Murder on the Lake (14 page)

‘How
about Bella Mandrake – can you remember how she was?’

‘She
had been rather disturbed all evening – in fact ever since Rich’s body
was found – though she was prone to drama at the least excuse – she
was also well oiled, as no doubt you could tell, Inspector.’

Skelgill
nods.  There is nothing here he does not already know.

‘When
did she go to bed?’

Angela
Cutting picks up her glass and swills the pale golden liquid around.  The
restaurant has extensive windows, leaded in a fine diamond pattern with a
harlequin-like mixture of coloured and opaque glass.  The sun, which from its
low autumn meridian cannot be shining directly into the room, is finding a way
by means of successive reflections to radiate gently upon their table.

‘I
can’t actually recall – no wait, Sarah and I went upstairs together
– Bella had insinuated herself between Burt and Dickie – I wasn’t
paying too much attention, since I was discussing Frankfurt with Sarah.’

‘Frankfurt?’

Angela
Cutting smiles patiently.

‘The
world’s largest book fair, Inspector – it was earlier in the month.’

Skelgill
nods.  However, he spurns any temptation to digress.

‘Despite
your conversation – can you remember who else was left in the drawing
room as you left?’

‘I
think only little Lucy had gone to bed.’  She closes her eyes momentarily,
revealing lids artfully smeared with peacock blue translucence.  ‘But
maybe the elderly doctor chap – Gerald Bond – as well.’  I am
afraid you might have to ask the others if you wish to piece together the situation.’

Skelgill
shrugs as if it is not of too much importance.

‘But Bella
Mandrake – apart from her behaviour as you described – there was
nothing to suggest she might be liable to take an overdose of sleeping pills?’

Angela
Cutting flashes him a suddenly stern glance.

‘I
truly hope it was an accident, Inspector?’

Skelgill
is silent.

‘You
don’t think otherwise, surely?’

Skelgill
tilts his head from one side to the other.

‘There’s
going to be a Coroner’s inquest – we just have to keep an open mind while
we gather all the available facts.  There are strict rules governing the
certification of deaths.’

Angela
Cutting regards him pensively.

‘And
this applies to Rich, as well?’

Skelgill
nods.

‘I
spoke with Mr Lampray this morning – he suggested you might be able to cast
some light on Mr Buckley’s state of health – that you were one of the
last to be with him on the night before he died?’

For
the first time a hint of discomfort disrupts Angela Cutting’s measured demeanour. 
Her eyes narrow and there is a just-discernable tensing of the fingers that caress
the contours of her glass.  She takes a drink and rolls the wine around
her mouth like a connoisseur performing a tasting exercise.

‘Dickie
is right – although, I am afraid to say, I left Rich in Bella’s clutches
– he seemed not unhappy with that.  As for his health – I
should say he was as vigorous as ever.’

Her
intonation, though flat, has a brooding quality, as though she is reassessing
the virtues of her actions.  There is also a suggestion that Skelgill
might have trespassed upon her hospitality, via a question that points to
uncomfortable territory.  But, for him, foraging beyond the pale is his
bread and butter, and he takes another speculative step.

‘His
secretary complained that he could be a bit forward with the ladies.’

The
statement is an invitation for Angela Cutting to confirm or deny, but she is
evidently too wily a vixen to allow herself to be cornered.

‘Oh
– one man’s
forward
is another man’s missed opportunity,
Inspector.’

The
reply – accompanied by a beguiling smile – is cryptic, to say the
least, but Skelgill grins back as if he gets her drift, and she seems satisfied.

‘Rich
talked a good game, Inspector – I shouldn’t go too much by what you
hear.’

Skelgill
nods.

‘How
well did you know him?’

Now
Angela Cutting enfolds the base of her wine glass with the fingers of both
hands, her long, perfectly manicured nails meeting like a gathering of red
soldier beetles.

‘At a
personal level – only superficially – in publishing circles there
are continual events – launches, ceremonies, conferences – we float
about afterwards with cheese and wine and make pleasantries as if we are all
old friends.  RBP has been on an upward trajectory for some years –
Rich was the driving force, so he was widely known to many in the book trade.’

Skelgill
nods.

‘Were
you surprised to find he was at the writers’ retreat?’

‘Not
at all, Inspector.’

Her
reply is quite matter-of-fact and suggests she feels no need to
elucidate.  Skelgill probes further.

‘I
just wondered what would take a busy man away from his work for a week or
more.’

Angela
Cutting choses to interpret the question as if it is obliquely aimed at her.

‘Why
not a few days away from it all – no digital interference, an idyllic
location, a blind date or two?’  She bats her eyelashes mischievously. 
‘And an attractive fee.’

