Murder on the Lake (18 page)

DS
Leyton laughs, as he recalls his original assessment.

‘So it
would, Guv – wish I’d thought of that – reckon I’d have got more
sense out of it than old Ebenezer himself behind the counter.’

‘This
doesn’t sound promising, Leyton.’

 ‘Like
drawing teeth, Guv.’  DS Leyton puffs out his cheeks in recollection of
the ordeal.  ‘And top line is we’re no further forward.  They rent
out Grisholm Hall for house-party weekends and corporate junkets.  They’ve
got a little crew of locals that stock it up and do the cleaning and maintenance
– according to what’s needed.  They took a booking from Wordsworth
Writers’ Retreats about two months ago – he thinks by email but he
couldn’t find it – the computer looks like something out of a
black-and-white episode of
Doctor Who
.  They received a down
payment by cheque seven days in advance of the entry date.’

‘How
much for?’

‘Three
grand, Guv – to cover the food and drink, mainly.’

‘Have
they got the cheque?’

DS
Leyton shakes his head dejectedly.

‘Nor a
copy of it, Guv.  With it being near the end of the month they’ve posted a
whole batch off to the bank – so they don’t even know if it’s going to
clear – never mind whether it’s bona fide.’

‘Was
it an account in the company name?’

‘He
can’t recall, Guv – he’d actually forgotten I was coming, and he was
struggling to remember where Grisholm Hall is – they’ve got hundreds of
properties on their books – cowsheds and cottages and castles on country
estates from John’s End to Land O’Groats.’

DS
Jones once more giggles involuntarily, and DS Leyton looks puzzled –
until he mouths the phrase again and hears his transposition error.

‘It
might as well be that, for all the use they were.’  He picks up his
notebook and then lets it drop back down upon the table.  ‘I’ve put one of
the lads onto contacting the bank, but they’re saying three to five days before
the cheque comes out in the wash.’

Skelgill
folds his arms and looks decidedly frustrated.  DS Jones makes an effort
to rally their spirits.

‘We’ve
still got three interviews to do, Guv.’

Skelgill
stares out into the black void beyond the window and slowly shakes his head.

‘I’m
concerned by how little we’ve found out.’

His
subordinates sit uneasily for a moment, perhaps trying to read his mood. 
After a few seconds DS Leyton speaks in a consoling tone.

‘Maybe
there is nothing, Guv?’

Skelgill
gives no visible indication of whether he agrees or disagrees with this idea.

‘It’s
like the bloody Loch Ness monster – how do you prove a negative? 
You can’t.  Until we bottom this business of the retreats company, we’re
in limbo.  The economics of it don’t stack up – but that doesn’t
mean it’s not genuine.  If we knew it was bogus – and had some
inkling of who was behind it – we’d know what we’re looking for.  In
the meantime, we’re guddling around in the dark.’  He turns back and looks
first at DS Leyton and then at DS Jones.  ‘Has one of these people got
something to hide – or are they perfectly normal innocent human beings? 
Aye – a couple of them have been a bit cagey – but there’s not one
obvious lie – and we all know what folk can be like when the Old Bill
turns up.’

DS
Leyton is nodding sympathetically.

‘I
know what you mean, Guv – only takes the missus to start on me and I confess
to things I’ve not even dreamt of.’

Skelgill
looks coldly at his sergeant and DS Jones is obliged to disguise a snigger as a
sudden cough.  Skelgill continues unprompted.

‘And
if there were some bedtime shenanigans – why would you admit it?  Especially
if the other party is dead.’

DS
Leyton appears still to be out of step with the rhetorical nature of his
superior officer’s monologue.

‘Who’s
not got a skeleton in their closet, Guv?’

Skelgill
is evidently not listening.  He gazes down the carriage and speaks in the
manner of someone talking into the clip-on microphone of a mobile telephone.

‘Logic
says the start point must be Rich Buckley.  His secretary tells us he was
a sexist boor, he harassed and humiliated female interns, he was miserly, and
he was in the middle of an acrimonious divorce.  “A thoroughly unpleasant
man,” she said.  “Not a nice man” – from his wife.  To some
extent, that’s what we’ve heard from Lucy Hecate and Burt Boston.  But...
he already knew Dickie Lampray and Angela Cutting – and the pair of them
have played down these bad reports.  So why is that?’

