Murder on the Lake (17 page)

‘What?’

DS
Jones bites her lip and glances at DS Leyton.  For a moment he looks
disconcerted, as though – in the role of messenger – he is about to
pay the time-honoured price.  But he shrugs his bulky frame inside his
jacket, returns Skelgill’s stare and then breaks into a broad grin.

‘What
a beauty, Guv!’

Skelgill
is still glowering.

‘What
do you mean?’

DS
Leyton jabs a stubby index finger at the photograph.

‘’You’ve
half caved his face in, Guv.’

Skelgill
sits back and folds his arms.

‘He
was pointing a knife at me, Leyton – he’s lucky I had to chase his hoppo
– else that’s not all I’d have caved in.’

Skelgill’s
strategy for the three-hour return journey to Penrith is to occupy a table in
the dining car, ostensibly on the grounds that this will guarantee a degree of
privacy.  His subordinates will no doubt suspect, however, that this stone
is cast at two birds, the second of which to be served upon a plate in the form
of a handy chicken dinner.  It being late October – indeed Halloween
falls on the forthcoming Friday, and British Summer Time ended whilst Skelgill
was deep in slumber on Grisholm – sundown is presently occurring around
the four-thirty p.m. mark, and thus the train sets off to the neon-streaked but
otherwise invisible backdrop of London’s dense northern suburbs and over-populated
home counties.  Soon it will pass into the darker realms of the East and
West Midlands’ borderlands, before slicing through the Cheshire-Lancashire
urban plain, and finally slipping into the velvety blackness of Cumbria’s
fellsides.  Lacking external distractions, and despite the obvious fatigue
that can be a function solely of travelling – never mind the sustained
concentration required for interviewing – all three detectives appear
keen to deal with work matters.  Thus, Skelgill and DS Jones attend to DS
Leyton as he begins to recount his visits to Grisholm Hall’s property agents,
Rich Buckley’s general practitioner and – firstly – the recently
widowed Mrs Myra Buckley.

‘Worth
a bob or two, that’s for sure, Guv – my old man always used to say, if
there’s a cedar in the garden, there’s a monkey in the bank.’

‘A
monkey?’  DS Jones produces a bemused grin.

‘Five
hundred nicker, girl – in those days that was a lot of bread and honey.’

Skelgill
scowls.

‘A day
in London and you’re regressing into a Cockney, Leyton.’

‘You
know what they say, Guv – you can take the boy out of the East End.’

‘Aye
– well let’s have it in plain English now we’re north of Watford.’

DS
Leyton makes an acquiescent shrug of the shoulders, although it is doubtful
this rebuke will censor his vocabulary.

‘Right,
Guv – anyway – big old detached house, Elizabethan style –
must have a couple of acres of garden – new
BM Dub
in the drive.’

Skelgill
glances at DS Jones.  She nods to confirm her understanding that this
means
BMW
.

‘What
about the wife?’

‘I’d
say business as usual, Guv.’  DS Leyton glances phlegmatically at his
notebook.  ‘I started by explaining about the Coroner and offering our
condolences – and she told me straight out about the divorce – I
didn’t even have to raise it.’

‘What
did she say?’

‘That
she assumed we knew – she didn’t ask how.  I said we did.  She
said she obviously felt a bit shocked when she heard about his sudden death,
but that she couldn’t honestly say she was devastated – “Not a nice man”,
she said.’

‘Did
she elaborate?’

DS
Leyton tilts his head from one side to the other.

‘Nah,
Guv – I asked her what she meant and she kind of switched it over to the
business side.  She said he was ruthless and the gentlemen in the book trade
weren’t a match for him – that’s why he was successful – plus he
had no scruples peddling soft porn.’

‘Her
words?’

‘Give
or take, Guv.’

‘What
about family?’

DS
Leyton shakes his head decisively, and his fleshy jowls tremble.

‘None
to speak of, Guv – at least,
they
don’t have kids.  Married seven
years – she’s quite a bit younger than him.  He’s got no previous
family – she’s got a grown-up child from a former relationship, that she
had young and was brought up by the father.  Buckley was an only child and
his parents have passed away.  She said he’d been married twice before,
though – but had no contact with either of his exes as far as she knows.’