‘Which
may not be paid.’

Now she
shrugs indifferently.

‘So I
understand from one of your constables, Inspector.’

If the
loss of her fee is an issue, she does not show it.  Skelgill reverts to her
allusion to romantic liaisons.

‘Do
you think Mr Buckley was availing himself of – as you put it –
blind dates?’

Now
her demeanour becomes distinctly coy.  She leans back against the settle
and folds her hands demurely on the edge of the table.

‘Though
I was in the next room to Rich, the thick walls in that old place definitely do
not have ears, Inspector.  Of course, one senses movement in adjoining chambers,
and footsteps crossing the landing – but there is nothing I could put my
finger on.’

‘You
mean you heard something?’

‘Oh,
I’m sure there was the odd bump in the night – but I was safely tucked up
in bed – I hadn’t bargained for the cold and it would have taken wild
horses to drag me out to investigate – even had I been so inclined. 
And unlike yourself, Inspector, I am a very deep sleeper.’

Purposefully,
she regards him as if she anticipates a challenge – but after a second or
two, since he does not react, she relents and stretches languidly.  She lifts
her napkin casually from her lap and begins to rise from the table.

‘If
you will excuse me, Inspector, I shall just powder my nose before our food
arrives.’

Skelgill
has no alternative but to acquiesce with good grace.  When Angela Cutting
returns, their order immediately follows – as if their table has been
under sympathetic observation –beneath glinting silver cloches borne
shoulder high and delivered to their place settings with a practised flourish. 
At this juncture Skelgill’s baser instincts kick in, and his attention gains a
new focus.  He is easy meat, therefore, for an enlivened Angela
Cutting.  Their conversation – thus far a game of subtle but intense
fencing – becomes relaxed, and ranges widely.  Playing to his ego,
she leads him across hill and dale – and lake – by quizzing him about
his Cumbrian homeland and his exploits on and off duty.  When the region’s
gourmet reputation comes up, she asks to try a small taste of his pie, and
reciprocates by feeding him a bite of precious lobster from her fork.  If
this is a ploy to eat up their available time, it succeeds – for Angela
Cutting seems suddenly to realise she may be late and signals to the staff that
she wishes to depart.

The
maître
d’
seems to take excessive pleasure in handing the bill to Skelgill. 
Heroically he reaches for his battered wallet – his eyebrows unable to
conceal his reaction at setting a Beamonesque personal best for the price of a pie
supper – but his attempt to pay is thwarted by Angela Cutting, who
reaches across and pins down his hands with her own.

‘Oh
no, Inspector – you are my guest – it is I that brought us
here.’  Skelgill begins to protest, but she continues.  ‘Not only do
I have an account – but in any event I can claim this back.’  She
slides the black leather presenter from his grasp and returns it to the waiting
maître d’
, who clicks his heels and – without a glance at Skelgill
– bows briefly at Angela Cutting and turns away.

Skelgill
holds up his wallet.

‘Perhaps
I can leave the tip?’

She
shakes her head.

‘It is
already included, Inspector – London practice.’

‘Well
– thanks very much – I wasn’t expecting this... Ange.’

His
addition of her name sounds rather dutiful, but she smiles appreciatively and
again reaches to press his nearest hand.

‘I am
only sorry I was unable to entertain you at my home, Inspector – but
perhaps there will be another occasion.’

Her
intonation makes this more of a statement than a question, but as Skelgill
follows her towards the exit he again seems distracted by the trailing glances
of other diners, and his response is rather vague.

‘We
have a six o’clock train for Penrith.’

Angela
Cutting is reunited with her five-figure mink coat and Skelgill watches respectfully
as she wriggles into the garment and then tips the young female cloakroom
assistant.  As the street door is opened for them, Skelgill allows her to
go ahead of him.  The limousine is drawn up directly outside, but as she
moves towards it the figure of a man blocks her path, with another close beside
him.

‘Oh,
not now, please – I’m already late.’

Angela
Cutting’s response suggests she is accustomed to such unsolicited approaches
– but her subsequent sharp intake of breath winds back this notion; the
man is brandishing a knife.

‘Oh,
my God.’

Automatically
Skelgill steps between them.  In this stand-off neither party speaks, but
as Skelgill holds up his right palm in a placatory gesture the assailant with a
lupine snarl raises the glinting blade to shoulder level as though he is about
to strike.