DS
Jones coughs again – although this time she clears her throat in a way
that signals an intervention.

‘He
obviously had a direct business relationship with Dickie Lampray, Guv –
and perhaps there was something similar with Angela Cutting?’

Skelgill
stares at her, an expression of doubt clouding his features.

‘So
what?’

DS
Jones hesitates – as though she hasn’t really got a clear answer to this.

‘Maybe
if they had something to protect, or that they didn’t want made public –
they would try to deflect things away from an investigation into the publishing
firm?’

Skelgill
shrugs listlessly.

‘Aye
– it’s possible – that’s all very well – but take things on a
step or two – why would they want to see him disappear from the
scene?  He’s the kingpin that keeps the likes of them in a job.’

Of
course, this is something of a sweeping statement – RBP is just one of
many fish in the publishing ocean, and a minnow at that – at least by
international standards.  It seems that Skelgill – to paraphrase his
own angling metaphor of a few moments earlier – is for the time being casting
aimlessly.  However, this may be no bad thing; as DS Jones alluded to with
regard to the solving of crossword puzzles, the hopeful charge down a blind
alley is the first sign that the subconscious has detected an as-yet
indefinable pattern.  Indeed, while the little group ponders, it falls to
DS Leyton to iterate this conundrum.

‘What
we need are connections, Guv.’  He throws his hands apart and then clasps
them together in mid air, shaking them symbolically.  ‘Like Harry Cobble
finding your boat.’

Skelgill
looks irked.

‘That’s
not a connection, Leyton – that’s a coincidence – life’s full of
them – I’ve had a hatful today.’

DSL
looks surprised.  ‘Really, Guv?’

Skelgill
begins ostentatiously to count on his fingers.

‘For
one, I woke up and saw a pelican – how often do you do that, Leyton?’

‘Er,
not very often, Guv – never really, I suppose.’

‘Couple
of hours later and Jones here solves a clue in Dickie Lampray’s crossword.’

He
stares at DS Jones.  She understands she is to answer.

‘Pelican,
Guv.’

Skelgill
glares at DS Leyton.

‘Now,
Leyton – that doesn’t make Dickie Lampray one iota more suspicious, does
it?’

‘True
enough, Guv.’  He screws up his features rather grudgingly.  ‘Though
there’s some would say it was a sign.’

Skelgill
scoffs.

‘Next
I call upon Angela Cutting.  Where do I work?’

‘You,
Guv?’

Skelgill
stares defiantly at his sergeant.  He is clearly determined to play out
this game.  DS Leyton relents.

‘Cumbria,
Guv – we all do.’

‘Excellent,
Leyton.  Cumbria – and the part of Cumbria that Penrith is in, in
old money was known as?’

DS
Leyton shrugs and shakes his head.

‘Search
me, Guv – I dunno, Scotland?’

Skelgill’s
stare becomes a glare.

‘Leyton
– I take it you failed geography and history.’

‘And
all the ologies, Guv.’

Despite
his uncompromising manner, Skelgill is forced to laugh.  He looks to DS
Jones to provide the solution.

‘Cumberland.’

‘Correct
– and where does Angela Cutting live – but Cumberland Terrace. 
Does that make her any more suspicious?  No.  And it’s not a sign,
Leyton.  And finally, Angela Cutting takes me for lunch – she can’t
possibly know where I’m going next – but what does she do – in the
biggest city in the European Union she picks a restaurant that’s less than a
minute’s walk from my next destination – Lucy Hecate’s flat.  Does
that make either of them any more suspicious?’

By now
DS Leyton is obediently shaking his head.  But DS Jones seems tense and –
in spite of Skelgill’s mini-tirade – readies herself to speak.’

‘Guv
– Dickie Lampray had that photograph with him and Rich Buckley in it.’

Skelgill
flips the palms of his hands towards her.

‘And
that – ladies and gentleman –
is
a connection, although
– as I said a few moments ago – if it’s the best we’ve got we’re up
the creek.  We could pick a bunch of randomers and find they’ve got more in
common than this lot.’

For a
minute or two the trio sits in dissatisfied silence, until DS Leyton rather
glumly offers a suggestion.

‘So,
do you think we should just wrap things up first knockings tomorrow, Guv? 
I can easy enough cancel the interviews.’

