Murder on the Lake (21 page)

‘There’s
been talk that he was something of a ladies’ man.’

Now
– perhaps for illustrative purposes – she makes a blatantly
flirtatious gesture, turning a naked shoulder to Skelgill and fluttering her
lashes suggestively.

‘Oh, I
believe we
ladies
could handle Rich, Inspector – although perhaps
he would have considered the aspiring authors to be easier pickings.’

Skelgill
inhales as though he is about to comment upon this observation, but Sarah
Redmond holds up a palm, like a medium suddenly hearing a voice from the other
side.

‘I
think – I think – perhaps instead we should consider
insanity
. 
That’s it.’

She
raises her glass and takes another mouthful of wine; she holds it for a moment,
before, in a rather melodramatic fashion, tipping back her head and swallowing. 
Skelgill watches her, intrigued.

‘Insanity.’

His
response consists of a simple restatement of the noun, but Sarah Redmond seems
to understand it is a question.

‘Were
not the deaths caused by – in effect –
poisoning
?’

Now
Skelgill looks like he might wish to back-track.

‘My
scientific colleagues believe that Rich Buckley died from heart failure, caused
by an adverse reaction to some medication he was using – he’d probably
obtained it privately and therefore had no proper guidance on how much to
take.’

Sarah
Redmond glares with mock censure.

‘Inspector
– so formal – you are spoiling our little game.’

‘It’s
just a medical fact.’  He shrugs apologetically.  ‘If it’s any
consolation it doesn’t completely rule out some interference.  Same with
Bella Mandrake – took too many sleeping pills, on top of the alcohol
– but it’s impossible to say she acted alone.’

Sarah
Redmond seems content with these caveats.  There is the glimmer of
excitement in her eyes.

‘There
you are, then, Inspector – a psychopathic doctor – that is your
murderer.’

Skelgill
stares at her with some alarm.

‘Or a deranged
cook.’  She holds up a long slim finger with its chiselled nail, and then
runs it around the rim of her glass.  ‘A fly in the soup?  A killer
in the kitchen.  Or, of course, any one of us could have tampered with the
drinks.  I recall that Burt and little Lucy were most eager to wait upon
us.’

‘That
makes seven suspects.’  Skelgill shakes his head in a cartoon manner. 
‘Now you see why I don’t go in for brainstorming.’

‘So
how shall you solve the crime, Inspector?  Do you follow the methods of
Poirot, or Holmes, or perhaps our local Inspector Rebus?’

‘I
prefer not to think about it.’

‘But
you must grasp the nettle sooner or later.’

‘No, I
mean it literally – that’s what I do – I
don’t
think about
it – and at some point...’

‘
Eureka
?’

‘Aye, if
I’m lucky.’

Sarah
Redmond has gradually been inching forwards, a cold blue fire of icy anticipation
burning in her eyes.  Then suddenly she snaps them shut, and freezes, as
if possessed by a moment of powerful introspection – as though she is
committing something to memory, forming a connection that will serve her in
future.

‘Perfect.’

She opens
her eyes.  They seem to have an unnatural light that comes from within, a
sapphire beam that she fixes upon Skelgill.  Maintaining eye contact, she
puts down her glass and claws at her hair with both hands, pulling it tight
across her scalp and away from her face.  Her ears are small and neat and
from their delicate lobes dangle pendants of gleaming lapis lazuli.  She
tilts back her head to expose her slender neck and the milky skin of her
throat; Skelgill stares entranced, vampiric.

‘Inspector
– you look half-starved.  Perhaps there is something you want before
you go?’

‘Alright,
Guvnor – how’d you get on up north?’

Skelgill
gives a non-committal shrug.

‘Aye,
well – they let me back into England without a passport.’

DS
Leyton makes a disapproving grunt.

‘That’d
be all we need, Guv – criminals would have a field day if there was an
international border thirty miles up the road.’

Skelgill
and DS Leyton have crossed paths just inside the rear entrance of Penrith HQ. 
Skelgill, arriving shortly ahead of his sergeant, has paused to read a staff
noticeboard, there being a small ad for a vintage split-cane spinning rod that
has caught his eye.  DS Leyton, hurriedly returning after some errand or
other, bears a small though bulging brown paper bag.  The team has a
scheduled catch-up meeting for which they are both already overdue.

‘Er,
Guv...’

‘Aye?’

‘I
just walked past your motor.’  DS Leyton scratches his head in an obvious acting-dumb
fashion.  ‘Not meaning to be nosey, or nothing, Guv – but I could
have sworn there was a cat in there, asleep on the passenger seat.’

Skelgill
swings around and stares at his colleague.  DS Leyton looks suddenly
anxious – perhaps his superior’s trip has not gone well and now he will
be on the end of an undeserved admonishment.  But Skelgill’s severe
demeanour can be misleading – sometimes it is slow to catch up with his
fickle sentiments.  He sighs in a bored manner – rather like a schoolboy
returning home to his overbearing mother, and the tiresome and inevitable
question about what kind of day he has had.  Why, after all those
skirmishes, stresses and strains, would anyone want to relive them?

