Murder at the Bridge (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 20), page 28
DS Jones compresses her lips. She is reading intently.
‘We’ve submitted an inquiry to the insurers. It will take forty-eight hours to retrieve the information.’
DS Leyton raps a knuckle on the table.
‘It don’t say in the notes?’
Skelgill intervenes.
‘Leyton – Jubb would have needed to wait on the Coroner – for a death certificate. That would have closed the case.’
DS Leyton exhales, puffing out his cheeks.
‘Thing is, Guv – it strengthens our view – that Jubb’s MO was to knock off his missus and clean up whatever he could. That’s exactly what he tried in the States.’
Skelgill stands up and circles the small room. He hesitates over a stormy landscape of Bassenthwaite Lake with a brooding Skiddaw looming large and dark. He leans into the square porthole of the window; it might almost be waves breaking from the lake itself that splatter against the old warped glass. The wind is getting up.
He turns, his features conflicted, haggard like a weatherbeaten mariner about to set a course into the wind when flight to harbour is indicated.
DS Jones is on this journey with him.
‘None of Flood, Goodman or Chaudry is presently married.’
There is a silence before DS Leyton takes up her point.
‘So, what, girl – are you saying you don’t think anyone’s at risk, right now?’
At his station across the room, Skelgill inhales but then checks himself; having heard the blazing row at Cockermouth, he opts not to let it divert him.
DS Jones seems possessed of a burden of some gravity. She lays down her tablet and takes hold of the edges of the table.
‘Actually – it’s been going through my mind – whether we should identify all of the potentially vulnerable females and issue them with Osman letters.’
There is no suggestion of doubt in her tone, no rising intonation that makes the statement into a question for debate.
Skelgill looks at her with alarm.
When he might simply gainsay the suggestion – slap it down – were it made by DS Leyton, that it emanates from DS Jones gives him pause both for thought, and to contrive a diplomatic rejoinder. She is right in principle – but he has been there before in practice. An Osman letter covertly warns a person of a purported lethal threat from a partner or close acquaintance.
‘Jones – the Chief would never wear it. Too much risk of a backlash from the ones we’d get wrong.’
DS Jones does not seem disappointed; she senses they share a mutual frustration.
And Skelgill offers a small consolation.
‘Aye – someone is at risk.’
Skelgill momentarily closes his eyes. He feels it – it is true. But is it the impending threat of DI Smart’s clumsy intervention – or that here at the inn lies the very heart of the mystery that surrounds Kyle Betony’s death – or simply the many small signs that give cause for concern? Or is it that he has met the faceless killer and knows they will strike again? Like an unfamiliar cat on a garden wall. It will mew and push against you. When you walk on it will murder a nest of fledglings.
DS Leyton, too, is uneasy.
‘When you say someone – are you talking about one of the committee?’
Skelgill experimentally punches the old black-painted timber door; the iron catch rattles a protest.
‘Aye – that – or a witness – or summat.’
The door seems to rattle again, of its own accord – Skelgill yanks it open to reveal a surprised Charles Brown.
‘Ooh. Danny – can I get my sign back? They’ll be arriving soon.’ Skelgill is about to answer, when the landlord leans conspiratorially closer. ‘And – can I just show you something?’ He gives a jerk of the head.
He leads Skelgill to the left and then immediately right and along to the small reception area at the end of the passage. The great ancient register lies open, on the staff side of the desk. He reaches and swivels it around. He steps back, but keeps a finger on a recent entry.
‘We’ve got the Smiths booked in.’
Skelgill stares at the man.
‘You said you get lots of Smiths.’
The hotelier shakes his head.
‘It’s the same handwriting.’
Skelgill now leans over and reads.
‘I’ll take your word for it.’
‘It looks like our daytime receptionist did the check-in. She’s gone off duty. She’s not answering her phone.’
Skelgill straightens up; he feels a twinge in his spine and grimaces momentarily. He has not yet shared with his friend their knowledge that ‘Mr Smith’ is almost certainly Sir Montague Brash.
‘Can I borrow your master key?’
The hotelier looks a little nonplussed – but he reaches nevertheless into his pocket and produces a modest brass Yale type. He hands it over.
When Skelgill returns to the Snug his colleagues can see signs of wetness on his face and shoulders.
They look at him – expectantly.
‘Still hoying it down. Getting worse before it gets better. Back end of the front.’
He checks his watch.
‘Brash’s Defender’s here.’
DS Jones knows something is afoot.
‘Is that what Charlie wanted to show you?’
He stands for a moment upon the threshold. They have lost their rights of privacy and perhaps for this reason he leaves the door ajar.
He resumes his seat and takes a drink.
‘The Smiths have booked in. Same room – Skiddaw suite. Same woman’s handwriting in the register.’
His colleagues release small gasps of interest.
Skelgill waves the key and drops it into his breast pocket.
There is a respectful silence – it might be that they are each waiting for an idea to land.
But as with all brainstorming – if that is what it takes – there has to be some catalyst. The human mind is ill suited to original thought, but finely honed to see patterns – it might be inventive, but it needs a stimulus.
