Murder at the Bridge (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 20), page 29
For, ahead on the soft verge, where Skelgill had parked before, stands the Defender. Registration number, MTY 1.
It seems – in the moment that they pause to take in the scene – that a dark figure climbs into the driver’s seat. The lights come on, the brake lights flash – and the Land Rover lumbers off the verge and moves away along Bitter Beck Lane.
Skelgill engages gear, when DS Jones cries out.
‘Guv – what’s that?’
She points across him – through his side window, to Ouse Bridge, the tarmac black and slick in what little ambient light emanates from the car. Where it narrows and rises to a smooth apex, there is a small patch of something white.
Skelgill cranes to see his rear-view mirror. DS Leyton’s headlamps approach at pace.
‘Wait.’
He jumps out and flags down his colleague.
‘Leyton – the Defender’s just gone – this lane has no turns for four miles – it’s slow going. Take the A66. Head it off. I’ll block from this direction. Don’t spare the gas.’
DS Leyton grins gleefully.
‘I’ll imagine I’m on the North Circular, Guv.’
‘And, Leyton – call the cavalry.’
‘Wilco.’
To the extent that a handbrake turn is possible from a standing position, DS Leyton now performs one. His car disappears, fishtailing into a cloud of spray.
Skelgill leans into the shooting brake.
‘Come on, lass – quickly – let’s see.’
Despite the conditions DS Jones needs no encouragement. But as the pair bend into the rain and wind she takes Skelgill’s arm for balance.
Skelgill has his torch – he illuminates the alien object.
Twenty yards gained, to the centre of the bridge.
DS Jones stoops.
She lifts a large oval pebble that pins down a sheet of paper inside a clear polythene bag.
Skelgill directs his torch.
At first the intense light reflected blinds them both – he adjusts the beam to make it less fierce.
It is not often that DS Jones swears – but she reads more quickly than Skelgill.
Were a car to come upon the two detectives at this moment, its headlamps would find them statuesque, together like a single black figure, hunched and hooded, a spectre that haunts the scene of some ancient tragedy.
‘What does it say?’
Skelgill can surely read it – for there are barely thirty words, clearly printed in large type.
‘It’s a suicide note – and a confession – by Jasmine Betony.’
Skelgill has his feet planted wide; he provides some token lee for his partner. The gale is gusting; powerful eddies surge through the valley, causing bankside shrubs to shiver and shake as if they would up and run, if only they could; at their feet, in the halo of the torch, the tarmac is plastered with pale upturned leaves prematurely ripped from nearby poplars.
DS Jones has to shout to be heard.
‘It says the stone is the murder weapon.’
Skelgill has it in him for his intuition to play one last trick on logic.
‘It could be fake.’
His colleague seems only half to hear him. The rain batters them both. She pulls back her hood to check that she has understood.
‘You mean she has a plan to disappear?’
Skelgill inexplicably upturns the torch so that it illuminates his face, a pale mask framed by his hood that seems to float in the velvet blackness. He inhales to speak – but he only gasps as the wind snatches away his breath – when a sudden sharp sound pierces the air.
‘What’s that?’
‘A barn owl.’
But DS Jones with her hood lowered has superior stereophonic hearing.
‘Guv – it came from the river.’
She turns but before she can take a step Skelgill is past her and leaning over the low parapet. He directs his beam downwards. For maybe two seconds he remains frozen – then acts.
‘Here!’
He thrusts the flashlight into DS Jones’s hand and sprints into the darkness.
In thirty seconds his shooting brake slides to a halt beside his waiting colleague.
In another thirty seconds he has a climbing rope from the back.
He kneels and threads one end around the nearside rear suspension and pulls it through.
He knots the two strands and backs towards the parapet, drawing the now doubled rope.
He steps one leg over the rope and lifts the working end over his head and brings it back under his opposite arm. It is the classic abseil, when no harness is available, or there is no time to fit one.
Now he reverses onto the parapet, leaning away, using his body weight to draw the rope tight.
‘Shine the light!’
‘It’s not safe!’
She can see that Skelgill is not tied on – were he to slip, his body would rotate and the rope would simply unwind.
‘I could belay you – with one of the strands.’
‘Shine it!’
DS Jones steps forward, and gets down on her knees against the parapet – a precaution against a rogue gust that could toss her over. Her heart is pounding in her chest.
Skelgill begins to lower himself, kicking out two-footed.
Eight feet below, spreadeagled, Jasmine Betony clings to the smooth wet stones of the spear-shaped pier.
The black water is above her knees – it must pull at her, draining her will.
She does not look up; she does not move; she might almost be barely conscious.
This is a human at the very precipice, where life meets death and death holds sway.
Then Skelgill is beside her.
Now he too is part submerged.
He can feel the current sucking at him – it would take him in an instant – it is a miracle that the girl clings on – her tiny frame and survival instinct must combine to give her the strength of a gymnast.
The night is mild, but the water is chilling – the rain has fallen at forty degrees Fahrenheit, easily low enough to incapacitate muscles and induce hypothermia.
Every second is vital.
And she is not secure.