‘Aye
– well, you saw right.’

DS
Leyton appears relieved.

‘I
thought it was, Guv.’

Skelgill
sets off along the corridor.  He glances over his shoulder at DS Leyton,
who still seems hopeful of a more detailed explanation.

‘It’s
a long story, Leyton.’

Skelgill’s
clipped intonation suggests the long story is not imminent.  In short, it
is that DS Findlay had returned to collect Skelgill as agreed, still
accompanied by the cat, and with tears streaming down his cheeks and a
handkerchief to his nose.  “I didnae ken I’d be allergic tae the wee deil,”
had been his choked words.  His plan had been to return the cat to the
apartment block, on the assumption that it would resume where it had left off,
freeloading a good living, as only cats can.  Skelgill, however –
likely influenced by the creature’s leaping upon his lap as though he were its
long lost owner, and his own rather carefree spirits at that moment – had
petitioned otherwise, on the sworn promise that he would return it to its
rightful owner, if any such claim were to be made.  That Skelgill keeps at
home a volatile Bullboxer incentivised by doggie treats to vanquish cats from
his garden (they raid his breeding pond) is a variable in an equation yet to be
resolved.

‘Is
Jones back in?’

‘I
said we’d meet her in the canteen, Guv – she’s getting tea organised.’ 
DS Leyton holds up his bag like a trophy.  ‘I’ve got the special ring doughnuts
you like, Guv.’

Skelgill
casts a contemptuous eye in his sergeant’s direction.

‘It’ll
take more than that, Leyton – I’ve not had any lunch.’

DS
Leyton, still a couple of paces behind his superior, casts his eyes to the
heavens and shakes his fists in frustration.

‘Right,
Guv.’

The cafeteria
is close by, and Skelgill shoulders open the door like a gunslinger announcing
his presence in the town’s main saloon.  This is perhaps rather fitting,
for most of the twenty-odd faces that turn in his direction do so with a
collective expression of reverent awe – until first one, then another and
then most of them break out into a burst of clapping and raucous cheers. 
Skelgill is stopped in his tracks.  Nonplussed, he turns round – as
if they can’t mean him – but only DS Leyton is behind.  His trusty
sidekick, quickly recovered from the routine snub, steps alongside and mutters
under his breath.

‘It’s
the street robbery you foiled yesterday, Guv – some of the other
newspapers have picked it up.’

Skelgill
glances about self-consciously, evidently doing his best to meet the mixed
requirements of his audience by appearing at once humble and triumphant;
conditions that are not easy bedfellows.  The effort seems to disorientate
him, and he is clearly relieved when he spots DS Jones signalling from a
relatively isolated table across in the far corner of the dining area, partly
screened by some portable display boards.  As the commotion subsides, he
acknowledges the congratulations of those colleagues whom he passes closely,
but otherwise, with DS Leyton riding shotgun, he reaches DS Jones without major
interruption and takes a seat with his back to the rest of the room.

‘Beam
me up, Scotty.’

DS
Jones grins; perhaps she humours him, for – despite his protests –
he shows no inclination to decamp to the privacy of his office.

‘Tea,
Guv – that’s yours with the sugars in the blue mug.’

He
reaches out and drinks thirstily.

‘Right
Leyton, break out those doughnuts for starters.’

DS
Leyton glances at DS Jones.

‘He
means
starters
– he’s had no lunch.’

DS
Jones looks as though she is about to make some kind of mischievous
observation, but she freezes, as the first word is about to form on her lips,
and stares beyond her boss’s head.

‘Hear
you’ve got a cruiserweight contest coming up, Skel.’

Skelgill
does not look around.  The voice, with its querulous Mancunian drawl,
belongs unmistakeably to DI Alec Smart.

‘Very
funny, Smart.’

‘Thought
you were getting a bit old for fisticuffs, Skel.’

Now
Skelgill does turn in his seat, his cheeks reddening.  DI Smart loiters a
little beyond reach.  He wears a trendy suit with drainpipe trousers and
winklepicker shoes that must be a good three inches longer than his feet, and a
designer haircut slicked back with gel.  He is grinning, though his leer is
directed at DS Jones, as if he is pleased to imply that he is by a few years
the younger of the two Detective Inspectors.  Skelgill stares woodenly and
does not reply (this can be a danger sign); DI Smart looks slightly wary and
keeps his distance.

‘Just
thought I should warn you, Skel – in case you didn’t know – you wouldn’t
want to rub her boyfriend up the wrong way.’

‘I
shan’t be rubbing anyone up the wrong way.’

‘Not
counting the Chief.’

‘What’s
that supposed to mean?’

DI
Smart pretends to look hurt by Skelgill’s impatient tone.

‘Don’t
shoot the messenger, Skel – I just thought you’d want to see
The
Gazette
– evening edition’s just out.’

He
reaches across the little invisible belt of no-man’s land and proffers Skelgill
a folded newspaper.  Reluctantly Skelgill takes it, and grudgingly nods
his thanks.  But DI Smart is not looking at him; instead he ogles DS
Jones, winks at DS Leyton, spins on his heel, and saunters away.