‘Did
she ask about the funeral?’

‘I had
to prompt her, Guv.  I explained the Coroner has to release the body
– but it didn’t seem like it was top of her action list – she was
togged up as if she was about to go horse riding.’

Skelgill
purses his lips.

‘This corresponds
to what we’ve been hearing about Buckley.’  He glances at DS Jones who
nods in agreement.  ‘Especially from his secretary.’

‘Right,
Guv – well, I asked her about the financial situation, and she claimed
she had no idea how the business was doing – she said she had no involvement,
and he didn’t speak about it.’  DS Leyton runs a finger around inside his
shirt collar, as though the heat of the carriage is bothering him.  ‘She
didn’t seem too fussed, Guv – she says it's a Limited Company and Buckley
was the sole Director – seems like she’s insulated from any debts.’

Skelgill
is absently feeling the cut on his temple.

‘She
knows enough, then.’

DS
Jones is nodding.

‘I bet
they had the house in her name, Guv – just as a precaution.  It’s a
popular arrangement to protect against negligence claims.  Except that
would have put her in the box seat in any negotiations between lawyers. 
And now she’ll presumably inherit the shareholding – it could be valuable
– if Constance Belgrave is right and the business is making a trading
profit.’

Skelgill
and DS Leyton appear surprised by her succinct analysis.  Skelgill raises
an eyebrow, while DS Leyton bows in her direction before he continues.

‘I
asked her if she thought he was the suicidal type – she said he was
moody, but that he was far too self important ever to admit anything was his
fault.  She reckoned he’d be the last person to kill himself.’

‘How
about the medication?’

DS
Leyton shakes his head.

‘Nothing
that she knows of.  She said since we’d been in touch she’s checked all
his cupboards and drawers and there’s no trace of anything.  She thought hangovers
were his only ailment.’

Skelgill
glances at DS Jones.  She reaches into her attaché case and brings out the
evidence bag containing the packet of tablets.

‘We
found these in his office.’

DS
Leyton leans forward with interest.

‘Maybe
that’s the answer, keep it at work – if he didn’t want her indoors to
know – perhaps he was embarrassed.’  Now he contrives a rather
helpless expression.  ‘You know how the missus always finds out about
everything?’

Skelgill
and DS Jones look like they don’t, but humour him with weak smiles.  DS
Jones returns the medication to her bag.  Skelgill casts a hand vaguely into
space.

‘What
was she like?’

‘Pretty
fit, Guv – small, slim, young-looking for forties – blonde –
though you never know at first with blondes, do you?’

DS
Jones lets out an involuntary giggle and subconsciously reaches for her own
hair, which is shoulder length and a naturally streaked amalgam of fair and
light brown.  DS Leyton appears suddenly ill at ease.

‘Sorry,
Emma – I didn’t mean...’

But
Skelgill intervenes.

‘Leyton
– neither did I – not what she
looks
like – what she’s
like – her personality?’

‘Oh
– sorry, Guv.’  He shakes his head in self reprimand.  ‘I’d say
pretty cold, actually, Guv.  Has a kind of way of looking at you as though
she can’t be bothered with you – got her own little agenda going
on.’  He shrugs.  ‘She never offered me a drink or nothing – at
least, not until I was about to go – and then she said she’d only got
Earl Grey, and I remembered what you’d said about it, Guv – so I gave it
a miss.’

‘Good
for you, Leyton.’  Skelgill’s features remain implacable, in the way of
someone fighting back a pressing twitch.  ‘What does she do – has
she got a job?’

‘She
works part-time in a kindergarten in –’  (DS Leyton consults his
notes) ‘ – in
Eton Wick
, Guv.  Three mornings a week, she
says.  Not doing it for the money, I don’t reckon.’

Skelgill
nods.

‘What’s
your gut feel?’

DS
Leyton shakes his head.

‘If
she was holding out on us, Guv – I’d say it wasn’t about Rich Buckley’s
death.  I kind of touched on why they were getting divorced, and she
definitely didn’t want to talk about that – just said it was by mutual
consent.  I did notice a guy pull up outside in a Range Rover while I was
waiting for the taxi.  He sat in the car on his phone for as long as I was
there.  Pretended he hadn’t noticed me.’

