Murder at the Bridge (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 20), page 31
‘What did you say?’
‘Just that I thought he was excited – by the event itself – that he had been looking forward to it.’
‘How did he react?’
Now Jasmine Betony closes her eyes, the long black lashes settling like the wings of feathered moths upon her prominent cheekbones. It takes her a moment to recall.
‘I think he was going to ask more.’ She hesitates, and brings fine long fingers up to touch her delicate chin. ‘That’s right – but the doorbell rang. Actually, I was expecting a delivery of groceries – that’s what I thought was odd when there was a knock at the back. I told him it probably was Tesco – and I’d just ask the driver to bring in the crates. That’s when he said – apologised – that he’d remembered he had an appointment with a land agent in Keswick. And he left.’
‘Through the back – the way he had come?’
‘Yes – he automatically went to the back door. I assumed he must have parked in the lane – you can’t really stop at the front for any length of time because of the parking restrictions.’
DS Jones is reprising her prepared notes. She glances briefly at her colleagues, who return encouraging looks – as if fearing she is trying to hand over the baton.
‘And what was the next contact?’
Jasmine Betony gives a small bow of her head.
‘It came also out of the blue – the next day – I would say at about four o’clock. Sir Montague – his impersonator – telephoned on the landline. He asked if I had seen the reports about the drugs connection to Kyle’s death.’
The girl’s lips narrow and a small crease appears upon her smooth brow.
‘I said that I had and that it was ridiculous – it must be fake news – that Kyle would never have anything to do with drugs. I had a mind to complain about the idiot journalist that wrote it.’
DS Jones shoots a reproachful look at Skelgill – for she can see he stifles a chortle.
But Jasmine Betony seems not to notice, and she continues.
‘He said that he was worried for me – that he was so sorry, because he thought there might be some substance to the report – and, if it were accurate, that it would be damaging to Kyle’s reputation, and in turn to mine – and even that I could be considered by the police to be some kind of accessory.’ Without turning her head, she looks sideways at Skelgill. ‘That you had already been to examine his file made me think it might be true.’
DS Jones offers a prompt.
‘Was he any more specific?’
‘He said that there had been a misappropriation of funds from the DAA.’
This time Skelgill cannot prevent a small scoff of indignation from escaping his person. The explanation – their investigations have indeed revealed this point to be half-correct – misappropriation, yes – by ordinary committee member Kyle Betony, no. By Treasurer ‘Anthony Goodman’ – yes.
Jasmine Betony hesitates – but Skelgill extends a palm, making an upward motion to indicate she should carry on, that she is on the right track, and they are with her.
‘He said he suspected Kyle was diverting monies for his own purposes – to buy drugs in order to sell them on. He explained that he now realised – having seen the media report – that there was incriminating evidence in Kyle’s DAA file. He told me there was a meeting that evening – he suggested that if I brought the file along to him beforehand – well – his words were, he could square things with the committee. That I had suffered enough.’
Hitherto, Jasmine Betony has presented a largely neutral countenance – but now, for the first time, her features contract into an expression of remorse that makes her seem much younger even than her twenty-four years. She bows her head more deeply, and does not look up as she speaks.
‘I realise I should have told you. Come straight to you. I was confused and frightened – I know you don’t have the death penalty in England for drugs offences – but it seemed such a great responsibility. And I have no one else to turn to – since the loss of my husband.’
She keeps her head bowed – DS Jones seems to share her anguish – and DS Leyton, in particular looks alarmed.
But Skelgill’s expression errs on the grim. She has paid a high cost – she almost paid more – and in his version of justice, she is innocent.
He clicks his fingers, directing the action at DS Jones – that she should move on.
The sharp snap causes Jasmine Betony to look up; she is like a small animal, cornered and unsure of its fate, but resigned to the outcome.
DS Jones addresses her, her tone decisive.
‘Jasmine – we consider you acted under duress.’ She raises her notebook illustratively. ‘There is only one target of our investigation. If you could just explain further – the arrangement that was made.’
There is relief in the dark eyes; she gives a rueful smile.
‘He said I should get a taxi to The Partridge – that he would meet me in the bar beforehand – and that I could just wait. It was only going to be a short meeting – he thought half an hour – and that he would be able to confirm to me afterwards that everything was okay. And that he would give me a lift home.’
The detectives are all nodding. It fits. They witnessed her journey. DS Jones made the telephone call. DS Leyton saw the minicab. Skelgill heard her voice in the passage.
And it is now Skelgill that intervenes – for he also bore witness to her disappearance.
‘Where did you go?’
‘He was waiting at the bar. But he immediately said it was too public and we should look at the folder in his car. He led me through a second door from the bar and then outside through a side door at the end of the corridor. His Land Rover – what I thought was his Land Rover – was nearby. We sat for a moment while he looked at the file. Then he said something like – the best thing is that we dispose of these pages – there will be no more smoking gun. He said – let’s do it together – so that I could witness that they were gone. He made a joke about it being no use trying to burn anything on a night like this. So, he said – let’s just go where no one will see us. That it would only take a minute.’
DS Jones resumes.