However,
despite Skelgill’s pessimistic assessment of their progress, DS Leyton’s proposition
seems to find some objection within him.  He leans his elbows on the table
and lowers his chin broodingly upon the heels of his hands.  He closes his
eyes.  Perhaps he rekindles the memories of his own experience on
Grisholm, the mainstay of his determination thus far.  After a few seconds
he sits upright and shakes his head.

‘Ask
me again after we’ve had a burger.’

The
other two laugh in a relieved manner, and relax into their seats. 
Skelgill does likewise, and runs his fingers through his hair and stretches his
arms above his head, as though he is preparing to settle down for a nap.

‘I do
have one
un
connected question, Jones.’

‘Guv?’

‘What
was the clue if the answer was pelican?’

DS
Jones’s full lips stretch into a satisfied grin.

‘I’ll
trade you, Guv – if you tell me what you called Miss Trimble.’

In
order efficiently to mop up the three outstanding interviews with members of the
Grisholm retreat Skelgill has decreed that DS Jones will meet Dr Gerald Bond
and DS Leyton Linda Gray – both of these relatively local affairs in
Cumbria – while he shall undertake the two hundred mile round-trip to
Edinburgh to visit Sarah Redmond.  The cynic might speculate that this
allocation has something to do with the fact that Skelgill has got to know each
of the candidates, and is expressing some personal preference – although
an equally robust hypothesis might identify the opportunity such a trip
provides to inspect various fishing haunts, the route intersecting as it does the
Esk and the Eden in England, before picking up the source of the Tweed in the
Scottish Borders and following its course for some twenty miles, and
subsequently crossing smaller but no less interesting waters such as the Tarth
and the North Esk.  Certainly, Skelgill has planned to delay his departure
until around eight a.m., when it will be fully light, and angling
reconnaissance optimised.  His appointment with Sarah Redmond is scheduled
for eleven a.m. at her apartment in the Scottish capital.

However,
a salient item of news reached the weary detectives during the latter half of
their train journey yesterday evening, and this has impacted upon Skelgill’s
itinerary.  The credit card in the name ‘Ms J Smith’ found among the late
Bella Mandrake’s personal possessions has been traced to an address in Leith,
the ancient port town on the Firth of Forth, where a teenage Mary Queen of
Scots landed to reclaim her throne in 1561, and which today is contiguous with
greater Edinburgh.  The local Scottish police have identified a rented
property, and access arrangements have been made through the factor.  Thus
Skelgill sets off in darkness at six a.m., for a rendezvous with his regular
contact for such cross-border affairs, DS Cameron Findlay.

Some two
hours later they meet near DS Findlay’s home in the western Edinburgh suburb of
Corstorphine (one of Scotland’s many unpronounceable place-names – Kus-
tor
-fin
being a near-enough rendition, with the stress on the middle syllable), where
Skelgill leaves his car at a large chain hotel near the zoological
gardens.  DS Findlay has thoughtfully furnished them with takeaway coffees,
and the pair catches up on various matters as they cross the city. 
Edinburgh’s rush hour is a peculiar affair, and mainly takes place between
08:20 and 08:40 during term-times only, when thousands of affluent parents in
oversized vehicles deliver their small (and not so small) charges to the illustrious
private schools that serve their particular dynasties.  DS Findlay’s
suggestion of meeting at eight a.m. has served to position them ahead of this unruly
tsunami of traffic, and they move steadily as they set out to cover the
remaining five miles of Skelgill’s journey.

Their
route from the zoo in Corstorphine passes the great rugby stadium in the
adjoining Murrayfield district, where understated Edwardian terraces house much
of Scotland’s legal profession, to Roseburn (crossing the Water of Leith) where
DS Findlay makes a dog-leg through a semi-industrial area of delivery depots
and working men’s clubs and blackened stone railway bridges.  They skirt
past Tynecastle, home of the
‘Jam Tarts’
(Heart of Midlothian FC), and
pick up the old Caledonian Railway line, now a motorised highway that cuts into
the city centre.  Lothian Road, the Grassmarket, Cowgate and Canongate
bring them to Holyrood, where the palace and the parliament glower at one
another across centuries of antipathy.  Here, too, there is the sudden
shock of the park, with its mini-mountains and thrusting volcanic escarpments that
make Edinburgh the ‘Rio of Europe’, and St Margaret’s Loch where wintering wild
ducks patiently await the arrival of mums and toddlers, and unsuitable food in
the form of artificially coloured extruded snacks.  Exiting Holyrood Park
they dip down into an area less familiar to Skelgill – though between the
blocks of drab post-war tenements he gains glimpses of Meadowbank stadium and
the green-and-white painted Hibernian FC ground at Easter Road.  There is
a
haar
sliding in off the North Sea, and the very tops of the pylons
that bear the floodlights for these gladiatorial arenas are dissolved in the brackish
mist.  Skelgill might be a little disoriented, but DS Findlay’s superior local
knowledge has served them well and, just fifteen minutes after their departure,
they slide into the southern fringe of Leith, by one of its lesser-known access
roads.

