Murder on the Lake (10 page)

DS
Leyton is not convinced, and does not respond to Skelgill’s attempt at humour.

‘I
ought to make the effort – but it’s difficult, what with the kids, and
trying to find babysitters and whatnot.’

DS
Jones looks at him sympathetically.

‘I
could sit for you sometime – you should just ask me – if I’m not on
a late shift it’s no problem.’

DS
Leyton appears surprised, and holds up his palms as though he is
backtracking.  ‘It’s kind of you to offer – you might regret it
though, couple of little terrors, they are.’  He frowns resignedly. 
‘Last babysitter we had phoned us after twenty minutes ‘cause they’d locked
themselves in the bathroom and overflowed the bath – there was water
pouring through the ceiling and the electrics exploded.  By the time we
got back there was a fire engine outside and a crowd of spectators in the
street.’  As his colleagues look increasingly amused, he shakes his head
at the memory.  ‘Funnily enough – that was a Thai meal we were
supposed to have.’

Skelgill
points at his sergeant with the neck of his beer bottle.

‘Sounds
to me like you should stick to takeaways, Leyton.’

‘I reckon
you’re right, Guv – though it’s her birthday coming up – I’ll have
to think of something.’  However, he shrugs off the awkward prospect and
reaches for one of the fast-disappearing crackers.  ‘So this was a regular
haunt of yours, Emma – back in the student days?’

‘Not
so much when I was a student – we couldn’t often afford to eat
out.’  She appears a little guarded, as though she is reluctant to
elaborate.  ‘After I graduated I used to come down to London – to
visit...’

A
plate of sticky chicken and ribs floats between them, its aromas punctuating DS
Jones’s sentence and causing a momentarily distraction.  Skelgill swoops
as it lands, though DS Leyton offers the dish to his female colleague before he
avails himself.

‘You still
in touch with them, Emma?’

Skelgill
is hunched over, already preoccupied with a pork rib, his teeth bared –
though he flashes a glance at DS Jones as she replies.

‘Not lately.’

She seems
unsure of what to say next, and instead takes a hurried bite of chicken and has
to lift up her napkin to wipe sauce from her chin.  Ostentatiously, she
raises her eyebrows at her clumsiness.  DS Leyton, who looks like he was
expecting a more comprehensive response, nods pensively.  Then he
re-starts the conversation from a slightly different angle.

‘I
never came out West very often – I’m an outsider here in town as much as
the next man.’  He points with a thumb over his shoulder, in what is in
fact an easterly direction.  ‘Course, we’ve got all our relatives –
that still brings us down – though half of them have emigrated to Essex
these days.’

Skelgill
looks up from his plate and raises a stripped bone in a pontificating manner.

‘The
way I see it, we’re better off up north – I mean, give me one good reason
to live in this urban jungle.’

‘The
aqueduct?’

‘What?’ 
Skelgill is taken aback by DS Leyton’s apparently nonsensical retort.

‘Sanitation,
Guv?’  DS Leyton breaks into a grin.  ‘The roads...’

Skelgill
suddenly gets the joke.

‘Very
funny, Leyton – but the roads are nothing to write home about, that’s for
sure.’

DS
Leyton nods.

‘Tell
me about it, Guv – when we come down to visit the in-laws we spend more
time on the M25 than we do with them.’  He lifts his beer and takes a
sip.  ‘Which has its compensations, mind.’

The
others grin, and their conversation continues in this vein as the meal
progresses.  Though DS Leyton and DS Jones have their respective associations
that bind them to Western Europe’s greatest metropolis, ultimately their
colours are pinned beside Skelgill’s on his rural Cumbrian mast: DS Jones, like
him, being a native, and DS Leyton now firmly embedded with a young family
whose accents edge further north by the day.  So there is little real
argument over the issue and as Skelgill, in appeasing mode, points out: it’s
all England, anyway – a perspective that is reinforced as a group of
football fans passes the restaurant tunelessly singing
‘Keep St George in my
Heart’
, a drunken pursuit that is no doubt being repeated up and down the
country, from London to the Lakes.  Reacting to this cue, DS Leyton confesses
that he ought to go and telephone his wife before it becomes too late.  He
offers to register them and obtain their room keys, and meet them for a nightcap
in the hotel bar – a proposition that Skelgill accepts without
protest.  Thus DS Leyton departs, leaving Skelgill and DS Jones
alone.  It is ten p.m. and diners in the restaurant are thinning out
– a Central London phenomenon, as last buses and tubes are sought, and unoccupied
taxis become like hen’s teeth.  The pair is silent for a while –
Skelgill is looking tired again, while DS Jones seems to be waiting for him to
make the running.  However, after a minute or two, she leans forward, placing
her elbows on the table and pressing her palms together in the manner of
prayer.  Her arched brows gather with concern.

