Murder at the Bridge (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 20), page 6
She leans back and crosses her ankles; she is wearing a close-fitting sports outfit with trainers and appears to be sockless, although a sharp eye would pick out the hem of trainer socks snug around her tanned ankles.
DS Leyton has listened carefully; but now he turns to Skelgill and changes the immediate subject matter.
‘What do you reckon to the injury, Guv?’
Skelgill regards his sergeant pensively.
‘If he went over the bridge, backwards – he could have cracked his head on the pier.’
‘What about rocks in the river?’
But on this point Skelgill looks doubtful.
‘Aye, there’s rocks under the surface – but I reckon they’d be too deep.’
DS Jones chips in.
‘People do get knocked out diving into swimming pools. How deep is the water beneath the bridge?’
Skelgill frowns.
‘Saturday night – maybe six foot.’
It is inconclusive as a theory.
DS Leyton leans forwards, resting his palms on his ample thighs.
‘Or some cove coshed him and hoiked him over? Chucked the rock in after him.’
Skelgill flashes a sideways glance at his sergeant – perhaps that he has employed a local word, and not entirely accurately. But he refrains from splitting hairs. And DS Leyton distracts him with a rider.
‘What are the odds of it being some randomer?’
Skelgill reflects for a moment.
‘I can’t see it Leyton. These lanes are dead at night. No lights. Nowhere to hang about. Long, is the answer.’
Now DS Leyton cranes his neck, looking up to the ceiling and speaking musingly.
‘If it were an accident, Guv – if he leant over the bridge and fell – skull-to-stone – frankly, our job’s done, right? But if it’s the stone-to-skull variety – then ain’t we looking at one of your fisherfolk?’
It is of course the elephant in the room – it has been the elephant in the car and the pub and everywhere else that Skelgill and DS Jones have been since they breakfasted at Ouse Bridge early yesterday morning.
There ensues a silence.
After a few moments, Skelgill begins to look around his desk, as if he is wondering where are the biscuits; so close to lunch, DS Jones has not for once brought any. Rather reluctantly, he raises his mug and drains the contents.
DS Jones takes advantage of the question that hangs in the air; she hands out a trio of stapled pages. The first is a photocopy of her notebook, the information gleaned from Professor Jim Hartley, including the seating plan; the second is the list he supplied of the DAA committee members’ contact details. There is a final sheet that contains the names and telephone numbers of hotel guests, recognition that she has not overlooked this aspect. Indeed, supplementary notes indicate that DC Watson has been assigned to follow up the latter, once the go-ahead is given, and that all DAA committee members have been informed both of the incident and to expect further inquiries.
She waits for Skelgill to pronounce.
‘We can rule out the Prof and Alice.’
He states the obvious, in that this couple left while Kyle Betony was still in his seat – but there is an authoritarian note in his voice: that they would be above suspicion, in any event.
DS Jones is nodding – and now quick to make a suggestion.
‘If you look at the seating plan – see how Stephen Flood was at the end of the table on Kyle Betony’s right? I think he would be the person most likely to have engaged in conversation with him.’
Skelgill is unconsciously biting at the nail of the thumb on his left hand; he stares seemingly unseeing at the page before him. But when he speaks it is clear he has made an assessment.
‘I’ll talk to the Chairman. Leyton – you take the three other blokes.’ He turns to DS Jones. ‘That leaves the three women. You can drop me at Brash Hall – if you leave Ruth Robinson until last, I’ll yomp along the Derwent and meet you at Kirkthwaite. Happen I’ll drop in on the sheepdog that found him.’
DS Jones regards Skelgill quizzically; she would love to know by what logic he has allocated the interviews. The riverside stroll might not be the only factor in the equation.
But there is an intervention – a visible jolt from DS Leyton. He raises a finger, in the manner of a boy scout testing for the direction of the wind.
‘What if he were dumped, Guv – on the river bank, I mean?’
There is a flash of the grey-green eyes and a contraction of features that might just be self-reproof on Skelgill’s part. He folds his arms. His thoughts revert to his initial conversation with DS George Appleby – when he learned of the incident. “Washed up at the Colonel’s Pool”; these had been the desk sergeant’s exact words – and Skelgill had taken them at face value. Of course, at the scene he had checked carefully for signs of disturbance, and there were none. But the shingle was firm, and would not easily accept tracks.
But he is a little less candid with his colleague.
‘Leyton – the spot’s three hundred yards from the lane where Isel Bridge crosses the river. There’s a fixed stile to climb over. That’s some job to shift a dead weight in the dark.’
DS Leyton is phlegmatic.
‘Just saying, Guv. It would be easy enough to drive him along in the bucket of a tractor – across the fields, like.’
Skelgill senses that DS Jones is staring at him. They both know that DS Leyton has inadvertently touched upon the fact that Kyle Betony’s body was found on land farmed by one committee member and owned by another.
But speculation, that mortal enemy of the detective, threatens to run amok. Skelgill drops his elbows onto his desk, intertwining his long fingers. He looks at DS Leyton, seated opposite.