And
now, in one of those curious blink-of-an-eye and yet slow-motion moments, a
flashing left hook sinks into the man’s jaw and transforms his expression of
hostile aggression through a sequence of surprise, shock, fear and pain, and his
face becomes a distorted mask of anguish – all in the split second before
his lights go out and the force of Skelgill’s punch slams him against the car, thence
to collapse limp upon the sidewalk.  The knife clatters onto the ground
and slides harmlessly beneath the vehicle.

Angela
Cutting screams and staggers back in horror.  She is prompted not by the sudden
explosion of violence, but because the knifeman’s accomplice – with
remarkable opportunism and an impressive disregard for his partner in crime
– snatches her designer handbag, vaults his stupefied ex-ally and hot-foots
it in the direction of Soho.  In response, Skelgill tears off his jacket, thrusts
it into the hands of the thus-far immobilised doorman (so much for his imposing
presence), and sprints away in pursuit.

When
he returns grim-faced just over two minutes later there is a trickle of blood
dripping from his brow.  One of his trouser legs seems to have a rip at
the knee.  His hair is dishevelled and flopping down over his
forehead.  But his left hand has the arm of the mugger firmly – in
fact
very
firmly – twisted and rammed hard up between his shoulder
blades, as he is marched squealing to face justice.  In Skelgill’s right
hand is Angela Cutting’s handbag, still fastened and apparently none the worse
for its little adventure.

Already
three uniformed beat bobbies are on the scene.  They have the recovering,
if clinically concussed, knifeman in handcuffs, and are delighted to relieve
Skelgill of his new charge and subdue him likewise (with the handcuffs, rather
than the concussion).  Skelgill shows his warrant card to the more senior
officer – a few words suffice to explain his presence, and role in the
incident; indeed the police have already gleaned from Angela Cutting and the
doorman what has transpired.  And now official vehicles, sirens blaring and
ignoring the local one-way system, arrive from all directions to block off the
narrow streets.  A crowd gathers, rather as though this is another one of
those impromptu Covent Garden street performances.

When
Skelgill rings the bell to Lucy Hecate’s apartment the blood has long ceased to
drip from the nick on his forehead caused by the crook’s heel as he brought him
crashing down to earth in Greek Street.  A hand in one pocket, absently he
fingers the silk scarf Angela Cutting pressed upon him – literally so, as
she tended to his wound with a concern worthy of a more serious injury. 
She had purred throatily, a fire in her eyes and a heat in her touch that saw
him acquiesce when ordinarily he would have shrugged off such a minor
inconvenience.  But her intimate on-street ministrations were short
lived.  Effusive in her thanks and profound in her apologies, she was
obliged to yield to the combined exhortations of her mobile phone, the driver,
and the advancing hour – the television studio could wait only so
long.  She had insisted that Skelgill retain the flimsy garment –
and that he must soon allow her to thank him properly – before she had
planted a full-bodied kiss upon his unsuspecting lips and retreated into the
car like a reluctant hermit crab that knows the ebb tide is about to claim her
shell.

For
his part Skelgill had melted into the watching throng – in good part Australian
tourists mesmerised by the sight of the sulking criminals awaiting deportation
– and for the past forty-five minutes he has wandered the streets of
Soho, stopping once for a sandwich in a small café, and later purchasing a
chocolate bar from a minimarket.  His amblings have brought him full
circle, since his next destination is barely two hundred yards from the restaurant,
a short way down a narrow street that forms one of the spokes of Seven
Dials.  He checks his watch – he is on time, but DS Jones has not
made their rendezvous.  A text message has informed him that she is en
route on foot from Paddington, where sudden industrial action has closed the
London Underground and trapped all available taxis in the ensuing gridlock.

While
Skelgill waits he pulls out the white scarf and stares at it pensively.  A
passer by – not knowing him – might reasonably speculate that he is
wondering which washing cycle will remove bloodstains from so delicate an item. 
However, this would not be a successful wager.  Indeed, there are probably
no odds long enough to represent such a possibility.  More likely he
revisits the memory of the moment he restored the handbag to its owner. 
Despite the confused aftermath of the stramash and his need for first aid, Angela
Cutting had keenly checked an internal zip pocket, before producing the scarf as
an improvised dressing.  And maybe he rues a failure to explore certain lines
of enquiry that – clear to him as he walked about afterwards – at
the time were subsumed in the blur and bustle of the restaurant, such as rumours
there might be concerning Rich Buckley’s financial status, marriage, or
recreational habits; and about what liaisons or rivalries may have surfaced on
the island – either among the professionals or the amateurs, or between
members of both camps.  Certainly Angela Cutting – hovering above
them all, as Dickie Lampray put it – is well placed to possess knowledge
and opinions on these matters.  But has she contrived, by orchestrating a highly
ritualised luncheon, to keep Skelgill’s questioning to its most superficial
level?  Has her siren call, having drawn him out of his depth, had him
treading water while the minutes ticked by?  Or should he just remind
himself that, after all, these are witnesses not suspects he is interviewing,
and anything other than gentle probing is wholly inappropriate?  And yet,
if his gut instinct is to be trusted – that the haunting sense of
suspicion regarding events at Grisholm Hall has some substance – then
they are neither witnesses nor suspects, but grey ghosts that drift in between.

