Murder on the Lake (13 page)

‘Mr
Buckley would glance through them.  If there is return postage we send
them back with a standard rejection letter.’

‘All
of them?’

She
shakes her head.

‘He
would pick out half a dozen every week.  It would be the job of the intern
to review them and present a critique of each to him.  Of course –
how could a raw undergraduate possibly know his mind?  So then he would
slap them down.  Tear apart their reviews.  Interrogate them on what
they thought of the explicit passages.  A thoroughly humiliating ritual. 
It clearly served some perverse purpose of his – although we never took
on a new author that way.’

Skelgill
nods pensively.

‘You
mentioned the agents – there was one on the retreat with Mr Buckley
– called Dickie Lampray – are you familiar with him?’

The
woman nods, although she exhibits no sign that his name holds particular significance.

‘Yes
– we published an anthology by one of his authors earlier in the year
– a summer read supposedly –
Bondage Shorts
it was
called.’  She glances at the nearest unit of shelves, peering through her
polished lenses, as if she expects the book to be in that section, but after a
moment she gives up.  ‘Why we took it on, I don’t know – the writing
was of an abominably poor standard and the BDSM scenes positively toe-curling.’

It
must seem contradictory to the two detectives, to hear these words uttered so
matter-of-factly by the severe-looking, prim and proper middle-aged
woman.  They might be forgiven for wondering if she perhaps leads a double
life, and – once in the privacy of her own home – casts off her
staid outer garments, dons the outfit of a dominatrix, and descends into a
concealed dungeon equipped accordingly.  Whether such thoughts tumble
across the plains of Skelgill’s mind it is impossible to know, though he spends
a few moments wandering in reverie before he returns to the matter in hand.

‘And,
er... Mr Lampray – was his relationship with Mr Buckley – or the
firm – any different to those other agents you dealt with?’

The
woman considers for a moment, but then she shakes her head.

‘Not
that I am aware of, Inspector – as I mentioned, Mr Buckley tended to keep
his business relationships to himself – I had no involvement with the
contracts that were drawn up – and we publish around one hundred books
per year – so each one of those could theoretically be represented by a
different agent.’

DS
Jones has placed some papers between herself and Skelgill, on the surface of
the coffee table.  The top sheet lists the names and occupations of the
members of the retreat (the would-be authors simply classified as ‘writers’,
along with Sarah Redmond).  Skelgill picks it up and hands it to Constance
Belgrave.

‘Apart
from those we’ve mentioned, are any of these people familiar to you?’

The
woman’s spectacles are bifocals, and she stares down past the aquiline nose
like a hawk surveying potential prey.  But she shakes her head and returns
the page.

‘Sarah
Redmond is the only author of whom I have heard, Inspector.’

Skelgill
fans the page in the air between them.

‘The
others are all hopefuls, I understand, madam.’  He replaces the paper on
the table and takes the opportunity to scoop a chocolate digestive from the
communal plate.  ‘So far we’ve been unable to trace the company that
organised the retreat – we were hoping there may be some correspondence
here among Mr Buckley’s admin.’

‘Unfortunately
his email is password protected, Inspector.’  Her sallow complexion appears
to colour a little at this admission, and she quickly adds an
explanation.  ‘I have already had cause to check – in an effort to
resolve an inquiry yesterday from one of our book trade customers.’

Skelgill
looks as though he understands entirely the need to investigate someone else’s
private email account.

‘How
about his desk – maybe there’s a letter or something?’

‘His
desk is also locked.’  But now she glances furtively between the two
detectives.  ‘There is a spare key.’

‘You
know where it’s kept?’

She nods;
the blush around her cheeks diminishes, perhaps as she realises that in police
work ends justify means.

‘He
made it rather obvious on a number of occasions – he was rather careless
with leaving his own keys lying randomly about the office and had a spare set
to take out when he couldn’t find them.’

‘Perhaps
we could have a quick look before we go?’

‘Certainly,
Inspector.’

‘What
did he say about the retreat – about being away?’

‘Very
little, Inspector – but that was the norm.’  Once more, she looks a
little piqued.  ‘He could be going to a conference in Shanghai and would
only inform me on the evening before – or perhaps even call in from the
airport.’

‘So
you didn’t make his travel arrangements, book hotels – that sort of
thing?’

She
shakes her head.