‘We’re talking witnesses not suspects, right?’ His tone is insistent.
DS Leyton nods obligingly. Skelgill turns to DS Jones. The sun has emerged from behind a cloud and he squints as the light flares about her, igniting bronze highlights in her hair.
‘Make sure the press office stress that it’s an accident. And no need to mention the name of the hotel – or the exact location of the body.’
DS Jones, too, nods in accord.
Skelgill relaxes his grip and gently, perhaps subconsciously, he punches his left fist into his right palm.
‘And be on your guard with Smart – if he’s got wind of this, I don’t trust him not to gum up the works.’
5. MONTY
Brash Hall – 2.04 p.m., Monday, 20th September
‘Wait!’
‘What?’
‘Duck!’
Skelgill – just as he was about to open the door, has instead slid down into the passenger seat of his colleague’s car, as best the cramped space will allow his gangly form. DS Jones, perplexed – but understanding the principle of his order – bows her head against the steering wheel.
It is possible that, at a glance, the car looks empty. They each have their windows partially open, and there is the crunch on gravel of slow footsteps that pass in the middle distance; to their relief they do not halt or waver, but disappear from earshot. They are parked on a sweep of driveway that curves around beneath ancient limes to give them a view of the linear sandstone pile that is Brash Hall; it could almost be half a street in Georgian Bath or Edinburgh, or one side of London’s Grosvenor Square. The way continues to what looks like stable blocks at the rear. DS Jones turns to glimpse her superior – evidently he had spotted the person responsible for the footfalls and did not want them to be seen.
After a moment, Skelgill cautiously resumes a normal position.
He stares at his colleague interrogatively; it is clear he is processing some revelation.
‘Yesterday morning at The Partridge. When the alarm went off. The bloke who opened the window – did he see you?’
‘Well –’ DS Jones hesitates. She is unsure of what answer Skelgill is looking for. Of course the person must have seen her.
‘Your face, I’m talking about?’
‘I don’t think – no – I had my back to him. I didn’t realise there was anyone there until the window closed. The alarm was so loud.’
When under most circumstances Skelgill would have been dismayed that she is unable to corroborate his inquiry, it seems he is in fact satisfied with her response.
‘It was him.’
‘What do you mean – who?’
‘Sir Montague Brash – in the bedroom at The Partridge.’ Now he gestures towards the country house. ‘He just walked past.’
‘Ah.’ It takes her a moment to get her bearings. ‘I assumed that you knew him. Through fishing, I mean.’
But Skelgill shakes his head, glowering a little.
‘I reckon we don’t exactly move in the same circles. Like I said – I’m just a member – I don’t get involved in social events and the like. And the angling club’s not like cricket – it’s not as if you play as a team and practice together twice a week. I might not see another member from one year to the next. Suits me down to the ground.’
DS Jones nods pensively. In her estimation Skelgill’s lone wolf tendencies extend to the otherwise collaborative summer game; as a fast bowler he stalks in from the distant boundary to hunt his prey, and return unsung with scalps in his belt.
But she is quick to see the corollary of his assertion about Sir Montague Brash.
‘So – someone did stay over?’
Skelgill now looks conflicted – almost a little cheated.
‘There’s no way Charlie wouldn’t have told us.’
DS Jones accepts Skelgill’s assessment of his hotelier friend.
‘Charlie wouldn’t have to know.’
Skelgill scowls.
‘What’s Brash doing – staying at The Partridge when he lives here – a quarter of an hour’s drive.’
‘Maybe he drank too much and just decided to crash out – if a room were unlocked? He’s obviously familiar with the place.’
‘Do you think that?’ His tone is leery.
DS Jones smiles.
‘Well – I can think of a more scandalous explanation – but I know you don’t like idle gossip.’
Skelgill forces a perfunctory grin.
He stares coldly at the house.
‘You’ll need to interview him.’
‘Pardon?’ This represents a sudden change of plan.
‘He eyeballed me on Sunday – he looked right at me.’ He squints at her appraisingly. ‘Put your hair in a band, or summat.’
DS Jones regards her boss reflectively.
‘You mean – we – I – don’t ask the question – why did he stay at The Partridge?’
Skelgill nods.
‘Exactly. Play it as if we didn’t know. If he’s got nowt to hide, he’ll tell you.’
‘And, if he doesn’t?’
‘Leave it be.’
DS Jones’s expression becomes rather musing – possibly even amused. But she goes along with Skelgill’s approach. She produces a hair band from the door pocket and gathers in her fair locks. Skelgill watches with some apprehension; carrying the legacy of long summer days, it is a striking feature that could give her away. But he is reasonably confident; the man had glared at him, correctly identifying him as the cause of the commotion. Moreover, he had withdrawn himself quickly, in a manner consistent with the sudden realisation that he was unwisely exposing his presence.
Skelgill gives an involuntary shake of his head – a caution against such post-rationalisation.