Skelgill inhales deeply.
It appears to his colleagues that he is sniffing.
He looks about – and fastens upon the doorway. It seems to be the source of what disturbs him.
DS Jones is first to inquire.
‘What is it, Guv?’
Skelgill seems reluctant to speak.
He rises and stalks to the door; carefully, he peers out – now he is definitely sniffing. He takes a step into the passage, and disappears for a couple of seconds.
Reluctantly, it seems, he returns and sits.
Now he elaborates.
‘When I was at Brash Hall this morning. In the estate office – there was a vase of big creamy white flowers. Loads of pollen dropping. The smell about knocked your head off – it was like Parma Violets.’
Both of his associates are looking perplexed – but DS Jones sticks to logic.
‘Do you mean lilies?’
Skelgill shrugs.
‘They might have been, aye.’
‘I would say lilies smell sweet and spicy – more like a mixture of cloves and cinnamon.’
DS Leyton regards his boss warily.
‘Do you smell it now, Guv?’
Skelgill merely looks a little defeated.
‘I thought I did.’ He cocks his head in the direction of the door. ‘There’s nowt out there.’
‘Maybe someone just walked past with a bunch? It’s on the DAA committee’s agenda, ain’t it? To send flowers to Jasmine Betony.’
He makes a simple practical point.
But now DS Jones seems to be diverted; she raises a hand and rests it upon her crown.
‘You know – now I think of it – she had some in her kitchen.’
Skelgill’s frown demands an explanation.
‘Yesterday – when you went up to Kyle Betony’s study to look for the magazine. My job was to keep her talking. There was a vase on the side – I remember she adjusted the stems. The flowers hadn’t quite opened – so there was no scent – they must have been fresh.’ She screws up her eyes like she is making a wish. ‘I suppose I kind of assumed she had just bought them – but there was fancy wrapping paper, folded up – and a gift card.’
If Skelgill were being asked to perform a charade in a party game, from his expression one might deduce that his brief is to act out being on the horns of a dilemma. And there is a dilemma, of sorts. Something that does not fit and yet neither can be dismissed – a matter that has not resolved to his satisfaction. It is the disappearance of the true crime magazine from the Betony house. And now he is reminded of DS Jones’s unease on their first visit, a kind of premonition which he thought he had talked her out of.
These points – and the flowers – seem as tenuous as the fragrance itself; and yet a moment ago it had been both powerful and evocative. But evocative of what? Is this the ultimate stage of grasping at straws – when they are rapidly running out of options, and skidding haplessly towards the last-ditch measure which Skelgill has thus far not countenanced, the playing of a wildcard with almost unacceptable risk attached – to suggest to the suspects that they have a witness about to spill the beans.
He speaks quietly.
‘It might be useful to know who sent them.’
He glares at his phone.
‘Anyone got a signal?’
No one has.
DS Leyton begins to rise.
‘Want me to go out in the rain, Guv?’
‘We’ll use Charlie’s landline – he’s got a hands-free at reception.’
‘Even better.’
When DS Leyton returns, DS Jones has the number ready. She presses the speaker button; the handset makes extra loud bleeps as she types in the digits.
She places the phone on the table; they all stare like it is a ticking timebomb.
‘You speak.’
DS Jones leans a little closer at her superior’s command.
The recipient picks up.
‘Mrs Betony?’
‘Hello?’
DS Jones has to repeat herself. There is indeterminate background noise and electronic interference.
‘Hello, yes?’
‘It’s Detective Sergeant Jones. Sorry to disturb you.’
Jasmine Betony seems distracted – or fails to hear properly.
DS Jones decides she ought to cut to the chase.
‘When we called round yesterday – I noticed you’d had some lilies delivered. Can I ask whom they were from?’
There is another delay. But then she indicates she has understood.
‘The angling committee. Sir Montague –’
The line breaks – there is a moment’s silence, but then it reconnects.
‘Mrs Betony, could you repeat that? I lost you.’
Now there is either hesitation or just a poor signal attenuated by the bad weather.
But DS Jones seems to sense there is more.
‘Jasmine – are you okay?’
There is concern in her tone – and that she uses the girl’s first name – but only disjointed noises come through the speaker – until what sounds like a muffled male voice.
Then Jasmine Betony again.
‘Sorry – I –’
The line goes dead, and stays dead.
The detectives wait, but nothing more happens.
‘Sounds like she’s with someone – a geezer.’
It is DS Leyton’s observation. DS Jones looks at him.
‘What did he say?’
DS Leyton shakes his head, his features twisted.
‘“That’s thee, lass”.’
Both sergeants look at Skelgill – it seems he alone deciphered the phrase.
‘Reckon she was in a shop, Guv? I’ve had that kind of thing with the Missus – when she’s at the tills and tells me she’s ready to be picked up.’
‘Sounded more like she was on the move.’
As Skelgill says this a car must swing around outside, its headlights making a sweep that briefly illuminates the low lighting of the Snug. It distracts them for a moment – but somehow seems to reinforce Skelgill’s theory.
DS Jones picks up the handset.