‘As I
mentioned, Inspector, Mr Buckley was miserly in the extreme – I don’t
believe he would have trusted anyone else to obtain the lowest possible
prices.’

‘Did
you know he was attending the retreat?’

She
shakes her head.

‘It
was just some parting comment about the frozen north and that he may be some
time – I think he was humorously paraphrasing Captain Oates.’

Skelgill
raises his eyebrows – perhaps disapproving of the slight upon his part of
England – or maybe even at the ironically analogous outcome.

‘How
had he seemed prior to leaving – health-wise, state of mind – his
behaviour?’

The
woman ponders for a moment before she replies.

‘I
can’t say I noticed anything out of the ordinary – but then again there
was no ‘ordinary’ as far as Mr Buckley was concerned – he was prone to
mood swings and flashes of temper and hyperactivity, and then there were
periods of apparent depression – these could all occur within the same
afternoon.’

Skelgill
looks at DS Jones, who writes furiously to keep up, despite her shorthand
skills.  She glances briefly at him mid-flow.  Skelgill puts down his
cup and saucer and leans back casually against the sofa.

‘Did
he drink much at lunchtimes?’

‘I
should not say excessively, Inspector, despite the length of his engagements
– he commuted most days by car, and I believe he was conscious of the
risks – to his licence, at least.’

‘How
about drugs?’

Constance
Belgrave appears puzzled.

‘You
mean medicines, Inspector?’

Skelgill
slides the back of a forefinger beneath his nose in an ambiguous gesture.

‘Including
medicines.’

‘Well...
I shouldn’t have thought a man of his generation would use
illegal
drugs, Inspector...’

This
notion seems to have caught her by surprise; it appears her worldliness is restricted
to the sphere of soft-pornographic literature.

‘How
about legal ones?’  Skelgill holds out a palm in an inquiring manner. 
‘For instance, were you aware of him taking medication for what might have been
irritable bowel syndrome?’

Constance
Belgrave looks almost as disturbed by this as the idea of her former boss
having a clandestine cocaine habit – although it could simply be the nature
of the ailment itself.  She shakes her head vehemently.

‘As
far as I am aware, Inspector – despite Mr Buckley’s many failings –
I am fairly certain that his physical health did not number among them.’

*

‘So
what do you make of the tablets, Guv?’

‘I
think they’re the same, aren’t they?’

‘It
looks like the identical packaging as those we found on the island.’

Skelgill
shrugs.

‘See
what the boffins make of them when we get back, eh?’

‘Sure,
Guv.’

DS
Jones pats her attaché case.  Within is an evidence bag containing two
packets of capsules discovered in Rich Buckley’s desk.  Miss Constance
Belgrave, having retrieved the spare keys from their hidey hole inside a fake
English dictionary, had appeared familiar with the general layout and contents of
the drawers, and was patently surprised when the medicine was uncovered beneath
a sheaf of overdue invoices and unsigned authors’ royalty cheques.  As
regards the retreat, there was no documentary evidence to be found – in
fact the publisher clearly operated on a very minimalistic system of paperwork
altogether.

‘Sounds
like he was a nasty piece of work, Guv.’

Skelgill
nods, his features grim.

‘Usually
people just avoid folk like that – killing them’s a bit extreme.’

DS
Jones looks expectantly at her superior – but he appears to have
concluded his judgment and says no more.  They walk on a little in silence
– they are heading for Farringdon tube station – there has been a
small change in their plans, in that they have concluded they will not fit all
three remaining interviews into the time available, and are about to divide and
conquer as far as Angela Cutting and Burt Boston are concerned.  The
former lives in Regent’s Park, while the latter has an address near Paddington
– the Circle Line will serve them both, Skelgill alighting first at Great
Portland Street, while DS Jones must continue for four more stops to the west. 
Roughly contemporaneously, DS Leyton – supplied by digital means with the
information that Rich Buckley was embroiled in divorce proceedings –
ought to be en route (by taxi) to the exclusive village of Bray on Thames, to
meet with the late publisher’s spouse.

‘Those
books they publish, Guv – I noticed there’s a distinctive
RBP
logo
on the spine.’

‘Aye?’

‘Dickie
Lampray had quite a few of them on his shelves.’

Skelgill
scoffs.

‘Probably
for personal use.’

DS
Jones chuckles.

‘He’s
certainly a bit of an oddball, Guv – but I got the impression he’s quite
harmless.’

