Murder on the Lake (16 page)

‘And
the others?’

‘Dr
Bond... is a doctor.  Linda Gray, a chef.’

‘Very
practical – it’s not exactly writing, though.’

‘The
same could be said of Burt Boston, Inspector.’

‘Aye?’

‘He
said his survival skills would ensure we were kept warm and fed.’

Skelgill
scowls disapprovingly.

‘The larder
seemed well enough stocked – I reckon the red squirrels were safe for a
week or two.’

Lucy
Hecate stares at Skelgill, as if the idea troubles her.

‘And
what about you, Lucy – what’s your special talent?’

‘I can
speed read.’

Skelgill
grins and raises his mug in a ‘cheers’ gesture.

‘You
and me both.’  However, this claim is only valid if the definition of
speed reading includes it being done by a subordinate, after a cursory scan
from Skelgill.  ‘So, how would that be useful?’

‘I
offered to proof read other people’s work – to review their
manuscripts.  Bella Mandrake brought a three-hundred-thousand-word
romantic novel.’

Skelgill
raises his eyebrows.

‘And
who said romance is dead?’

Lucy
Hecate looks rather startled – and Skelgill must suddenly realise that in
glibly unfurling this cliché he has sailed into choppy waters.  He heaves
to and changes tack.

‘Are
you planning to go on more retreats?’

‘I
should like to.  Though it is easier to gain acceptance once you become
published.’

Skelgill
looks at her sympathetically.

‘I
believe that’s not easy.’

‘Publishers
are very blinkered towards untried authors.  Unless, perhaps, you are a
former
Page 3
model.’

Skelgill
shifts uncomfortably in his seat, as if by previous association with any such spectacle
he shares some of the blame for the frivolous state of the books business.

‘From
what I’m hearing, it sounds like you have potential as a writer.’

Lucy
Hecate flashes him a wary glance, and then rather glowers at the screen on her
lap.  Her countenance is stern, and perhaps she has difficulty in
receiving the compliment.  She makes a little ungracious shrug of her
shoulders.  Skelgill, however, continues to encourage.

‘So
don’t give up your night job, eh, lass?’

She
inhales as though she is about to answer, but there is a sudden sharp buzz of
the apartment’s intercom.  He checks his watch.

‘That’ll
be my sergeant – but I think we’ve just about finished, Lucy.  I’ll catch
her on my way out.’

‘Don’t
tell me – he’s not in the SAS and never has been.’

‘You
were right from the start, Guv.’

‘Apparently
he didn’t fool Angela Cutting, either.’

‘Really? 
He thinks he carried it off the whole time they were on the island.’

Skelgill
shrugs.

‘Well,
at least one of them was humouring him.’

DS
Jones nods ruefully.

‘So,
would you like to hear the real story?’

‘Fire
away, sergeant.’

She
grins.

‘Burt
Boston
is
his real name – other than Burt being short for Engelbert.’

Skelgill
flashes her a sceptical glance.

‘His mother
was an opera singer from Cologne – apparently the original Engelbert
Humperdinck was a German composer.’

Skelgill
shrugs reluctantly.

‘And
he’s gay, Guv.’

‘Right.’

‘He
was quite open about the deception – he told me immediately.  He’s a
masseur.  He works from home.’

‘Is
that an official job?’

‘He
made a point of telling me he pays all his tax.’

Skelgill
shakes his head doubtfully.

‘Sounds
dodgy to me.’

DS
Jones considers Skelgill’s assertion.

‘Thing
is, Guv – there’s a probably a market there – for females –
who wouldn’t generally feel comfortable with a male masseur.’

Skelgill
makes a scoffing sound.

‘I
hope he didn’t make you feel too comfortable – else I’ll be wondering why
you were late.’

‘Guv...’

DS
Jones makes a disapproving face.  However, her determination not to be
sidetracked suggests she is convinced by what she has discovered.

‘I
think he was being pretty straight, Guv – I reckon I’d know.  The
apartment is set up professionally – there’s a plaque downstairs and
certificates in the hall – and a treatment room immediately as you enter
– a proper massage table and all the fittings.’  She grins and adds
a postscript.  ‘And he’s got a Chihuahua called Butch.’

‘I’m
relieved to hear it.’

‘He
admitted the macho act was to impress the judges, so to speak – he sounds
desperate to become an author.’