‘Guv
– I wondered – if you knew about DS Leyton – what happened on
the London Underground?’

Skelgill
folds his arms.  Her tone of voice has told him that it is not some
humorous anecdote she is about to relate.

‘What
are you talking about, Jones?’

‘Earlier
on, Guv – when we arrived at Euston – I noticed he wasn’t keen to
take the tube – then I remembered what a DS from the Met told me on a
course I was on – she’d worked with him previously.’

Skelgill
is implacable.  DS Jones continues.

‘It’s
going back over ten years – when they were both constables on the beat
– there was a fire at a tube station – in north London somewhere.’

‘So
what happened?’

‘They were
the first on the scene – by then there were clouds of smoke billowing up
from the tunnels – but the station staff thought everyone was safe
– so they were guarding the entrance to stop anyone going inside.’ 
She pauses to brush away strands of hair that have fallen across her face. 
‘Then someone said there was a tramp left behind on the platform – he was
disabled and probably drunk.’

An
expression of alarm fleetingly crosses Skelgill’s intense countenance.

‘So
Leyton went in for him?’

DS
Jones nods, wide-eyed.

‘He
saved him, Guv.’  Suddenly her eyes flood with tears and glisten as they
reflect the flickering tea light on their table.  ‘He carried him up
something like fifty steps because the escalators had been switched off.  They
were both in hospital for a month.  DS Leyton received the Queen’s Medal,
Guv.’

Skelgill
is chewing his lip vigorously – it looks painful and he clearly cannot be
aware that he is doing it – such is the reassessment that must be running
through his mind.  After a minute he reaches for his beer bottle, though
he merely contemplates the label.

‘He’s
kept that quiet, hasn’t he?’

DS
Jones concurs.

‘So I
think that’s why he’s not keen on the tube, Guv.’

Skelgill
nods pensively.

‘Well
– thanks for telling me – saves me putting my bloody great daft
foot in it.’

DS Jones
grins.

‘Oh
– I think he’s thick-skinned enough for you not to worry, Guv.’

Skelgill
scowls; perhaps he registers the implied if unintended criticism in this
statement.  Nonetheless, he sets his jaw determinedly.

‘I’ll tell
him we’ll all be using taxis tomorrow – and to hell with the taxpayer.’

‘I
don’t particularly recall going to bed last night, Jones.’

Skelgill
utters these words with uncharacteristic formality, and DS Jones glances at him
with apparent concern – though it may just be the slanting rays of the
low autumn sun that cause her to squint.  They walk steadily, side by
side, along a chequered suburban pavement.  The day is bright and mild,
with a forecast of seventy degrees Fahrenheit – something only Londoners
can aspire to in late October.

‘DS
Leyton helped you to your room, Guv.’

‘Right.’

‘You
were a bit groggy.  We were just saying at breakfast – we thought
you were looking tired, on and off, during the day.’

Skelgill
frowns reproachfully, though his reply indicates that his frustration is
directed at himself and not his sergeant.

‘I
don’t know what’s been wrong with me – I mean, what did we have – a
couple of beers and a whisky in the hotel bar?’

DS
Jones perhaps refrains from commenting that this might be something of an
under-estimate, at least as far as her superior is concerned.

‘It
was a long day, Guv – on top of your night on the island.’

‘Not
as long as it was for you guys.’  He shakes his head obstinately.  ‘I
don’t get it.’

‘How
do you feel now, Guv?’

Skelgill
shoots DS Jones a quick sideways glance, as if to check whether she is covertly
assessing his state of health.

‘Right
as rain – I walked halfway round Hyde Park this morning.’

‘Really?’

‘Aye
– I was wide awake at five – once those bin-men came past clanking
and yawping.’

DS
Jones appears satisfied with this response.

‘You
did well to find it, Guv.’

‘It’s
hardly rocket science, Jones.’  Skelgill’s tone carries a friendly
reprimand.  ‘I might be a country boy but I can deal with
turn right on
Oxford Street and your destination is ahead
.’  He imitates a satnav
voice by way of explanation.

DS
Jones grins, admonished accordingly.

‘True
enough, Guv.  How was it?’

‘Almost
deserted – surprisingly peaceful.’  He scratches the back of his head. 
‘Could have sworn I saw a pelican flying over – but it wasn’t properly
light.’

‘There
used to be some on the lake in St James’s Park, Guv – they were quite a
tourist attraction.  Maybe they’re still around.’

Skelgill
purses his lips.

