s what did for Betony? He recognised one of ’em because you can’t change the old dial.’
DS Jones picks up on a technical aspect of her colleague’s point.
‘Are you saying, therefore, that you don’t think it could be Jay Chaudry?’
DS Leyton combs the fingers of one hand through his mop of dark hair.
‘Well – he’s what you’d call handsome, ain’t he? Not exactly the kind of mugshot that would jump out from a grainy old photo.’
The exchange yields a small silence in the group. It is a minute before DS Jones responds.
‘One difficulty with Jay Chaudry is his age. He was only eighteen at the time of Lynette Jubb’s death.’ She glances at Skelgill. ‘And only fourteen at the time of your fishing match.’
Skelgill is prompted to comment. There is a look in his eyes that suggests he finds antipathy in the suggestion of some ownership, but he answers without prejudice.
‘I reckon I’d have remembered if there’d been another kid – a youth, leastways. It were all blokes. That, I do know.’
DS Leyton follows up with a little more positive spin.
‘Besides – the age thing. Like we’ve been saying – if one of them’s using a false identity, we don’t have to believe their age any more than their name.’
Nevertheless, another silence ensues.
Skelgill finally turns to his newly arrived sergeant.
‘What about you, Leyton?’
DS Leyton nods – and for a moment adopts his superior’s distraction technique of taking a sip of his drink. He makes a face as though it is bitter, when it is lager.
‘That address – Spital Ing Lane – it’s been converted – split up into four flippin’ flats. Apparently it’s owned by a property company. None of the current tenants has been there above five years. I’ve ordered a title deed search and historical council tax records – but it’s going to be tomorrow at best before we get anything.’
He raises his shoulders like a prop forward preparing to absorb an impact.
‘I knocked doors around and about – but I couldn’t find anyone who’d lived there at the time we’re interested in. It’s the end house, and there’s only a couple of other properties nearby.’
Skelgill is regarding him critically.
‘Did you try the Counters?’
‘Counters, Guv?’
Skelgill frowns more deeply; but one familiar with him might recognise annoyance at his own failing.
‘Hilda and Betty – they run the Post Office. They’ve been there donkey’s years. I should have told you.’
DS Leyton looks a little forlornly at his wristwatch.
‘I can call in tomorrow, early doors.’
Skelgill nods.
‘What about the two women?’
DS Leyton has the sudden panicked look of a schoolboy who, having forgotten his homework, his mind now frantically casts about for excuses – my sister spilt gravy on it and the dog ate it; my mother thought it was so good she sent it off to a publisher; I was showing it to a friend in the playground and a seagull mistook it for my packed lunch. It is a curious reaction – and one in fact unworthy of his efforts – but perhaps it is the momentary realisation that he brings back only news of defeat in the race to find a motive for the killing of Kyle Betony.
He gathers his wits, though he sighs audibly.
‘I got flamin’ chapter and verse – Ruth Robinson, especially – the whole life story. Right enough, she’s grown up in this neck of the woods. Jackie Baker, on the other hand, she moved down from Scotland seven years ago with her partner. She has no prior connections in the area – and she’s thirty-seven – so she was only thirteen at the time of Lynette Jubb’s death. I reckon we can rule her out completely. Ruth Robinson’s thirty-nine, so she was fifteen. Her maiden name’s Wilson. In the end I got round to mentioning Jubb – but she didn’t react and she claims she don’t know the name. I asked if she remembered the accident in Whinlatter Forest and she thought she did – that her father had warned her to be careful after she’d learnt to drive – that there was a dangerous bend with an adverse camber where someone had died. But that’s about the length of it.’
Skelgill nods slowly – he seems satisfied enough with his sergeant’s work.
The subsequent silence, however, seems to prey on DS Leyton’s residual sense of guilt for not having made more progress, despite that none of them are knowingly any further forward.
He raises an index finger in the air.
‘One thought I did have.’
Skelgill regards him suspiciously.
‘Aye?’
‘What if it was a case of mistaken identity?’
‘What are you talking about, Leyton?’
DS Leyton shifts awkwardly in his seat.