‘So his idea was to throw the papers into the river – the Derwent at Ouse Bridge?’
Jasmine Betony nods – but now she bites her lip and suddenly two large tears overflow from the glistening wells of her dark eyes and stream over the curves of her cheeks. DS Leyton, with surprising alacrity for a man of his build, springs forward to press upon her a paper tissue that protrudes from a striped box.
She does not speak – but she nods in answer to DS Jones’s proposition.
‘That’s okay, Jasmine – we know the rest. We don’t need to go over it again.’
‘Thank f –’
It is Skelgill from whom the stifled ejaculation issues – his colleagues look at him a little wide-eyed. He even appears shocked himself – but Jasmine Betony seems to understand his reaction.
‘Inspector, I have not had chance to thank you. In fact, I don’t know how ever I can.’
Skelgill rises and turns away to the window. He leans his hands on the sill and seems to be catching his breath. But when he turns back his expression carries hints of self-reproach – that somehow an unexpected emotion had got the better of him. He fumbles for a self-deprecating retort from what is a limited arsenal – but before he can fire one off Jasmine Betony speaks again.
‘I don’t think I could have clung on much longer.’
She provides the opening he seeks – though he glances sheepishly at DS Jones. She has several times castigated him for not waiting for her tie him on to the second strand. But his argument has been that, were he to have ended up in the Derwent, he would rather have taken his chances swimming for it, than bobbing on the end of a rope; and that she would never have hauled his weight against the current that night.
He grins mischievously at Jasmine Betony.
‘You and me both, lass.’
FENELLA MANSFIELD, BRASH HALL, 5.30 p.m.
Skelgill cannot quite believe his eyes. In the early evening gloom he peers through the glass of the side window of Land Rover Defender registration SMB 1 – it must be Sir Montague Brash’s reserve model. It is the shorter wheelbase 90, rather than the longer 110 – but where it does not differ from the vehicle half-wrecked by Tobias Jubb is that the keys are once again in the ignition. Clearly, old habits die hard.
Skelgill shrugs and turns away.
A light burns in the estate office, and this time it appears his arrival has gone unnoticed – although he can see a damp black nose pressed against the lower glass of the door, surrounded by a small patch of condensation.
He strides across, his boots crunching in the gravel; he carries a large bulging opaque plastic carrier bag.
Fenella Mansfield looks up in surprise when he enters – it seems she has been engrossed in some item on her mobile phone – she puts aside the device with a fading relic of an artful grin. The dog seems pleased to see him, and this time he has a strip of jerky at the ready, which he surreptitiously palms in the guise of a stroke around the muzzle; Pandora enters into the conspiracy, and slips through the door at the rear, which is a little ajar.
‘Oh, Inspector.’
His judgement in these situations being prone to bias, Skelgill’s assessment is that she too is pleased to see him. There might also be hints of embarrassment, coyness, vulnerability – a potentially volatile cocktail.
He halts a yard short of her desk and casts about. The flowers of his last visit are gone – but the violet aroma is not. As before, the office seems unduly warm – perhaps the heat of the sauna seeps through the open door – and this time he needs no invitation to remove his jacket – a kind of tactical fleecy under which he is wearing only a tight-fitting t-shirt.
He makes it obvious that he is inhaling, without the act seeming too vulgar.
‘Nice perfume that you wear.’
If he is honest, he does not actually think so – whether it is too cloying, or simply that it reminds him of the detested sweets, he is not sure – but he brazens out his compliment.
Fenella Mansfield takes it in her stride.
‘Oh – thank you – it’s, er –’ She leans down to one side and picks a small designer handbag and produces a tiny lilac-coloured bottle with a psychedelic design. She holds it up. ‘It’s called Ultra-Violet – the new fragrance from Suivre-Son-Nez.
Skelgill nods.
‘Aye, I suppose it would be.’
She reaches towards a drawer of her desk.
‘Actually – somewhere – I have a new bottle, unopened. Here it is. Would you like it? For your girlfriend, perhaps?’
She flutters her lashes. He is reminded why her employer might have created an awkward situation for himself; perhaps not entirely by himself.
But Skelgill grimaces, all the same.
‘Do I look like a bloke that’s got a girlfriend?’
‘Frankly, I’d be surprised if you didn’t.’
She is sharp, and smiling she waits for his further denial with a look that says she will remain in any event unconvinced. Skelgill does not answer – he delves into his carrier bag and brings out what appears to be a large fluffy white bath towel, freshly laundered and neatly rolled.
The woman inhales to speak – but he tucks it under his arm and pre-empts any observation.
‘I wouldn’t mind asking you a couple of things.’
‘Anything you like.’ She lowers her voice. ‘Naturally, I feel – well – a little indebted to you.’
Skelgill narrows his eyes – as if to convey that he is trying to read between the lines. And his question when it comes is at once forthright and cryptic.
‘On the night of Saturday 18th – did you see anything that I should know about?’
He waits. Fenella Mansfield looks for a moment like she might not understand. She is wearing a silky blouse, unbuttoned to her breastbone, and now she gazes at him and places a palm over the bare tanned flesh above her heart. She shakes her head slowly.