‘Please
come up – it’s the only door on the first floor.’

Even
through the metallic intercom Lucy Hecate’s voice has a girlish quality –
simple, plain enunciation, well spoken without being affected; a clipped soprano
to Angela Cutting’s husky contralto.  Skelgill, wrapping up his thoughts,
is too slow to reply.  There is the rattle of the handset being replaced
on its cradle, and the microphone is cut off.  An electric buzz sounds from
within the jamb as the lock is released from above.  The stair is entered
not directly from the street, but from a triangular piazza, reached through
lockable gates, that provides similar access to several such sets of
apartments.  On the ground floor are boutiques and a design business
– the sunken courtyard affords partial tiptoe views into their rear
windows, and glimpses through to the streets beyond.  Skelgill has already
recced this area, and has determined which first-floor windows must pertain to
Lucy Hecate’s accommodation – each of these covered by plain roller
blinds drawn down to sill level.

‘Hello,
Inspector.’

‘Lucy.’

Skelgill
bows his head and smiles inoffensively.  He has evidently decided to
employ first-name terms.

‘Please
come in.’

Lucy
Hecate steps aside and holds open the sprung front door.  She waits for a
moment after he has entered, and glances back into the empty landing.

‘My
sergeant has been delayed – she’s caught up in the tube strike.’

‘Oh, I
see.’

She fastens
the latch and holds out an arm to indicate that Skelgill should turn left. 
He goes ahead of her into a small sitting room.  The windows give on to
the narrow street below, and face similar apartments opposite, thus requiring
heavy net curtains for daytime privacy.  A pair of navy blue cubist sofas
makes a right angle either side of the entrance, though where there might be a
television set instead a wall-mounted electric fire provides the focal
point.  A large arty print adorns each of the three walls, but otherwise
there is little biographical detail to describe the flat’s occupant.  On
the coffee table lie a slim aluminium laptop and a black e-reader, illuminated
at a page of text.  Since these appear to reserve Lucy Hecate’s place on
the right-hand settee, Skelgill lowers himself down on that to the left of the
door.  She, however, remains standing.

‘Tea,
Inspector – although I only have Earl Grey, I’m afraid?’

Skelgill,
who has been known to express colourful non-PC opinions about men who drink
Earl Grey tea, nods vigorously.

‘Very
kind of you, Lucy – milk and three sugars, please.’

The
cramped galley kitchen is immediately across the little hallway, although
Skelgill would have to peer around the door to see his hostess, so despite her
proximity he opts to check his messages while she readies the tea-things
against the background rumble of a kettle.  The apartment has just two
other rooms – their white panelled doors matching those of the lounge and
kitchen – and, by a process of elimination, these must be a bathroom that
overlooks the internal courtyard and a small bedroom facing the street
side.  It would appear, therefore, that the petite property is only
suitable for single occupancy – or for a couple who get on well together
and own very few possessions.

Skelgill
watches as Lucy Hecate carries in two mugs of tea and a plate of mini Swiss
rolls – his antennae have detected the crackle of cellophane, and here is
the explanation.  The china mugs are decorated with rather clumsy
illustrations of freshwater fish, and Skelgill might wonder if they have been
selected as a conversation piece – he gets a too-pink salmon, while she
has an overenthusiastically mottled trout.  However, he chooses not to
remark, and instead dips his nose into the tea and watches as she settles down gracefully
across from him.  She is dressed rather in the manner of a ballet dancing
in training gear, a faded grey-and-pink ensemble of pumps, rucked legwarmers,
calf-length leggings, and a wrap-top over what might be a leotard.  The
effect is to emphasise her dainty frame and careful movements, and she perches
on the edge of the sofa with a curve in her spine that contrasts with
Skelgill’s somewhat more relaxed slouch.  He swallows a mouthful of the
hot tea and smacks his lips.

‘Very
good – I’m parched – it’s thirsty work getting around London.’

Lucy
Hecate regards him quizzically.

‘I
would have thought for a fell-runner it would be easy, since it is so flat.’

Skelgill
grins modestly.

‘Maybe
it’s age catching up with me.’

She
gazes at him, unblinking.