Skelgill, with a last heave of his quads springs out and simultaneously sideways – as he swings back against the bridge he thrusts his left knee between her legs.
She makes a small cry – she is frail, and he knows he knocks the wind out of her, crushing her against the stones of the pier – but at least he provides some support.
And now for the greatest risk.
He must get one strand of the rope around her.
His right hand is controlling the friction of the abseil – if he lets go, he will slide and be gone.
The two ends trail downstream. He reaches behind with his left hand and drags one strand around and up to his mouth. He bites on it, and pulls again, and repeats the manoeuvre until he has a free loop.
His own discomfort is worsening. The emergency abseil is painful at the best of times. Upright, the unsuitable position has the rope cutting into his groin, his back, his neck and his right armpit. The current saps his energy reserves and the relentless rain impairs his vision.
He moves his head close to the girl’s.
‘Stick your bum out, lass!’
It is a crude instruction – but unequivocal and effective – and he feels her press against him.
With a quick thrust he threads the loop of rope around her slender abdomen and again uses his teeth as a brake until he has enough through. He ties the loop off on the bight – a double half-hitch that is the best he can do one-handed – but it is a good knot that tightens under strain, though he has no means of dressing it.
‘You’re tied on!’
His mouth again to her ear he feels her nod – and to his relief she grips ever more spiderlike to the rising curve of the stone pier. She might be tied on, but there are several feet of slack.
Now he recognises his own predicament.
DS Jones was right – but would the girl have lasted another thirty seconds?
And now if he lingers he may weaken beyond recovery.
There is no such thing as a reverse abseil – not a climber on earth can invert the force of gravity.
He must literally take his life in his hands.
With a great heave he rotates his body and unwinds himself from the rope.
‘Guv!’
He hears DS Jones’s despairing wail as he swings out into the current – for a moment it threatens to take him away. She makes a grab at the rope and drops the torch at her feet and he is plunged into darkness.
Teeth bared and features strained beyond recognition – the bizarre thought strikes him that it is just as well that she does not witness such an unbecoming expression. The rope bites into his numbed palms and burns his raw fingers.
But Skelgill has the frame for this moment. He is bigger than the average man, yet his build is wiry, sinewy, more muscle than slack – he is far more powerful than he looks and the ratio of this available force to his lean weight means he is able to haul himself up – slowly, jerkily, heaving and reaching, hand over hand – and as he draws his hips and then his legs from the river, the undertow lessens and he climbs faster.
Above, DS Jones is trying in vain to pull up his strand of rope – but the instant he rises to within reach she has him – unceremoniously – first by the hair and then by the scruff of his neck – and with an explosive heave she has him flopping over the parapet and landing upon her. Laid out in the light of the fallen torch they look at one another agog.
But there is no time for an inquisition.
They scramble to rescue Jasmine Betony. Six stones – Skelgill’s casual estimate at an earlier juncture – proves about right – she is not even a flyweight, and they have her up in seconds, a tiny bedraggled figure, her long black hair plastered across her face and caught in her mouth and nose. They lift her by the armpits and lower her down against the parapet – but incredibly she rolls over and struggles to her feet.
She seems ready to flee.
Skelgill seems to understand something.
He picks up the torch to confirm the identity of her saviours.
And he is right – she seems a little reassured.
‘I thought he’d come back –’
Her voice is weak and tremulous – but she pulls at the rope tied around her waist – as if the role of captive still troubles her.
DS Jones moves in to help.
Skelgill is digging in the flatbed of his car. He produces an army blanket – he tosses it to his colleague – and then he is biting into the plastic shrink-wrap of a foil survival cape.
While DS Jones fights the wind to envelop the girl, Skelgill detaches the rope from his car’s suspension and tosses it into the back. He slams down the tailgate and rounds to the driver’s door.
DS Jones looks anxiously across at him – but then she sees beyond – in what distance is visible – through the haze the faint flashing blur of blue lights coming their way.
Skelgill calls out to his colleague.
‘Time I made sure.’
And he is gone.
*
‘Unconscious – but breathing.’
Skelgill surveys the lane ahead of him – the full beam of his headlights illuminates a scene like a movie set. His sergeant toils towards him, bent into the gale, calling out his news.
Behind DS Leyton the Land Rover Defender, MTY 1, lies on its roof beyond the bend in the road, half embedded in a hawthorn hedge, half submerged by the flood that has caused the crash.
‘Lucky I’ve got a signal, Guv – ambulance from Cockermouth reckons they’ll be three minutes.’
Skelgill nods, grimly, pensively.
But he cannot speak. Perhaps the drama and effort of the past hour are just starting to take their toll. He knows he ought to commend his sergeant.
But he turns, and begins to walk back towards his car.
‘Cor, blimey!’
Skelgill spins on his heel.
‘Aye?’
‘Your new cagoule, Guv – it’s split right down the back.’
16. IDENTITY
Two weeks later
LUCY BEDLINGTON, POLICE HQ, 10 a.m.
‘I just don’t believe it.’
The detectives wait in patient silence.