Skelgill
nibbles with uncharacteristic decorum on a piece of shortbread.  Having collected
his colleague outside Lucy Hecate’s apartment, they have walked up through the
university district to Euston, where – foot-weary and rather subdued by the
stifling air of a chain coffee shop – they await the arrival of DS
Leyton, and subsequently their train north.  They sit beside one another
on a spacious though rather lumpy leather sofa, with a low table for their
drinks and Skelgill’s snack.

‘So, what’s
the SAS thing all about?’

‘It’s from
one of his clients, who’s serving in the army.  Apparently he’s full of these
fantastic adventures – but the Official Secrets Act gags him – so Burt
Boston wants to fictionalise them.  He figures he’ll stand a better chance
of getting published if he poses as the soldier.’

‘I
think he’d find his cover would soon be blown.’

DS
Jones nods thoughtfully.

‘Though
he looks the part, Guv – he might pull it off.’

Skelgill
seems a little irked by this observation.

‘So
long as he doesn’t take his Chihuahua to the interview.’

DS
Jones smirks agreeably.  Skelgill dips the remainder of his biscuit
experimentally into the foam on top of his coffee, then quickly withdraws and
swallows it.

‘So
what did he have to say about his comrades at Grisholm Hall?’

DS
Jones has her notebook on the table, and flips it open at the page retained by
a rubber band.  Skelgill squints briefly at the neat lines of shorthand,
and then settles back cradling his mug.

‘I
started off with our inquiry into Wordsworth Writers’ Retreats.  His
experience seems to be identical to the others – an email inviting him to
apply, followed by a confirmation.  He assumed it was some kind of
promotional trick – that he’d be told he hadn’t quite satisfied the
criteria but he could still participate if he wished to pay – so he was
pretty shocked when he received the offer to go free of charge.’

‘And
no other contact details?’

DS
Jones shakes her head.

‘He says
he thought it was too good to be true – but once he’d been selected he
just kept his head down and turned up at the meeting point as instructed.’

Skelgill
nods.  Lucy Hecate’s elucidation of the funding of retreats, and perhaps,
too, the details of the fees offered to the experts, has taken some of the
mystery out of the otherwise rather unquestioning compliance of those who
attended the gathering.

‘And
then?’

‘He
says they all settled in quickly – it was a bonus to discover they had a
chef in their midst – the place was comfortable enough – the
writers got down to work and the specialists contributed when asked. 
There was a certain amount of late-night drinking – less so among the
writers – but generally speaking it was quite orderly and everyone got
along.’

‘What
did he have to say about Rich Buckley?’

‘That
he liked to be the centre of attention – and to think of himself as a
ladies’ man – which was a bit awkward at times.’

‘In
what way?’

DS
Jones contrives an old-fashioned look.  She refers to her notebook

‘To
quote, Guv,
“Bet you’d give her one, eh, Burt?”
– which I guess
put him in a quandary.’

‘In
relation to which female?’

‘He
says it was indiscriminate, Guv – whoever was within ogling range at the
time.’

Skelgill
seems to be staring aimlessly into space, though perhaps he is picturing the
comings and goings about the grand rooms of Grisholm Hall.

 ‘And
did anything come of this bravado?’

‘Not
that he knows of.’  She taps her notebook.  ‘There is one thing,
though, Guv.  On the night before Rich Buckley died, Burt Boston says he
went to fetch a drink of water – he thinks it was about two a.m. –
and he found Bella Mandrake on the main landing.  She claimed she was
doing the same thing, and asked him to go down to the kitchen with her because
she was afraid of the dark.’

‘Any
indication of where she’d come from – or where she was really going?’

DS
Jones shakes her head.

‘He says
he only noticed her when he got within a couple of paces.  She was
standing still in the middle of the landing.’

‘So much
for being afraid of the dark.’

‘I
know, Guv.’

‘And
do you believe Burt Boston?’

‘In
what respect, Guv?’

‘Remember
– the bedrooms are all en suite.  If you needed a drink of water,
why trail downstairs?’

DS
Jones nods reflectively.  Skelgill’s practical experience on the island
has provided him with little insights that otherwise might easily be
overlooked.

‘Good
point, Guv.’

Skelgill
shrugs nonchalantly.

‘What
else?’

‘He says
he was relieved when you appeared, Guv.’

‘How
come?’

‘They
were all expecting him to solve the problem of summoning help – he says
he was on the verge of owning up – but once you took over he was able to
keep up the pretence.’

Skelgill
tuts.

‘Like
I say, he didn’t fool me.’

DS
Jones nods respectfully.

‘He
was generally complimentary about the other members of the retreat.  He
did ask me if Dickie Lampray had said anything about him.’

‘Meaning
what?’