‘They
thought that about Crippen.  He’s probably got his last partner buried
under the back patio.  I’m surprised the dog didn’t wander in with a human
tibia in its jaws.’

She
shakes her head in affected wonderment at Skelgill’s little fancy.

‘How
did his manner compare to when you’d met him before, Guv?’

‘Definitely
a bit edgy – but they’d already broken out the gin and tonic by the time
I turned up.’

‘There’s
more of a connection with Rich Buckley than he was willing to admit.’

Skelgill
nods but remains silent.

 ‘I
suppose it’s only natural, Guv – for people to distance themselves
– when there’s some degree of suspicion – he must realise we have
to investigate for foul play.’

‘Aye
– he might be odd, but he’s canny with it.’

‘Constance
Belgrave, too, Guv.’

Skelgill
grins and shakes his head.

‘What
is it, Guv?’

‘She
reminded me of a maths teacher we had – she would have been retired by
the time you went up to the High School.  Everyone thought she was a right
frigid old battle-axe – until one evening a couple of girls dropped into the
classroom after hockey practice and caught her cavorting in the store cupboard
with the caretaker.’  He beams broadly at the memory.  ‘Her name was Miss
Trimble – Annie – you can imagine what she got called after that.’

DS
Jones looks puzzled.

‘This
sounds like a cryptic crossword clue, Guv.’

‘I’ll
leave you to work it out – but it’s a lot easier than that, Jones. ’

As
Skelgill strides purposefully northwards along Regent’s Park’s magnificent
Outer Circle, the weather seems to be living up to its unseasonal billing, for
he carries his jacket slung over his shoulder, one finger hooked through the
coat loop.  The sun, however, is already dipping past its zenith, and slanting
golden rays tint the whitewashed neo-classical façade of Nash’s Cumberland
Terrace (the name a coincidence that has not escaped his attention). 
Here, property prices comfortably exceed their telephone numbers, and Skelgill
would be excused for feeling a little daunted as he seeks out his destination.

About
fifty yards ahead two stout ladies approach him, led by a pair of majestic
Dalmatians, ears pricked and a spring in their step, though they trot with no
sign of strain upon the leash.  As they near a long black limousine with
smoked glass windows, there is a blast of what surely must be the loudest motor
horn in England.  Though the noble carriage dogs are unperturbed, the
women start in unison and frown their disapproval.  Skelgill, too, seems cross,
and his left hand strays to his hip pocket where his warrant card is stowed for
safety.  Perhaps he is tempted to remind the driver that it is an offence
to honk whilst stationary, and also to idle – but any such ideas are
dispelled when Angela Cutting emerges elegantly from a smartly painted front door
and coolly raises a hand in his direction.  Since he is precisely on time,
it would appear she has been waiting inside the porch for his arrival.

Her
slender form is draped in an ankle-length white fur – mink it would
appear, with a contrasting trim of striped black and grey – and her heels
are even more precipitous than those she wore at Grisholm, bringing her within
an inch or two of Skelgill’s height.  Her raven hair is parted and pulled
tightly over her skull, and the angled sunshine creates a two-tone effect of
highlight and shadow.  Her dark eyes are made up as if in readiness for
Halloween – just a few days hence – and combine with her aquiline
features to amplify her vampish mien.  She seems pleased to see Skelgill
and her scarlet lips part slowly in a sensuous smile that reveals her even
white teeth with their gently pointed canines.  Still on the step, she
glances down as the distressed dog walkers bustle between them, her gaze drawn by
the Dalmatians as though she might covet their striking coats.  They pass
and she extends a gloved hand to Skelgill.

‘Inspector,
how delightful to see you again – I am afraid, however, that something
has come up – I have an interview – perhaps I can take you for
lunch in order that I may keep my appointment?’  She gestures casually
towards the standing limousine.  ‘They have sent their car.’

Skelgill
seems a little put out.  His theory about the disarming quality of home
turf has been turned on its head: this is Angela Cutting in her element –
demonstrating an assertiveness that is not easily resisted.  Any hopes he
might harbour for a swift debriefing and a nice little stop-off at a café he has
spotted near Great Portland Street station now have to be abandoned.

‘Well
– if it’s okay by you, madam.’  He still has his jacket slung over
his shoulder, and makes a sign with his free hand to indicate his general
attire.  ‘But I’m not exactly dressed for it.’