‘Glad
to see the old radar’s still in working order.’

‘This is
Roadworks City, Danny – use the satnav and you never get anywhere on
time, if ever.’

Skelgill
grunts his agreement, and again more vocally as DS Findlay without warning swings
the car beneath an archway that separates two five-storey stone buildings. 
He conducts them along a narrow cobbled thoroughfare that opens on the right
into a yard some eighty feet by forty.  Their surroundings give the impression
of a bonded warehouse – and, indeed, that was its original purpose. 
Today, like almost all that survive of Leith’s hundred-odd nineteenth century whisky
repositories, it is converted into flats.  And here, in Constitution
Street, they hope to unravel the mystery of ‘Ms J Smith’.  DS Findlay nudges
the marked police car into an empty resident’s parking bay and applies the
handbrake with a flourish.

‘Welcome
to Leith – did ye ken, the first penguins for Edinburgh Zoo were brought
ashore here by the whalers over a century ago?’

Skelgill
shakes his head and chuckles.

‘That’s
what it is – remember last time I saw you – I told you there’s a
career waiting for you as a tour guide.’

‘Och,
aye – but they’d never let me loose with the double-decker bus, Danny.’

Skelgill
ducks out of the vehicle and together they saunter across to the entrance of
the stair.  Though the building is Victorian, it has been renovated from a
gutted shell, and its main door, sash windows and communal post-box unit are
fashioned of modern materials and uniformly painted in an agreeable olive green. 
The cobbled yard is tidy and litter-free, and the stone edifice itself has been
pressure-washed and belies its age.  Skelgill looks about appreciatively,
and is only distracted when the laughing cry of a Herring Gull causes him to glance
skywards.  The large grey scavenger bends like an iron bar against the
irresistible easterly, and wheels away out of sight.

‘Sounds
like we’re beside the seaside.’

‘A
good stone’s throw would do it, Danny.’

Skelgill
nods.

‘Nice
job they’ve made of these flats.’

‘Aye
– and, according to the records they were converted above ten years ago.’

‘They
look as good as new.’

‘That’s
the benefit of having a factor – they collect in the money and make sure
all the repairs are done.’

Skelgill
has moved across to inspect the mailboxes.  The gabled unit is fixed to
the pale sandstone wall of the property.  There are twenty-four numbered
doors, each with an aluminium letterbox and an individual lock.

‘Do
you have a key for these, Cam?’

DS
Findlay fishes out a jangling bunch from his jacket pocket.  With his
thick fingers he separates them into a little fan and squints determinedly.’

‘Aye
– maybe this long thin yin.’  He approaches the unit.  ‘Flat
eleven, now.’

The
key turns the lock but the plywood door is recalcitrant, perhaps a shade
warped, and requires a sharp tug to open.  He stands back and gestures to
Skelgill that he should go ahead.

‘Be my
guest.’

The
interior of the box – measuring about eight inches tall by eighteen wide
and the same in depth – is jammed full of envelopes and flyers.  The
first impression is that it has not been emptied for some time, but as Skelgill
pulls out an armful and begins to sift through, it becomes clear that one or
more enterprising leaflet-distributors have taken the opportunity to divest
themselves of their stocks, for there are multiple repeats advertising
unmissable pizza deals, takeaway restaurants, window and rhone cleaning, and
superfast broadband.

‘It’s
all junk mail, Cam – no wait – look at this.’

He
swivels at the waist to show DS Findlay a large manila envelope that he has uncovered
about halfway down the pile.  DS Findlay appears perplexed.

‘Bella
Mandrake?  I thought we were looking for a Jane Smith?’