‘Aye,
well – it would be a relief to know my mind’s not playing tricks on me.’ 
He watches a flock of pigeons as they cross low over the rooftops not far
ahead.  ‘Pelicans, though – they eat fish by the bucket load –
can’t be all that popular – there’s supposed to be big pike in the Serpentine.’

DS
Jones looks surprised by this idea.

‘But
people swim in there, Guv – there’s a famous club – they have races
every Saturday.’

Skelgill
must be reminded of his outstanding bet, for his grey-green eyes glaze over –
an effect unlikely to be caused by concern for bathers – until he
dismisses the recalcitrant thought with a shake of the head. 

‘I was
tempted to have a fish – I’ve got a travel rod – should have packed
it.’  He shakes his head regretfully.  ‘Don’t know how I would have
landed anything decent, mind.’

DS
Jones grins, perhaps amused by the idea of her superior officer wrestling
bare-handed with a great snapping and flailing pike pulled unwillingly from
London’s historic recreational lake, much to the amazement of early-morning
inline skaters and horse riders.  Nevertheless, just as she is well
informed about the existence of the Serpentine Swimming Club, Skelgill’s
knowledge of the water’s piscine population is correct: the lake holds good
numbers of large bream, carp, roach and – indeed – pike to thirty
pound plus, a lesser-known fact that, if broadcast widely, might deter the more
apprehensive among the goose-greased doggy paddlers.

‘So what
did you do for breakfast, Guv?’

‘Came
across a café in Soho – it was full of Polish builders – I took
that as a good sign – pint mugs of tea and bottles of
HP
on the
table.  Went for the full English.’

‘How
was it?’

Skelgill
tilts his head from side to side.

‘Not
up to Gladis’s standard – but not a bad second, all things considered.’

‘The
hotel food wasn’t so clever, Guv – I just had the continental buffet, so
I was fine – but DS Leyton was a bit disappointed with the fry.’

Skelgill
is pensive for a few moments before he next speaks.

‘Think
I handled the taxi business okay?’

DS
Jones nods vigorously.  Skelgill refers to a short briefing before they
divided into two asymmetrical ‘teams’.  He had recapped upon their
interviewing plan – that he and DS Jones shall visit the members of the
retreat, while DS Leyton will investigate the contacts his unit at HQ has
opened up.  Furthermore, since it is clear that their various ports of
call are only loosely serviced by the London Underground system, they should
use whatever means of surface transport is most
time-
rather than
cost-
efficient. 
That said, the ‘teams’ having gone their separate ways, that comprising he and
DS Jones had promptly descended into Tottenham Court Road station, whence the
Northern and Piccadilly Lines brought them to Baron’s Court in West Kensington. 
Dickie Lampray resides in the adjoining district of Fulham, and it is just a
half-mile walk from this station to his home.

Indeed,
closing in, they swing into a residential road just one street removed from the
great meander of the Thames that delineates the area and makes it two-thirds an
island of the venerable flower.  The narrow thoroughfare is tree-lined
(though these are now largely bare), with mainly empty residents’ parking bays
marked at intervals.  The houses, which date from the Edwardian era, are unassuming
in size and built in tightly packed terraces punctuated only by side streets, though
they possess a certain flamboyant charm.  There are ornate timbered
half-gables above deep bays that extend down to the ground floor, multi-paned
sash windows with leaded glass, and red-ochre tiled skirts and porches that
contrast nicely with whitewashed harling elsewhere.  Each property, which
is about a room and a half wide, achieves a semblance of privacy through a
small front garden hemmed in by a matching wall of red brick and dressed white
chalk.

But,
despite the pleasant nature of the neighbourhood, Skelgill has the look of a
disenchanted tourist.

‘This
can’t be right, Jones?’

DS
Jones is tracking their progress on her mobile.  She glances at the handset.

‘It’s
definitely the correct address, Guv – Tummel Road.  The house should
be near the end on our side.’

‘Surely
he lives somewhere grander than this?’

DS
Jones notices an estate agent’s
For Sale
sign that has a quick-response
code printed on it.  She stops and scans the symbol with her mobile. 
Then she scuttles to catch Skelgill, watching the screen as the details
appear.  She emits a little whistle of astonishment and holds the handset
for Skelgill to see.

‘It
might not be grand, Guv – but if he doesn’t have a mortgage he’s
comfortably a millionaire.’

Skelgill
takes the device for a moment, as if he needs to hold it to absorb the
information.  He shakes his head disbelievingly.

‘I’d
settle for the balance,
less
a million.’

*

‘Whoops,
here comes Gypsy – do you mind dogs, Inspector – I can send him
upstairs if you prefer?’

