Murder on the Lake (22 page)

DS
Jones nods eagerly.

‘And
Dr Herdwick agrees with that, Guv.’

DS
Leyton has taken out his mobile phone and begun to tap away at the
keypad.  He suddenly makes an involuntary start and emits a little
cor
blimey
whistle.

‘What
is it, Leyton?’

‘I was
just doing the odds, Guv.  See – one in twenty, that’s
nineteen-to-one against, in racing parlance.  You put a pound on a double
on two nags both at nineteens and you’d get four hundred nicker back, including
your pound stake.’

DS
Jones is grinning widely; her colleague may have struggled with the concept of
statistical confidence levels – but by viewing the equation through the
eyes of a bookie he has delivered a striking outcome.  Skelgill is nodding
slowly.

‘One
in four hundred sounds a lot more significant than one in twenty – chance
of it being a mistake, that is.’

Now DS
Jones turns another page of the report.

‘There’s
more on times of death, as well, Guv.  For Rich Buckley we think around two
p.m. on Sunday, with a margin of a couple of hours either side.  A bit
more accurate for Bella Mandrake – quite close to two a.m. on Monday.

Skelgill
folds his arms.

‘Just
remind me – neither of their bedroom doors were locked?’

The
two sergeants shake their heads in unison: it was DS Jones who first entered
Bella Mandrake’s room; and DS Leyton is hotfoot from his interview with Linda
Gray, who discovered Rich Buckley.

‘What
are you thinking, Guv?’

Skelgill
raises his shoulders and rotates his head, as though his neck is stiff.

‘If
their doors were generally left open, then someone could have tampered with
their medicines.  Seems unlikely to have happened while they were in their
rooms – though not impossible.  Buckley, I wouldn’t expect to lock
his door – but if you’d have asked me to bet whose door
was
locked
on Sunday night, I’d have said Bella Mandrake’s.’

DS
Jones holds out an upturned palm, offering a suggestion.

‘Though
she was prone to nocturnal wandering, Guv – remember what Burt Boston
told us.  She could have gone downstairs again on Sunday night, and then
forgotten to lock her door when she came back?’

Skelgill
dunks and eats the final bite of the last odd doughnut and then drains his tea. 
He licks his fingers and leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. 
For a moment he stares down at the soggy crumbs in the base of the mug. 
Perhaps in the absence of tea leaves they provide a satisfyingly distracting
pattern, mirroring the irregular images that populate his mind, stirred up by
Sarah Redmond’s quick-fire improvised hypothesising – to which he can now
add this afternoon’s revelations.  After a minute or two he sits back and
stares at DS Leyton.

‘Get
us a top up, will you, Leyton?’

DS
Leyton seems perplexed, as if he has been expecting something more profound
than a request for more tea, and the command does not immediately register. 
Then he starts, and rises, and reaches for their three mugs as ordered.

‘I’m
fine, thanks.’  DS Jones politely declines.

‘Something
to eat, as well, Guv?’

Now it
is Skelgill who stares rather vacantly, as though this question baffles him. 
Evidently, competing thoughts bar the way to the basic processing function of
his brain.  After a short delay the question gets through, but – to
DS Leyton’s evident wonder – Skelgill waves him away.

‘Not
just now, Leyton.’

Frowning,
Skelgill watches DS Leyton lumber across to the serving counter.  Then he
turns back to face DS Jones.  He ducks his head, and speaks in a hushed
voice.

‘Bella
Mandrake had a novel rejected by Rich Buckley Publishing.  I found the
letter in her flat.  They gave her a scathing review.’

DS
Jones’s eyes widen.

‘Are
you thinking she killed him and then committed suicide?’

Skelgill
grins, clearly surprised, and breaks out into an uncharacteristic chuckle.

‘What
is it, Guv?’

He
shakes his head – but clearly her rapid deduction has prompted some
comparison in his mind.

‘You’re
not left-handed, are you?’

‘No
Guv – er, well...’

‘Well,
what?’

‘I’m
ambidextrous, actually – but you know how, when you’re at school, they
try to get you to do everything right-handed – to avoid smudging the ink
– cutting-out with scissors – and hockey, you can only play
right-handed.’

Skelgill
makes an ironic face.

‘Aye,
well – hockey wasn’t one of my strong suits.’

‘That’s
darts ain’t it, Guv?  I thought you were fairly handy down the pub?’

This
is DS Leyton chipping in, as he leans over to place replenished mugs on the
table.

Skelgill
glances at DS Jones.  ‘He means the
oche
– it’s where you
chuck from.’

DS
Jones nods obediently; though it is likely she knows this fact, being a useful
darts player herself.

‘So,
how did it go with Gerald Bond?’  Skelgill pulls his mug towards him and,
peering critically into the liquid, asks this question in an offhand manner.

DS
Jones reaches to extract her notebook from the case at her feet.  She is
wearing a low-cut top and Skelgill and DS Leyton casually look away – but
their simultaneous action finds them staring with surprise at one another,
unprepared to speak.  There is a moment of comic silence, until DS Leyton
suddenly breaks into an exaggerated bout of coughing.

DS
Jones glances up inquiringly, but seeing Skelgill nod that she should go ahead,
she lays down her notebook and speaks first from memory.

‘On a
scale of one to ten, Guv – I’d say five in terms of being uncooperative.’

Skelgill
nods once.

‘Interesting.’

DS
Leyton, too, nods in agreement, although his quizzical expression suggests he
has less of an idea why this might be thus.

‘I
think he’s blaming us for ruining his career as an author, Guv.’

‘He
didn’t have a career as an author.’

‘No,
Guv – but he seems to believe he was on the verge of a breakthrough, and
we spoiled it by calling off the retreat.’