She
surveys him with an appraising glance.

‘Oh,
no – it is very casual – and this
is
London, Inspector
– it’s not what you wear, it’s
how
you wear it.’

Skelgill
– never one likely to win any awards for sartorial elegance – appears
uncertain of how to interpret this potentially ambiguous statement, but before he
can fashion a reply Angela Cutting interjects.

‘I
would have one condition, Inspector?’

‘Madam?’

‘I
thought we had agreed you would call me
Ange
in private?’  She smiles
archly.  ‘I shouldn’t think our conversation is going to be overheard.’

Their
journey is not a long one.  From Regent’s Park they are chauffeured
briefly east on Euston Road, then south the full length of Gower Street to High
Holborn.  She points out features of interest en route, such as the nineteenth
century properties formerly inhabited by Charles Darwin and – for twenty-first
century television purposes only – Sherlock Holmes.  Skelgill nods
appreciatively; though in the soporific cocoon of the luxury car he spends much
of the trip sunk deep in the comfortable leather upholstery, rather like a dental
patient under conscious sedation – though perhaps it is the invisible tentacles
of his companion’s
No.5
that bind him in a cloud of bemused torpor. 
Soon they pick up Shaftesbury Avenue as it slices between Soho and Covent
Garden.  A final left turn takes them into the fringe of the latter
district, where they draw up just short of Upper St Martin’s Lane in a little
confluence of narrow streets, outside what resembles – from ground level,
at least – a diminutive Art Deco version of New York’s Flatiron Building. 
There is a theatre opposite advertising
The Mousetrap
– and
Skelgill might be excused for wondering if he has nodded off and become part of
some murder mystery in his dreams.

He is shaken
from any such musings by a blast of cool air and traffic noise as the
soundproofed door is carefully opened by the muscular figure of a
commissionaire, the man complete with top hat and frock coat, and polished
black brogues that click to attention.  Skelgill, having been last to get
in, is first to clamber out and – unused to such protocols – he
hovers uncertainly beside the vehicle, neither assisting Angela Cutting nor
enabling the doorman to lend a supportive hand.  However, she rises elegantly
and they are swiftly ushered inside a narrow wood-panelled lobby where a
standing crowd of would-be diners blocks their passage.  Leading Skelgill
unobtrusively by the cuff, Angela Cutting pushes through the overcoated throng
to a doorway where they are held at bay by a dinner-jacketed
maître d’
– he looks stern, but his countenance changes as he recognises her and produces
a honeyed, ‘Ah, Madame – of course – come this way, please’. 
The main interior, dictated by the flatiron, is roughly triangular and they are
led to a two-seater bench table facing back into the room from the middle of
what is the triangle’s hypotenuse, giving them, seated side-by-side, a
panoramic view of the entire restaurant.  While Skelgill dutifully holds
her handbag, a waiting minion assists Angela Cutting in slipping from her mink
to reveal a striking black silk mini dress that clings to her lithe figure and seems
to leave little scope for underwear beneath.  Plain gold jewellery is
strategically placed about her person.

Skelgill
watches with apparent alarm as a napkin is spread over his partner’s lap, and
then seems surprised when the same service is performed for him.  He might
reflect on how they have walked into such a prime table – with a queue of
hopefuls waiting, the place packed to the gunwales, and no indication of a prior
reservation.  There is a cacophony of chatter and the clinking bustle of
serving as white-shirted staff, impeccable in bow ties and waistcoats, heave to
and fro.  He looks about – perhaps in wonderment that this is a mere
Wednesday lunchtime in late October – and becomes conscious that eyes
flick in their direction, dropping away as his own gaze falls upon them. 
But Angela Cutting seems completely at ease; she watches him for a moment with
an amused smile teasing the corners of her mouth.

As if
by magic a wine waiter has materialised before them proffering a chilled bottle. 
He hovers in a manner suggestive that Skelgill should taste its contents. 
Angela Cutting touches him lightly on the forearm.

‘I
have a preferred Chablis, Inspector.’  Skelgill inhales as if he might
protest, but she anticipates his objection.  ‘I appreciate you may not
wish to drink since you are on duty – but a bottle allows for at least a
sip or two.’

Skelgill
shrugs.  ‘When in Rome.’  He holds out his glass.  Frowning, and
taking half a pace backward, the sommelier decants a little, which Skelgill promptly
swallows.  ‘Perfect.’