The
canine to which Dickie Lampray refers is in fact an elderly chestnut-coloured
spaniel, and despite an initial flurry of enthusiasm in welcoming Skelgill and
DS Jones, it quickly settles into a gnawed wicker basket.  They have been
admitted through a panelled entrance door decorated with Art Nouveau glass into
a tiled hallway.  Where there might be expected to be a whiff of dog, the
air is filled with the artificial scent of roses, which emanates from a plug-in
device beside the creature’s bed.  The walls are decked with
professionally taken framed photographs that would appear to relate to literary
award ceremonies, judging by the evening wear of their subjects (each grinning
group including a dinner-suited Dickie Lampray, sporting various colourful variations
of his trademark bow tie).

‘It’s
no problem, sir – I have one myself.’  Skelgill bends down to stroke
the hound behind an ear; it gazes up with soulful, sticky red-rimmed eyes. 
‘King Charles, is he, sir?’

Dickie
Lampray appears pleased by Skelgill’s accurate identification.

‘Quite
right, Inspector – I’m a man for proper dogs – I cannot abide this
nonsense of these outrageously priced and frankly ridiculous crosses the breeders
are cashing in on these days.’  He gestures loosely towards his pet. 
‘Only this morning I was walking Jip beside the Thames and we were ambushed by
a
Morkie
and a
Schnoodle
– what will they come up with
next?  I dread to think what they’ll call it if someone mates a Shih Tzu
with a Dachshund – although perhaps they already have.  What kind is
yours, Inspector?  I would guess a pedigree Bloodhound – ha-ha.’

Skelgill
grins rather sheepishly.

‘She’s
a Bull... terrier.’

‘Excellent,
Inspector – and, of course, they are a much friendlier breed than their ferocious
reputation suggests.’

He
turns to lead the way, and DS Jones flashes a surreptitious grin at her
superior, acknowledging his white lie (for Skelgill’s somewhat unconventionally
acquired pooch is a Bullboxer).  They enter a front parlour, though the
narrow house is knocked through into an adjoining living room and kitchen all
the way to a small conservatory at the rear, creating a telescopic perspective
with a view upon a shadowy courtyard that ends abruptly in the high brick wall
of some other building.  The whole effect is rather claustrophobic, and
gives the impression that the walls are slowly but surely closing in.  The
succession of spaces is furnished in a masculine style, with leather sofas and
easy chairs, and dark mahogany furniture.  The various alcoves created by
the alterations are lined by bookshelves, neatly stacked with mainly modern
fiction hardbacks, arranged in size order from the centre of each shelf
outwards. 

‘Please
be seated officers.  Is filter coffee acceptable?  Custard creams?’

‘Very
kind of you, sir.’

Dickie
Lampray has a tray already prepared, which he collects from the kitchen area. 
Though his lively manner seems unchanged from that encountered by Skelgill
previously, his dress (casual dog-walking clothes, carpet slippers, and no bow tie)
renders him a subdued and domesticated version of the urbane character that had
seemed so well suited to the imposing surroundings of Grisholm Hall.

‘Do
you work from home, sir?’  Skelgill gestures towards the nearest shelving
unit.

‘Oh,
absolutely, Inspector, most agents do – commercial leases in London are
entirely unaffordable in my line of work – keeping up this place is hard
enough, as it is – heaven knows what will happen once the hawks at the Bank
of England start hiking the base rate.’

Skelgill
nods but does not appear to be particularly engaged by this prospect, and
instead gets down to business.

‘You
might wonder sir, why we’ve come all the way to London to collect a document
you could email to us – in fact, I believe
have
emailed to us.’

Dickie
Lampray rather obediently fashions a slightly bewildered expression.

‘Well,
er... yes, of course, I suppose I did.’

‘We
have a number of calls to make, sir – I thought it might be best to see
you first, as you seemed to be unofficially in charge of proceedings.’

‘Oh,
well – I wouldn’t say that, Inspector – and certainly before poor
old Rich died, he was rather, the, er... well, top dog, you might say. 
Ha-ha.’

Dickie
Lampray’s laugh is tentative, but Skelgill nods encouragingly.

‘What
it is, you see, sir – the deaths have been referred to the Cumbria Coroner
– largely as a result of technicalities, such as being sudden, and of
unknown cause – but that obliges us to investigate, in order to satisfy
the inquest that there are no suspicious circumstances.’

Dickie
Lampray is nodding.

‘Of
course, Inspector, I understand perfectly.’

Skelgill
is holding a biscuit, but he seems to realise he cannot at this moment begin to
eat it and he replaces it upon his saucer.

‘And
one aspect that is baffling us – indeed is going to make us look a bit
amateurish if we can’t get to the bottom of it – is that, as you are
aware, we’ve so far been unable to locate the company that organised the
retreat.’