‘Bella
Mandrake’s her pseudonym – pen name, stage name, or whatever.  It means
you’ve brought me to the right place, Cam.’

DS
Findlay contrives a severe expression.

‘You’re
dealing with Police Scotland, now, laddie – none of your Sassenach
amateurs.’

Skelgill
pretends to be offended.

‘I
take it you don’t include Cumbria in that definition?’

‘Och,
no – you Geordies are just like us... gie or tak a sense o’ humour.’

DS
Findlay has a glint in his eye – this is not the first time he has,
perhaps mischievously, misplaced Skelgill’s provenance – and his strait-laced
joshing is sufficiently endearing to pass muster.  Skelgill stuffs the
bundle of mail under his arm and closes the door of the box with a firm shove.

‘Come
on, let’s have a gander inside – I’ll sort this lot later.’

They
approach the entrance and DS Findlay successfully matches one of the keys on his
loaned bunch to the brand name on the lock at the first attempt.  Unlike a
typical Edinburgh tenement there is a modern feel; the stair is light and airy,
with brushed steel handrails, freshly emulsioned white walls, grey
marble-effect linoleum and the smell of recently applied lemon-scented
floor-cleaner.  However, it is not this pleasing combination of features
that causes the detectives to pause on entry, but a large tabby cat that eyes them
from the head of the first flight of stairs.  Skelgill makes a kissing
sound by sucking air between his lips, upon which the animal turns and
disappears from sight.  He shrugs and they begin to climb, Skelgill
holding back so as not to outpace the older, bulkier man.  Two flights
separate each landing, and DS Findlay is panting heavily by the time they reach
the third floor, where they spy the number eleven on a door at the end of a
short corridor to their right.

‘It’s
a wee while since I climbed my last Munro, Danny.’

Skelgill
grins affably.

‘You
should get the missus down to the Lakes for a weekend – I’ll point you in
the direction of a couple of decent walks.’

‘A
couple of decent pubs might be more the ticket.’

‘Aye,
we’ve plenty of them, too.’

Skelgill
moves aside to allow DS Findlay to tackle the front door.  There are two
separate mortise locks, and he has to try both of these – one is for the
landlord’s use between lets and has not been engaged – but the brass keys
are almost identical.  The door opens into a narrow hallway about twenty
feet long, and the immediate impression is of a householder who has decamped
from a larger, older-style property.  A mahogany sideboard blocks half the
width of the passage, and oversized landscape paintings and an ornately framed
mirror are too big for the walls and the low ceiling.  The air is stale
and cloying, hanging with an invisible mist of lavender-scented talcum powder. 
They pass an internal bathroom on the right, gaining glimpses of a sizeable
collection of toiletries, and ahead of them a small bedroom: lacking a bed but
crowded with wardrobes, a dresser – itself stacked with an array of
cosmetics – and a writing bureau with an upright chair set before the
window.  The corridor turns sharp right and passes a second bedroom adjacent
to the first (this one housing a double bed, an elaborate affair with a carved
oak headboard and footboard, that dominates the cramped space), before opening
into a larger room that is an all-in-one kitchen, diner and lounge.  It is
situated at the corner of the building, overlooking the cobbled lane and yard,
and has good natural light from windows on two sides, and a set of French doors
that open onto the tiniest of balconies, really nothing more than a broad sill
enclosed by a safety rail.  The fitted kitchen is entirely modern, and
clashes rather with a teak Jacobean-style dining table and chairs.  The
lounge section into which it merges is, like the other rooms, fussily cluttered
with elaborate ornaments and over-sized furniture, in particular a purple
velvet upholstered chesterfield.  Upon its nearest arm, resting in the
heraldic pose known as
couchant
, is the tabby cat.  Winking, it
watches them warily.

‘Struth
– how the deil did that get in here?’

Skelgill
shakes his head.

‘Maybe
it’s a cat burglar?’

DS
Findlay lumbers back out into the corridor – he returns nodding his head.

‘There’s
a cat-flap, Danny – it’s painted the same shade as the door – I
didnae notice it.’

‘Me
neither.’

Skelgill
meanwhile is making a second attempt to endear himself to the feline.  It
is a large, striking specimen, beautifully marked, and it seems well fed and quite
at ease in these surroundings.  He makes more pishing sounds, and this
time the animal permits him to stroke it across the top of its head.