They each maintain unblinking eye contact – until, it seems, Skelgill accepts the unspoken answer and shifts on his feet. He gestures to one side of the office and they both follow his indication, breaking the stalemate.
‘The flowers that were here when I came last time – lilies – where did they come from?’
Fenella Mansfield seems a little caught off guard by his question. She shows no sign of disquiet in her expression – but she deflects for a moment, repeating his words.
‘The lilies – where did they come from? Yes – well – actually, it was – Anthony Goodman – well, whatever – whoever –’
Now she regards Skelgill with a frown, as if she acknowledges it is of mutual concern.
‘Did he come often?’
‘From time to time.’ She smiles, knowingly – in a way that suggests he will understand her ambiguity. ‘Ostensibly for meetings with Monty about the DAA.’
Skelgill nods, his expression stern, though not reproachful of her.
‘Did he ever ask you out?’
‘He did, as a matter of fact.’
‘What happened?’
‘I said I was spoken for.’
There is silence.
Skelgill experiences a tremor of disquiet – it troubles him – and causes a distraction from which she has to rouse him.
‘You brought your own towel? We have plenty.’
He looks back at her to see she is smiling broadly.
She stands up and smooths the material of her tight-fitting skirt.
But with a flourish Skelgill unfurls the item under the force of gravity.
‘It’s a dressing gown.’
On the breast pocket it has an embroidered bird motif.
‘The Partridge? But I –’
Skelgill steps forward and presents it into her arms.
‘Compliments of the house. I borrowed it when I was soaked the other night. I reckon you’ll find it’s just Mr Smith’s size.’
THE OLD BAR, THE PARTRIDGE INN, 6.29 p.m.
‘You were quicker than I expected.’
‘Seeing Charlie?’ Skelgill sounds a little unnerved.
‘No – at Brash Hall. I thought you might be in for a long interrogation.’
Skelgill gives a sigh of resignation.
‘That’s one advantage of our turning a blind eye.’
DS Jones regards him pensively.
‘We didn’t exactly turn a blind eye – you told the Chief.’
Skelgill shrugs. He is tempted to reach for the colloquial term for the act of protecting oneself from subsequent criticism by failing to mitigate against a predictable outcome – but it is a tactic from the playbook of DI Alex Smart, and not one with which he likes to be associated. Moreover, he decides this is not the moment.
But DS Jones does it for him.
‘We covered our asses.’
Skelgill is drinking and her phrase causes him to splutter.
‘You’ve been watching too much American TV, lass.’
But she has brought a sardonic grin to his lips. He is a little more forthcoming.
‘Goodman – Jubb – he tried it on with her.’
DS Jones emits a small gasp.
‘With Fenella Mansfield?’
‘Aye. He took her the same flowers – lilies.’
‘Do you think he suspected her of having seen something – from the bedroom window?’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he was sounding her out – if he knew she was here, that is. Otherwise – happen she was just another female he got in his sights. It wasn’t his first visit.’
Now DS Jones is the one to shake her head.
‘How many others are there?’
Skelgill gazes broodingly across the small room; his eyes traverse the extensive collection of single malt whiskies that stretches across the back bar, a comforting golden glow in the low warm light.
‘That’s a long road ahead. Unless he has a change of heart. And I can’t see that.’ He sniffs. ‘At least, as Leyton says, we’ve got him bang to rights – for what he’s done on our patch.’
DS Jones, too, seems to contemplate the middle distance.
‘Remember, when we were talking about psychopaths – how endearing they can be?’
‘I remember you saying there was no danger of me being mistaken for one.’
She laughs.
‘That was you!’
Skelgill, in denial, buries his nose in his pint of bitter.
DS Jones turns to her left and gestures to the empty space on the alcove wall.
‘Do you think we ought to give Kendall Minto some kind of minor scoop? He did come up with the goods.’
But Skelgill only scoffs.
‘Aye, two days late.’
DS Jones gives half a nod.
‘We would have caught him, at least.’
Skelgill does not look convinced.
‘Who’s to say he’s not got another pocket pardon tucked away?’
‘You mean another false identity?’
‘I wouldn’t put it past him. He could have killed Jasmine Betony and been out of the country that same night.’
‘I suppose so.’
She drinks, and raises her glass to the light, as if to see what it is that she tastes. She has succumbed to a half-pint of cask ale – a novelty in that there can be so much flavour in a drink that is neither flat nor gassy, neither cold nor tepid.
‘When did you know it was him – Goodman, I mean?’
‘You know when you see a snake – and your first instinct is to want to kill it?’
‘Really?’
Skelgill chokes back a laugh.
‘When Leyton phoned me from the crash site.’
But DS Jones is not having it.
‘But you knew there was something afoot – you knew to go to the bridge.’
Skelgill turns to look at her, as though it is news to him.
‘Did I?’
‘Yes.’ She is resolute.
Skelgill sits back, silenced. It takes him a few moments to respond.
‘Happen a few things came together. Followed my nose.’ His free hand wanders to feel the bulge in the pocket of his fleece jacket.