The
waiter nods, rather superciliously, it must be said – and then rounds to
pour for Angela Cutting before returning to Skelgill.  He does not demur,
although he leaves the glass untouched and waits for a moment while a lesser-ranking
second server darts forward to charge their crystal tumblers with sparkling
mineral water – and drinks half down.  He places the glass carefully
upon its coaster and, with his head lowered in a rather confiding manner, leans
a little towards his dining partner.

‘I get
the feeling you have some admirers.’

Angela
Cutting, who has mirrored his movement, brings her wine goblet to her lips and
gazes at him conspiratorially over its rim.

‘Oh
– I rather think it is
you
they are looking at, Inspector.’

Skelgill
perhaps does not grasp the nuance in her words – that curious onlookers,
if indeed there are such, are likely speculating about
who
it is
with
her
, rather than who it is for his own sake.  However, this line of inquiry
is interrupted by the return of the
maître d’
, who exchanges
pleasantries and confirms that their table is satisfactory and offers to take
their food order.  Angela Cutting turns to Skelgill.

‘Since
we are short on time, may I recommend to you the steak pie and chips?’

Skelgill
grins, as though he thinks she must be joking.  She detects his
hesitation, and elaborates accordingly.

‘It is
one of their most popular productions – almost a signature dish.’

Skelgill
glances at the
maître d
’, who nods in confirmation.

‘Can’t
argue with that – saves me choosing something in French and hoping it’s a
mammal.’

Angela
Cutting smiles.

‘Birds
are okay, are they not?  Even in French?’

‘Not
if they’re an Ortolan.’

‘Good
point, Inspector.’

‘Then
there’s the matter of foie gras.’

Angela
Cutting shakes her head in apparent sympathy with his view.

‘Sadly,
très délicieux
.’

Skelgill
nods and evidently decides to call it quits – perhaps before the language
gets any further beyond his limits.

‘What
are you going to have?’

She
pouts an indecisive kiss, but only for a brief moment.

‘I
never can resist the lobster – though it is to the garlic butter in which
it swims that I rather suspect I am addicted.’

She
looks at the
maître d’
, and dismisses him with a flutter of her
eyelids.  He backs rather obsequiously from the table.

Skelgill
frowns.

‘Won’t
that be a bit – you, know – inappropriate for your job interview?’

She tilts
back her head and laughs – though her manner is generous, and she takes a
gulp of wine as though to demonstrate a point.

‘I
ought to have explained, Inspector – it is not
that
kind of
interview – it is for the
Book Programme.
’

Skelgill
looks suddenly embarrassed, and a little flush of colour rushes to highlight his
prominent cheekbones.  It has obviously not occurred to him that it could
be an interview in which she calls the shots.

‘Aye
– well, you’ll look very good – I shall keep an eye out for you on
the telly.’

Again
she rests a palm upon his sleeve.

‘I
appreciate your chivalry, Inspector – though I rather suspect from what
you said at Grisholm Hall that it is not your regular viewing – and do
not fret – why should it be – I prefer you the way you are –
an unpretentious man of action.’

Skelgill
folds his hands together on the white tablecloth and glances about nervously,
as if he is concerned about eavesdroppers.  However, her earlier assertion
is accurate; the ambient cacophony creates a little bubble of privacy around
their table.  But he might wonder what purpose her compliment serves
– and also he must be conscious they have limited time and he has
questions to ask.  Indeed, he shakes his head modestly and contrives to engineer
a link from one to the other.

‘The
last you saw of me –
Ange
,’ (he stresses the name to please her)
‘I was being shepherded off to bed – not exactly action man.’

‘I was
sad to see you go, Inspector – we were quite a team.’

Skelgill
raises an eyebrow, and his manner becomes more serious.

‘Now one
player down.’

‘Ah,
very unfortunate – poor Bella.’

‘I
must ask you, Ange – what transpired after I went to bed?’

Angela
Cutting takes a drink of wine and – the amount consumed having passed
halfway – someone in uniform is there to top it up.

‘Little
of note, if I recall, Inspector. 
Scrabble
was won, our lead was
unassailable – we packed that away and after a while, at that
preposterous imposter Burt Boston’s insistence, tried a game of charades
– but it never really got off the ground.  It descended into general
chit-chat around the fire, with some people drifting in and out of slumber on
the spot.’