Skelgill
turns back and places the newspaper disinterestedly on the table.

‘Prat.’

His
sergeants nod in concert, and DS Leyton shoots a disapproving scowl after their
unwelcome visitor.  But DS Jones is more interested in the local journal
– she spreads and smoothes it flat – and promptly giggles as she
absorbs the headline above the evidently syndicated and now familiar photograph
of Skelgill punching out the lights of the mugger.  She spins the paper
round for her colleagues to see.  Even the normally reserved
Westmorland
Gazette
has gone to town on the story – a copy editor’s dream –
with the predictably alliterative and partisan headline
“Cumbria Cop KOs
Cockney Knifeman”.

Skelgill
regards the article with a mixture of affected disdain and poorly disguised
interest, and chews one side of his mouth as he reads the short paragraph that
– given the dramatic picture – has no need to misrepresent the
circumstances.  He shakes his head and folds up the paper, although it is
noticeable that he puts it to rest close by, as though he has now taken
ownership of it.

‘Bit
harsh, that, Guv.’

‘In
what way, Leyton?’

‘About
him being a Cockney, Guv – how do they know?  Just ‘cause it
happened down in London – don’t mean to say it were one of the local villains.’

Skelgill
shrugs.

‘I
can’t help you with that one, Leyton – he seemed to lose the power of
speech before I was able to inquire after his place of birth.’

DS
Leyton shrugs phlegmatically.  He resumes his task rudely interrupted by
DI Smart, and tears open the bag of doughnuts.

‘Dive
in, everyone.’

Skelgill
grunts his approval and does as invited; he chews thoughtfully for a minute or
two, perhaps considering a point that may not have occurred to his colleagues
– that, since the first article appeared in the London press, describing
him as a ‘mystery detective’, he has been identified.  He might reasonably
wonder by what process this has occurred, and what ramifications it will have.

While
he and DS Leyton continue to tuck into the doughnuts, DS Jones watches on
calmly – neither of her colleagues expecting her to partake in such an
unhealthy afternoon snack.  After a minute or two she opens a file that
lies on the table before her.

‘Shall
I update you on a couple of things, Guv – there’s some interesting new
forensics?’

Skelgill
swallows and takes a gulp of tea.

‘Interesting
– or significant?’

DS
Jones narrows her eyes.

‘Significant
– to the extent they can be trusted.’

Skelgill
nods sharply for her to continue.

‘Dr
Herdwick has received the results of the more detailed blood and fluid tests
that he sent away to the lab.  I don’t know if this is a coincidence,
Guv–’ (Skelgill twitches involuntarily) ‘but the same point applies to
both Rich Buckley and Bella Mandrake.  The residual levels of the
chemicals that may have caused each of their deaths – atropine in
Buckley’s case and benzodiazepine in Mandrake’s – were approximately
ten
times
greater than could have been achieved by swallowing the medicines
found in their possession.’

She
looks up from the page.  Skelgill is staring at her intensely – it
is hard to tell where his thoughts might lie: whether this news has struck a
chord, or if he is simply just distracted by some appraisal of his attractive
colleague.

DS
Leyton is more transparently perplexed.

‘Maybe
we missed some empty packets?’

DS
Jones shakes her head.

‘That’s
exactly the point, though – apparently it’s not a matter of quantity
– it’s to do with concentrations.  Dr Herdwick said – well
– his words were along the lines that you can’t get drunk on shandy,
Guv.’

Skelgill
laughs ironically, knowing the cantankerous pathologist would not have used the
expression
drunk
.

‘So
what’s he telling us?’

DS Jones
speaks with careful and deliberate enunciation.

‘That
if the substances that proved toxic came from medicines, the pills weren’t what
they said on the packets.’

DS
Leyton offers a suggestion.

‘Maybe
they were counterfeit?’

But DS
Jones is shaking her head.

‘We’ve
had a report back on the packaging – it’s genuine – in both cases
sold under strict licence in the UK.’

DS
Leyton is still frowning.

‘So, what
did you mean about not trusting the results?’

DS
Jones glances at the printed notes and turns a page.  She taps a paragraph
with a neatly sharpened nail and nods, as if she is reminded of what she needs
to know.

‘It’s
a statistical point.  Remember at school, the null hypothesis?’  She glances
at each of her colleagues in turn; they look like they don’t.  ‘This
result is only accurate at the ninety-five per cent confidence level.’

DS
Leyton grimaces.

‘That
sounds pretty confident, to me.’

DS
Jones makes an ambivalent face.

‘It
means that if you did the test a hundred times, you’d get a false result five
times because of sampling error.’

‘One
in twenty.’  Skelgill makes this conversion.

‘That’s
right, Guv – it’s still a reasonably high probability – but as a
standalone fact you might struggle to impress a jury.’

Skelgill
sticks out his jaw and rubs his stubble with a knuckle.

‘Look
– I was rubbish at maths – at most things, come to that – and
this week I’m getting sick of the word
coincidence
– but there
must be some statistic in our favour – since
both
of them had
inexplicably high concentrations of the drugs in their blood.’