‘Maybe
the riding instructor, Leyton.’

DS
Leyton glances at his superior and then furtively at DS Jones, as if he is
trying to determine what is an acceptable level of innuendo at this
juncture.  But since they are both rather non-committal he continues.

‘I was
trying to work out, Guv – usually there’s one party more to blame than
the other – and she wasn’t slow to slag off Buckley – I wondered if
maybe she’d got something on him, was forcing his hand.’

Skelgill
folds his arms and furrows his brow.

‘Aye,
well – according to his secretary, he wasn’t too happy with the way
things were panning out.  Did you ask about his extra-curricular
activities?’

‘In a
roundabout way, Guv – I tried – but she wasn’t having any of it
– I think she’s twigged she’s just won the lottery and ain’t going to upset
the applecart – all she’d say was that if he did have any vices he didn’t
bring them home – but that he wasn’t home a great deal, anyway.’

Skelgill
picks up the menu card and taps it several times on the formica of the
table.  Then he leans out into the aisle and glares impatiently down the
train.  As yet, there has been no sign of a waiter.

‘This
is not the service I’m accustomed to.’

DS
Jones grins – she guesses he refers to his lunchtime assignation with
Angela Cutting.

‘Why
don’t I go and get us some teas from the buffet counter?’

Skelgill
is quick to accept.

‘Good
thinking, Jones – see what snacks they’ve got while you’re at it.’

He
rises and steps away from their seat to let her out, and then occupies her position
beside the window.  For a few moments he presses his forehead against the
glass – the dim lights of a rural station flash by, but it is impossible
to read the signs at 125 mph and he returns his attention to DS Leyton.

‘So
what did Buckley’s doctor have to say?’

‘I
couldn’t get an appointment, Guv – three weeks was the first he could
do.’

‘What?’

Though
Skelgill speaks quietly he sounds mildly enraged.  DS Leyton chuckles.

‘Only
joking, Guv – you know what it’s like.’

‘Very
funny, Leyton.’

‘Nothing
to add, really, Guv – I think our boys got all there was when they phoned
him in the first place.  He said the last time he’d prescribed any
medication for Buckley was three years ago, and that was for a fungal toenail
infection.  He’d had one of those private medicals last January and the GP
had been sent a copy of the report – he said he’d double checked that and
there was nothing significant – a minor blood problem,’ (here DS Leyton
refers to his notes) ‘slightly high uric acid level, probably from drinking too
much red wine – causes gout, apparently, Guv.’

Skelgill
shrugs and appears only vaguely interested.  Then he is distracted
altogether as DS Jones reappears, empty-handed.

‘It’s
closed at the moment, Guv – they’ve got some sort of electrical problem
– they’ve shut the buffet counter and the kitchen – they’re hoping
to get an engineer on board at Crewe.’

Skelgill
glowers irritably.

‘Might
have to make a dash for a kiosk when we stop.’

DS
Leyton frowns.

‘It’s
a bit risky, Guv – what if you didn’t get back on board in time?’

Skelgill
smiles candidly.

‘I
wasn’t thinking of being the one fetching the scran, Leyton.’

DS
Leyton pulls his head into his broad shoulders, rather like an old tortoise
that is accustomed to taking regular self-preservation measures.

‘Right,
Guv.’  He swallows and then suddenly perks up.  ‘I suppose, looking
on the bright side, if you were stranded at least you’d have three burgers for
company.’

Skelgill
frowns his disapproval, as though he has not considered this eventuality. 
He points to DS Leyton’s notebook.

‘Anyway
– carry on Leyton.  You’ve not missed anything, Jones.’

‘That’s
it for the doctor, Guv – then I went back into town to the property
agents.  Eventually I found this tiny little place down an alley just off
Piccadilly.  It was like walking into a Dickens novel – what with a decrepit
old geezer in the darkest corner and hardly any lights on – I tripped
over a Labrador lying in the middle of the floor.’

‘That’d
be the dog you mentioned – does the admin.’