After a few moments, DS Jones leans forwards and indicates with her pen. On the coffee table around which they are ringed in the less formal interview room she has placed an enlarged newspaper article. It consists of a photograph of a motley team of men (and a lanky boy at one end) standing to attention with fishing rods, and a small column of print.
‘Dr Bedlington – this is him, don’t you agree?’
The woman, who looks drawn and worried, leans forward tentatively. Her neat shoulder-length strawberry blonde hair falls across her face and in the act of parting it she might almost be wiping away tears.
But she has her wits about her, and it is plain that she not only scrutinises the image, but also she cross-references the man’s place in the line with the list of names.
‘It says T. Jubb.’
She is not questioning; merely confirming what she has been told in outline.
‘That’s right, Doctor. The man you know as Anthony Goodman is Tobias Jubb. The real Anthony Goodman lives in the United States. He emigrated when a British company of which he was a Director was asset-stripped. He had committed no crime but departed our shores to escape potential action by creditors. We believe he sold – or rather, licensed – his British identity to Tobias Jubb. This aspect of our investigation is still ongoing – the real Mr Goodman admits to being befriended by Tobias Jubb in the USA – but he has claimed that Tobias Jubb stole his documents. Neither the FBI nor we believe that. There is evidence of collaboration. The information that Tobias Jubb is in possession of is too comprehensive – ranging from technical data such as a national insurance number, to biographical detail on his upbringing in Leicestershire, his education, and his work history.’
DS Jones pauses to allow her words to sink in.
Skelgill and DS Leyton watch on thoughtfully. The woman is smartly dressed and discreetly made up – but the vivacious persona that Skelgill observed at their first encounter seems entirely crushed. Even he makes an effort to exude sympathy.
DS Jones removes another printed sheet from her file, this time a copy of two photographs juxtaposed. They each are of a couple at their weddings.
‘This is Tobias Jubb and his first wife, Lynette. They both originate from this part of Cumbria. Lynette Jubb died in a conflagration that was the aftermath of a car crash in the Whinlatter Forest, twenty-four years ago, shortly after they were married. Tobias Jubb escaped with minor injuries. He claimed a very significant insurance payout, and we believe soon after left the United Kingdom.’
She waits a moment before she indicates again.
‘And this is Tobias Jubb with his second wife, Jolene – we think, his second, there may be others. They settled in St Louis, Missouri. Jolene Jubb had begun to experience inexplicable bouts of tiredness. On one particular day – ten years ago – on a family outing she woke in the car to see Tobias Jubb pushing their daughter away, up a forested track in a buggy. There was a can of petrol on the bonnet of the car. She managed to hide – and rescue the little girl. They fled and she raised the alarm at a farm. The FBI later found the car at a nearby airport. Tobias Jubb completely disappeared. We believe he left the USA using the identity of Anthony Goodman. Shortly before the incident in the forest, Tobias Jubb had taken out a multi-million-dollar insurance policy on Jolene Jubb’s life.’
The doctor is silent.
They understand that part of her is fiercely resisting these uncomfortable facts.
Quietly, DS Jones ups the ante.
‘It was established that Tobias Jubb was drugging his wife Jolene – it appears he was building up the dose, trying several dry runs, seeing to what extent she would fall unconscious on trips for picnics. As for Lynette Jubb – we have managed to retrieve and re-analyse tissue samples that were retained from the autopsy. The forensic laboratory has confirmed they contain abnormally high levels of a proprietary benzodiazepine.’
Dr Lucy Bedlington looks up in alarm.
‘Is there something?’
It takes a few seconds for the woman to compose herself. And when she speaks, her words come disjointedly.
‘Anthony – he – he had asked me to prescribe him extra diazepam – you might know it as Valium? He said he found it helped with his MS.’
She checks rather nervously about the detectives; though none of them exhibits an expression of reproach.
‘Though I didn’t like to do it – I am not his GP.’ She bites one side of her bottom lip. ‘He can be persuasive.’
It is plain that the woman feels a great weight on her shoulders; she literally sags.
DS Leyton clears his throat.
‘Madam – we found a stash of it in his car – hidden in the fuse box under the driver’s seat. That doesn’t seem like the normal place that you’d keep that kind of thing.’ He grins amiably, though it is perhaps wishful thinking that it might alleviate her tension. ‘Also a bottle of dental chloroform, labelled from the care home where he worked.’
She regards him wanly. Then she looks at Skelgill, who makes a resigned grimace.
She turns pleadingly back to DS Jones.
‘Doctor – we were exploring the possibility of meeting privately with you to deliver an Osman letter. Our difficulty was the uncertainty over the true identity of Tobias Jubb. To present an Osman letter to someone whose partner is actually entirely innocent would of course be a grave error. There was also the consideration that you were still unmarried.’
Dr Lucy Bedlington looks like she is seeing some horror unfold before her.
‘But – our pensions –’
DS Jones leans forwards reassuringly.
‘Yes?’
‘Neither of us have close relatives. You know how you can nominate a beneficiary for your personal pension under the new deregulated system? Anthony – I have to call him that – Anthony had proposed that we nominate one another.’
The detectives make a collective effort not to react to the small frisson they each experience.