‘Wasn’t
Bob Graham forty-two when he achieved his landmark round?’

Skelgill
affects a little jerk of surprise.

‘Actually,
Lucy – he was forty-three – but I’m impressed you’ve even heard of
him.’

She permits
herself an abridged smile.

‘There
was a book on the history of fell running in the library at Grisholm Hall.’ 
Her long blonde hair is drawn back into a ponytail, but a few strands have
escaped, and she pauses to brush these from her face.  ‘It’s hard to
imagine how anyone can run for twenty-four hours in that rugged terrain.’

This
is something of a gift horse for Skelgill, an invitation to expound upon his
own exploits, and he pulls back his shoulders as though he is about to do
so.  Then it appears some thought must strike him – or at least an
underlying sense that any such showing-off will not in fact win bouquets from
this young woman.  Her tone is flat and reserved, and her cool façade
suggests impregnability to endearing advances.  Accordingly, Skelgill’s considered
response – albeit a little out of character – endeavours to turn
the spotlight back upon her.

‘Are
you writing about the Lakes – is that why you were reading the book?’

Lucy
Hecate is cradling the mug between her two hands, like a hiker on a cold day
– indeed the flat is far from warm – and she takes a small sip
before she replies.

‘I
read as widely as I can, Inspector.  Though the Lake District would make a
good backdrop for a mystery – but I think Sarah Redmond will beat us all
to it.’

Skelgill’s
expression is politely inquisitive.

‘In
what way?’

‘She
hinted that she intends to kill off her Edinburgh detective – Frances
Furlough.’

‘And
start again with a new one based in Cumbria?’

‘I got
that impression, Inspector.’

Skelgill
shakes his head.

‘No
one would believe it – like I said the other night, nothing ever
happens.’

A pair
of little furrows forms between Lucy Hecate’s fair eyebrows.

‘Except
at Grisholm Hall.’

Now
Skelgill folds his arms.

‘Aye
– but two natural – or at worst accidental – deaths are not
going to make a great whodunit, Lucy.’

In employing
the words
natural
and
accidental
Skelgill may simply be toeing
the official line.  However, another interpretation could be that it is a
subtle test of her reaction – for he does indeed elicit one; the creases
between her brows deepen, and her expression becomes openly puzzled.

‘But
why are you investigating?’

Skelgill
unfolds his arms and leans forward in an avuncular manner.  ‘It’s out of
our hands.  When the Coroner’s involved – which can be for a minor
technicality – we have to go through the motions.  You did the right
thing, Lucy – in trying to attract assistance.’  He scratches his
head absently.  ‘Not that I was much help.’

‘I
felt we ought to do something – we might not have sat idly by if we had
been at a retreat on the shore.’

Skelgill
nods sympathetically.

‘If
you’d have been on the shore Mr Buckley might have phoned a doctor and had
treatment in time.  Ms Mandrake might not have got herself in a confused
state.  I might have caught my record pike.’

Skelgill
falls silent, no doubt recalling his outstanding bet.  Lucy Hecate watches
calmly.  She does not react to his ironic reference to his curtailed
fishing trip, but instead – in her characteristic fashion – she points
out the obvious facts.

‘We
did have a doctor, Inspector.  Dr Bond has been retired for only two
years.  He stated at the welcome meeting that since we were rather
isolated anyone should feel free to consult with him.’

‘But
Mr Buckley didn’t call upon his services?’

‘He
may have done, Inspector – I don’t know.  Though I saw them talking
on several occasions.’

Again
Skelgill thinks for a moment before proceeding.

‘How
did everyone react when Mr Buckley was found to have died?’

She
looks at him as if this is a rather superfluous question.

‘There
was initial shock, as you would expect – although Dr Bond and Mr Lampray
announced it to the rest of us, so it was handled in a professional
manner.  Apart from Bella, I was a little surprised by how quickly the
others took it in their stride.’

‘You’re
quite a lot younger than the rest.’  Skelgill seems to be implying that
her elders were more phlegmatic in the face of bereavement.

‘I’m
twenty-six.’

He
regards her searchingly.  She does not look twenty-six – after all, that
is the same age as DS Jones; and it is unimaginable that this waiflike creature
could command the authority among hard-bitten adults that his colleague
demonstrates daily.  Yet, he ought not be surprised – he has this
information already.  Among the details collected before the members of
the retreat departed were their ages: Lucy Hecate the youngest at 26, Sarah
Redmond 34, Angela Cutting 37, Bella Mandrake 39, Burt Boston 42, Rich Buckley 45,
Linda Gray 46, Dickie Lampray 59 and the retired Dr Gerald Bond 62.