‘He
was a bit cagey, actually, Guv.  But then he claimed that Dickie Lampray
had remarked that his work had some potential and there might be a possibility
of taking him on as a client.  It does kind of correspond to what Dickie
Lampray told us.’

Skelgill
leans his head back on the sofa and gazes at the woodworm-effect tiles of the
suspended ceiling.

‘Maybe
there was an ulterior motive, Jones.’

DS
Jones flashes Skelgill a sideways glance, and then briefly makes a face of mock
shock- horror.  Skelgill rocks forward and puts down his empty mug. 
He gazes speculatively at the queue at the counter, as if he is contemplating
what to have next.  He combs back his hair with the fingers of both hands,
and DS Jones suddenly notices the blackened smear of dried blood on his temple.

‘Guv
– what happened?  That’s quite a bad cut you’ve got.’

Skelgill
glances at her uneasily, and then looks away, as if he is deciding whether or
not to relate what took place.

‘Bit
of a fracas – couple of hoodlums tried to mug Angela Cutting.’

DS
Jones looks concerned.

‘When was
this, Guv?’

‘It
turned out she had a television interview – so she offered to buy us
lunch, to save time – some posh restaurant not far from Lucy Hecate’s
flat.’

‘What
was it called?’

Skelgill
frowns.

‘I
can’t remember – I mean I didn’t really notice – it was opposite a
theatre showing
The Mousetrap
.’

Now DS
Jones’s eyes bulge.

‘That’s
The Vine
, Guv!  It’s where all the celebrities go.’

‘I
didn’t see any.’

‘There’s
a permanent six-month waiting list for tables.’

Skelgill
shrugs indifferently.     

‘Well,
she just breezed in – they seemed to know her.’

DS
Jones squints as though she is trying to recall something.

‘So,
what happened, Guv?’

‘Not a
lot.  They snatched her bag as we walked out.  Between me and the
local plod we put a stop to it.’

DS
Jones shakes her head, and her expression softens to one of mild wonderment.

‘I’m
surprised you weren’t papped, Guv.’

‘Come
again?’

‘Photographed
– the paparazzi are always hanging around there – and
Stringfellows
. 
It’s just around the corner.’

‘Why
would anyone want to photograph me?’

‘I
think
I
can answer that one, Guv.’

The
two detectives swivel round in surprise – for this voice, complete with
its Cockney brogue, belongs to DS Leyton.  Rather red in the face, and
looking a little dishevelled from his journeying, he has appeared behind them,
wheezing lightly, lopsidedly weighed down by his overnight bag, and eagerly
brandishing a copy of the afternoon edition of the
Evening Standard
. 
He rounds their sofa and settles down with some relief in an armchair opposite.

‘You
certainly made an impact, Guv.’

‘What
are you talking about, Leyton?’

DS
Leyton opens the newspaper and, turning it around, spreads it out over the coffee
table for his colleagues to see.  He points to a quarter-page photograph
and the headline, ‘The Bodyguard’.

Skelgill
and DS Jones lean forward, Skelgill scowling his disapproval and DS Jones once
more wide-eyed.  The picture shows Skelgill in the split-second that his
fist made contact with the knifeman’s jaw.  In the background is a
shocked-looking Angela Cutting, and the tall figure of a somewhat cowering
commissionaire.  The sub-heading states: ‘Undercover policeman comes to
the rescue of well-known literary critic.’

DS
Jones pores over the article, and reads aloud.

‘“At
lunchtime today literary critic and London socialite Angela Cutting was the
victim of an attempted mugging by knife-wielding assailants outside
The Vine
restaurant in Covent Garden.  Fortunately a mystery detective was on the
scene to intervene.  Ms Cutting is currently estranged from her boyfriend,
former European cruiserweight boxing champion turned Hollywood tough-guy,
Vinnie Nails, who is on police bail following a charge for the possession of a
Class-A drug.”’  She glances up at her colleagues.  ‘I remember
reading about this – I just hadn’t made the connection to Angela
Cutting.’  She returns to the article.  ‘“Restaurant staff would not elaborate
upon whether Ms Cutting and the detective had dined together – but if she
seeks an able replacement for Mr Nails, it appears she need look no further. 
The Metropolitan Police reported that two Caucasian males have been detained in
custody, but declined to comment upon the circumstances of the arrest.’”

The
two sergeants gape at Skelgill, who is clearly experiencing a conflict of
emotions: the opposing ends of this spectrum being swagger and shame.  He
sets his jaw determinedly and returns their stares.