‘I mean – if Betony was mistaken for one of the others.’ He is hesitant, a little embarrassed to explain his thinking – the reason behind which becomes plain. ‘What if there were something in this Manchester drugs business? And then what if Betony was mistaken for Chaudry? They’re a similar age. Not much difference in size. They’re both dark, clean-shaven.’
Skelgill is looking alarmed.
DS Jones, however, has a practical rejoinder.
‘But Jay Chaudry has a beard.’
DS Leyton frowns.
‘He didn’t when I interviewed him – he must have started growing it since.’
No one seems to want to add to the specific debate – the small possibility that Jay Chaudry might have tried to alter his appearance. But now Skelgill makes a horizontal chopping motion in the air with his left hand.
‘This is about Betony.’
However, he puts forward no single killer fact.
DS Leyton sticks out his jaw – although his tone is less belligerent.
‘S’pose you’re right, Guv. I’m just keen to get us somewhere before DI Smart pounces.’ He turns to look sympathetically at DS Jones, knowing that she is in the firing line. ‘You’re always saying – don’t get stuck down one track when there might be others to investigate.’
Skelgill is scowling pensively.
‘It’s getting late in the day for that, Leyton.’
His colleagues both glance at him sharply. It is not like their superior to talk so openly in such terms.
And Skelgill knows it. It is at times like this when – perhaps a little inexplicably – he realises he could never be the fishing guide that is so often suggested as his retirement plan. The pressure of a paying customer who must have that specimen pike before dusk – when Skelgill’s modus operandi is that the pike will still be there in the morning, and no amount of forcing, ground baiting, dead baiting, live baiting (heaven forbid, it could come to that) or random thrashing and guddling will make a shred of difference.
His gaze is fixed if unfocused upon his mobile phone that lies on the table between their drinks. Aye, the pike might still be there tomorrow – but at any moment the Chief could ring to call time. Except – a crumb of comfort – there is no signal. Hah! His focus sharpens – and something about the image of the handset strikes a chord – it is too deep within for him to perceive its meaning, yet he feels a small wave of euphoria.
‘This must be where Goodman and Chaudry were sitting.’
His colleagues, who have waited patiently for his brown study to pass, see that he is looking at the door – or perhaps through it, more like – to some unseen destination beyond.
There is no particularly appropriate rejoinder to his statement – and, now, an inflexion point in their meeting – for there is an alert from DS Jones’s electronic tablet.
‘That’s DC Watson.’
Her tone is propitious. She swoops then reads, swiping and scanning efficiently. She looks up.
‘It’s incomplete – but they’ve done well.’
However, there is a small crease of what might be dismay on her normally smooth brow.
‘Want me to run through it – or take the points one by one?’
Skelgill reaches for his glass.
‘Hit us with the lot.’
DS Jones nods.
‘She’s split it into two parts – kind of, for and against. She begins with the against section. Most significantly, all three have National Insurance numbers that match their names and dates of birth. Their corresponding tax records confirm their employment as described to us. Anthony Goodman and Stephen Flood have been in the UK for their entire working lives to date. Jay Chaudry got an NI number when he was sixteen, but there is no activity against it until eight years ago, which would be when he set up his UK operation.’
Skelgill is scowling fiercely.
‘Aye – he was working in the family business, mind.’
It seems a grudging remark, a throwaway comment, and leads to something of a depressed silence.
It falls to DS Leyton to play the role of the boy and the emperor’s clothes.
‘So – they’re all who they claim to be?’
Neither of his colleagues seems to wish to confirm the assessment.
Skelgill knows it is for him to rouse his troops – but the small if inexplicable ray of hope of a few moments earlier seems to have been overshadowed by this greater, tangible news that looms like the massed clouds over the fells.
DS Jones, however, sounds a small note of optimism.
‘There are points of interest.’
The others look on and wait.
‘Stephen Flood – a widower, right?’ She does not wait for confirmation. ‘His wife died – three years ago, as he told us – but what he didn’t say is that it was an overdose of paracetamol. She was being treated by her GP for depression. The Coroner’s verdict was misadventure – that it was accidental.’ Now she does pause, perhaps for some effect. ‘Stephen Flood inherited the property, which had been in her sole name.’