‘I’ll try to reconnect. If she’s travelling, the signal might improve.’
She begins again. The handset has no obvious redial feature, so she has to type in the entire number. This time the call is diverted immediately to voicemail. She persists, but successive attempts meet the same outcome. She does not give up, however.
DS Leyton rises and drifts across to peer out of the window.
Skelgill seems to have sunken into a state of brooding; he has his gaze trained on the fire in the grate, his eyes unblinking. The angling committee? So why are flowers on tonight’s agenda?
He becomes vaguely conscious of movement just out in the passage. The door is still a little ajar. Of course, odd folk have been coming and going. It is a public house, and there are residents.
Two people must converge.
‘Oh, sorry.’
‘No, after you.’
DS Jones is persistently dialling without success. DS Leyton seems preoccupied by the weather.
Parma Violets.
And more – Skelgill recognises the voices.
He stands – so sharply that he is fleetingly dizzy – and sways, to the consternation of his colleagues.
He gathers his wits – and strides to the door.
He looks out – but no one is there.
Without a word he turns to his left and takes the little dog-leg into the first door of the bar.
The girl Saskia stands polishing a glass. His expression must be fierce, for her mouth drops open.
Skelgill casts about – and leaves.
He returns to the corridor and pauses – and inhales, lips compressed.
He enters the residents’ lounge – scanning about – and without breaking stride on into the Wythop restaurant. More staff look at him, a little aghast. A similar reaction is engendered in the bistro.
Now his pace is picking up – indeed he breaks into a trot along the corridor.
Without knocking, he ignores the “Private Meeting” sign and barges into the Smoke Room.
A bemused Jim Hartley and Alice Wright-Fotheringham break off mid-conversation to regard him, the professor with a look of wonder, the retired judge with a certain knowing smile.
Skelgill merely nods curtly, and withdraws.
After a moment’s hesitation, he enters the ladies’ toilets – this time after a sharp knock.
Then he checks the gents – though he merely looks inside from the doorway.
For a second, now, he seems stymied – then he inhales again and something seems to come to him. Like a cartoon dog that has picked up the wafting aroma of frying sausages, a curling wraith that is visible in the air, drawing him forth, he lurches nose first back along the passageway and swings left with the help of the banister rail to mount the broad staircase, taking two steps at a time.
He gains the upper corridor – now the violet aroma is palpable.
At the Skiddaw suite he slows and stops and draws a deep breath.
He tugs the master key from his pocket.
In a single swift and decisive action he inserts the key and pushes open the door.
It might almost be the act of a cuckolded husband come to expose the miscreants.
He stands framed in the doorway, stock still.
There is only silence from within.
But Skelgill stares – there is something to see.
Then, without a word, he reaches for the door handle.
He steps back, pulling shut the door.
He spins on his heel and stands, immobile.
His grey-green eyes have a faraway look.
Then he sees what he seeks.
He takes the stairs down, three at a time now – and crashes back into the Snug.
He has been gone only a minute.
DS Jones is still valiantly trying to connect the call.
DS Leyton loiters at the window.
‘That was a minicab, Guv.’
Skelgill stares at DS Leyton as though he does not comprehend.
DS Jones sees Skelgill’s animation.
She begins to rise.
‘Guv –?’
‘Get your coats.’
15. THE BRIDGE
The Partridge Inn – 6.51 p.m., Tuesday, 28th September
‘The Defender’s gone.’
‘But, where to, Guv?’
Skelgill looks rather askance at DS Leyton – as though his colleague should know his thoughts. But DS Leyton is preoccupied with fastening up his mackintosh as high as it will go, under protest around a neck that is more suited to packing down in the scrum than the fitting of couture.
DS Jones, likewise, is pulling up her hood, tucking away stray strands of blonde hair. Her hazel eyes seem to flicker in the swaying light of the rustic timbered porch of The Partridge.
In only partial shelter, they gird their loins. Sheets of rain are blowing in sideways. The wind roars, marauding about the black conifers that shelter the old inn. Skelgill has to raise his voice.
‘Jones – you come with me. Leyton – you follow.’
They make a collective assay into the tempest, DS Leyton breaking off to head for his own car.
From her passenger seat DS Jones gazes a little wistfully at the small square window of the Snug, its orange glow inviting, somehow twice as cosy from out here. Skelgill’s tyres spin in the surface water, but then they bite and the shooting brake pitches forward. Despite the darkness, she recognises some of the cars lined up along the front of the building – a Mercedes, a BMW, and a more modest Vauxhall.
‘They must be arriving.’
But Skelgill does not reply. He simply puts his foot down and smashes through the gears – it seems to DS Jones without let up on the revs – and at the A66 surely he shoots the junction – for in a blink of an eye and amidst the blur of the rain they are snaking along the tree-lined lane opposite, feeling the presence of a brim-full Bassenthwaite Lake close on their right.
Skelgill has thrown caution to the wind.
She prays that nothing lies in their path.
Then Ouse Bridge – he overshoots the turn by a couple of yards – but perhaps it is not his intention anyway to cross the bridge itself.