DS Jones has a clipboard. On top is a printed sheet, an empty table headed “Witness Report”, designed intentionally to convey to an interviewee their status in the eyes of the police. It suits their purposes.
‘I’ll stick to the list. Will you just wait?’
Skelgill suddenly seems a little vulnerable.
‘Aye – I reckon so.’ A thought strikes him. ‘Leave us your keys – in case I need to beat a retreat.’
‘You would probably be better off in the driving seat.’
Skelgill grimaces.
‘You’re in the driving seat now, lass.’
She taps her clipboard decisively against the steering wheel and turns to flash her even white teeth in a confident smile.
‘Leave it with me.’
*
Skelgill is indeed in the driver’s seat when DS Jones re-enters the car a good half-hour later. In the absence of distractions it has been a rather agonising wait and perhaps he drives away as much to release the coiled spring within him, as to take no chances of being identified. He wonders if the car is watched from a window and thus the watcher will know that DS Jones has an accomplice. A little earlier, a young woman, blonde, had passed on horseback, and he had again taken cover below the dashboard.
For her part, DS Jones knows not to wait to be asked, or to beat about the bush.
‘He didn’t come clean.’
Skelgill makes as if to speak – but then allows her to continue.
‘But he was very clever – and he has that way, you know?’
Skelgill declines to be drawn – her suggestion is far too subtle, and he dislikes the implication. He stares ahead.
But now DS Jones is momentarily reticent. For the upper-class charm and handsome looks of Sir Montague Brash had been turned upon her full beam – and she is not intending to give Skelgill a blow-by-blow account – if she did, she can imagine him performing a U-turn in order to deliver a blow or two of his own. Such is life.
But she had held her own. Though it was not easy, she had risen to the challenge. Moreover – and notwithstanding her police status and (latent) feisty nature – she had been the one with an ace up her sleeve. The Knight of the Realm must have, if not suspected that she knew, then at least felt in thrall to his secret. Beyond the grand sash windows of the sitting room, and a mown grassy ha-ha, a broad stretch of the River Derwent bisected rough grazing meadows; Sir Montague Brash had constantly glanced that way – DS Jones could not escape the sensation that he feared a badly weighted corpse might any moment bob to the surface.
‘He said he left The Partridge at about eleven fifteen and arrived home at eleven thirty.’
‘So he outright lied?’
DS Jones ponders, a knowing smile forming at the corners of her mouth.
‘Look – we agreed I would let him choose his own length of rope?’
‘Aye.’
‘So, I didn’t press him. I suspect if it came to the crunch and he was forced to confess, he would insist that he had meant Sunday a.m. and not Saturday p.m. A white lie, maybe.’
Skelgill raises his head to show he understands. Not so much a white lie as dark grey – but he does not comment.
‘So, my next question was whether Kyle Betony was still there, and if not when did he last notice him. Or, indeed, did he see him leave? His answer was that he himself had not left the dining table – he had remained seated, in conversation with Georgina Graham. If you recall the seating plan, Sir Montague Brash was at the end opposite Professor Hartley and she was beside him. He says he is not sure what time Kyle Betony left the table – that he wasn’t paying particular attention. But he and Georgina Graham were the last two remaining, and they left directly from the restaurant; they parted just inside the front porch. She went out to a waiting taxi and he visited the gents’, after which he saw no one. Presumably he sneaked up the stairs instead of leaving.’
But Skelgill has another idea.
‘Did you notice that flight of steps that comes down by the garden door? It’s the fire escape from the first floor. If that were left unlatched he could have gone out by the toilets – and back up on the outside. Even less chance of being spotted, and anyone seeing him would have thought he was leaving the same way we did.’
DS Jones considers the suggestion; it would be the kind of simple practical expedient that comes naturally to Skelgill. But she offers nothing further.
‘And?’
His prompt seems to surprise her.
‘Well – to be honest – that’s just about it.’
‘What took you half an hour?’
‘Was it half an hour?’
Skelgill gives her a sideways glance and then has to make a sudden adjustment to his steering; the narrow lanes demand continuous concentration. The near miss with the verge and its wobbly aftermath provides a small respite for DS Jones to recover her composure. She had seemed momentarily compromised, and now Skelgill appears to be driving faster.
DS Jones reverts to her clipboard.
‘He’s fifty-eight. Married. Four children. About to go riding with his daughter.’ She pauses as though to give particular emphasis to these facts. ‘And a little arrogant. I would say that as a landowner he considers that being Chairman is an entitlement – and that he sees himself above most of the committee and no doubt the members – and that he probably doesn’t greatly dirty his hands with the club’s business.’
Skelgill, now focusing upon the winding lane, seems a little mollified. But he waits for her to continue.
‘Obviously, there were the formalities – completing his personal details. And he did express concern for Kyle Betony’s connections. He asked whether there was anything the committee could do by way of help or comfort – he said he didn’t know him well, but he was aware that he had a young foreign wife.’
‘Did you ask him how come Betony joined the committee?’
She nods.
‘I did – but he referred me to the Secretary – Georgina Graham – she handles the formalities of appointments.’