DS Leyton dives in.
‘I’ve thought all along he’s a wrong ’un. We know he was more or less last to be with Betony – and look where they were sitting, an’ all – right beside the photo. Face like that – I bet you Betony did recognise him – and he lured him outside and made short work of him! And now you’re telling me he’s trying to change his story – that they were best of pals and he was buying him a drink.’
It is plain that DS Leyton, like them all, desperate to get somewhere, has finally pinned his colours to the mast. It is all in a good cause – and his colleagues do not resent him for it.
But Skelgill has put down his drink and folded his arms.
‘He can hardly be Jubb – we’ve just heard he’s worked in Cumbria the last twenty-odd years.’
But DS Leyton is getting into his stride.
‘Maybe he’s been leading a double life, Guv?’
‘What – half in Cockermouth and half in Missouri? Come off it, Leyton.’
DS Leyton scowls and takes a heftier than usual sup of his pint, his malleable features expressively defiant.
‘Guv – we’re right on this – aren’t we?’ He gestures around.
Skelgill stares at his colleague. In a curious way he hits the nail on the head. Yes, they are right on it – it was the feeling that briefly touched Skelgill. It is under their noses and they can’t see it. And, if they do not act soon, it will happen again – and it might be gotten away with again.
He addresses DS Jones.
‘Go on – what else, lass?’
She has been like a videoed presenter placed on pause while DS Leyton has held the stage, and she resumes her narrative smoothly.
‘Well – that’s it at the moment for Stephen Flood. The farm where he says he grew up has changed hands a couple of times – so nothing there, yet.’ She scrolls down. ‘But the team checked out Anthony Goodman’s claim that he grew up in Melton Mowbray – it looks like they managed to find his sister, Mary.’ Now she frowns. ‘Although there is a small oddity here. Remember he said she had married a Ukrainian by the name of Lewinsky? There was no Lewinksy but they found a Zelenskyy – and that seems to be her, Mary Zelenskyy. They tracked her down. Before her mobile phone ran out of battery she confirmed she was born Goodman, and that she had a younger brother, Anthony. She says she lost touch with him about forty years ago – she had limited contact with the family –’ DS Jones stops, her lips parted.
‘Aye?’
‘She says she thought she’d heard he was in America.’
‘What?’
It is DS Leyton’s exclamation.
‘That’s all we’ve got.’
‘America – where in America, when?’
DS Jones shakes her head.
She scrolls back up. Now she bites her lower lip. The contradiction is unequivocal.
‘But – his records are intact – Anthony Goodman has paid tax and national insurance in the UK every year for the past two decades – longer. The sister must be mistaken.’
There is a silence before she adds a considered rider.
‘If there was a family rift – maybe neither of them wants to know the other – it’s not unusual. They don’t trouble to inquire.’
But this news has been unsettling. Even DS Jones now pauses to take a drink.
‘What about the eligible bachelor?’
Skelgill breaks the silence, on a sardonic note.
DS Jones flashes him a brief glower of reproof.
‘They’ve not had long on this. The family restaurant still exists, Belgrave Road in Leicester. Same ownership – a Mr Ashok Chaudry. They weren’t answering their phone – the website has them not opening until seven p.m. Another twenty minutes or so.’
DS Jones pauses for a moment, while she reads ahead.
‘This is noteworthy.’
Her audience perhaps leans in a little.
‘The case files have been delivered – the investigation into the death of Lynette Jubb. It’s all in paperwork format – eight Bankers boxes. They’ve not been able to go through it in detail – but they’ve found a reference in the investigating officer’s notes – the Jubbs took out a joint life insurance policy about a week after they were married.’
Skelgill regards DS Jones reflectively; it is a question that has crossed his mind; now perhaps, he is a little reticent in receiving the answer. Every case has its red herrings, irrelevant skeletons in closets, loose ends – millions of people act lawfully and unlawfully every day in ways great and small.
DS Leyton can be relied upon for a pragmatic contribution.
‘Did he claim?’