Skelgill
scoffs.

‘What
did he expect – two deaths and it’s still
Carry On Camping
?’

‘I get
the impression he would have happily carried on, Guv.’

Skelgill
gnaws at a recalcitrant finger nail.

‘Aye
– he probably would.  While I was there – not long after he’d
pronounced Buckley dead – he was trying to talk everyone into staying.’

‘He
claims he’d canvassed opinion – even after Bella Mandrake had died
– and there was a majority in favour of seeing out the full week.’

Skelgill
shakes his head.

‘It’s
all very well – in his job he probably dealt with a death every few
days.  Ordinary members of the public just don’t experience this kind of
thing – even we don’t.’

DS
Jones nods.

‘I
don’t think he’s really accepted that he’s retired, Guv – his study is
still kitted out like a consulting room – with an examination table and all
the equipment – he’s even got a skeleton.’

Skelgill
appears pensive, his features contracting into a scowl.

‘Did
he confirm what Lucy Hecate said – about having a special contribution to
make?’

DS
Jones nods.

‘He
did, Guv – more or less word for word as you told me.  And he was
able to reel off the reasons the others had given – though he didn’t
sound impressed – I think he considered himself a cut above the rest.’

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

DS
Jones squints at her notes, and flicks over a couple of pages.

‘His
exact words were, “Congenitally rude” – he was quite matter of fact about
it, though, Guv.’

Skelgill
lets out an ironic hiss.

‘That’s
a laugh, coming from a Yorkshireman.’

‘Maybe
that’s why they had a couple of barneys – it’s not all of us can bridge
the north-south divide, eh, Guv?’

This
contribution comes from DS Leyton, and Skelgill looks a bit nonplussed by the
notion.  However, DS Jones continues.

‘He
did become a little agitated when I suggested he hadn’t got on well with
Buckley.  He wanted to know who had said that.’

‘What
did you tell him?’

‘I
wasn’t in a position to relate confidential conversations.’

‘And
what did he say?’

‘I
don’t think he was impressed, Guv.’

Skelgill
tuts irascibly.

‘And
what about Buckley being ill – or asking his advice?’

She
shakes her head.

‘He
said the only person to consult with him – as he put it – was Bella
Mandrake – and she was basically begging paracetamol at every possible opportunity
– he described it as attention seeking.’

‘And
did he give her anything?’

‘He
said all he’d taken to the island was a small supply for personal use, and
she’d used that up in the first two days.’

‘And
nothing to Buckley?’

‘No,
Guv – and he says he had no idea that Buckley was taking any medication
– he’s heard of the drug, though – and he says there’s no way that could
have killed him.’

‘Really?’

Skelgill
sounds disappointed to hear this diagnosis.

‘Aha. 
He reckons these commercial preparations are tested to extreme levels of safety
– even an overdose ought to be completely safe.’

‘Aye
– we know that now.’

DS
Jones is nodding.

‘That
was the one time I got a smile out of him, Guv – when I said the police
surgeon had confirmed heart failure as the cause of death.’

‘Because
he was right.’

‘Aha. 
And he said a similar thing as Dr Herdwick – that in a significant
proportion of sudden cardiac deaths a clear cause is never identified –
especially in ostensibly healthy victims.’

‘What
about Bella Mandrake’s overdose?’

‘He
was quick to pontificate on that, too, Guv.  I told him top-line what we
know – to see how he reacted.  He just said it’s difficult to
overdose on sleeping pills, because of the reduced strength that they make them
nowadays.’

Skelgill
scratches his head in a gesture of frustration.

‘Did
you ask him if he thought the deaths were suspicious?’

‘Yes,
Guv.’

‘And?’

‘He
said not in the least, Guv.  He said he’d seen many far more suspicious cases
– and plenty worse than these that had never been referred to the
Coroner.  He seemed quite indignant – almost as if he were taking it
personally.’

Skelgill
is again contemplative for a few moments.

‘Did
he ask any questions?’

‘Just wanted
to know why you weren’t there, Guv.  I got the feeling he expected someone
more of his own rank.’

‘What
did you tell him?’

‘That
you were coordinating the investigation, Guv – I didn’t give any specific
details.’

Skelgill
nods, seemingly content with this response.

‘He
did ask whether this would be all, Guv.  He’s due to go hiking for the
month of November to finish the research for his hillwalking guidebook – so
he won’t be easily contactable.’

Skelgill
sniffs rather disdainfully.

‘Wouldn’t
you be bored out of your brains with all that time on your hands?’

His
sergeants regard him wryly, as if they know exactly what he would be doing
under such circumstances: the phrase “rod, perch and pole” perhaps springing to
mind.  This is one of Skelgill’s little aphorisms, which he uses
interchangeably with “hook, line and sinker”, the former sounding curiously
apposite, despite having no connection with angling (the three synonyms
representing five-and-a-half yards, or one fortieth of a furlong).  As if
subconsciously making the connection to land measures, DS Jones attempts to get
the conversation back on tracks.

‘He’s
got a big house to look after, Guv – sits among fields and woodland just
the other side of Bolton.’

Skelgill’s
ears prick up.

‘Is it
near the Eden?’

‘As
far as I could tell, Guv, the grounds run right down to the river.’

Skelgill
now looks like he wishes he’d accompanied her.  He shakes his head
regretfully.

‘There’s
some cracking Grayling along that stretch.  Two pound and above.  You
have to trot a worm downstream, sometimes far as the eye can see.’ 
Suddenly his left hand is up in front of his face, and he is gripping a rod,
feeling for the fish.  ‘You get a knock-knock-knock and then it’s
bang!
– into the fight – you always know a Grayling – feel it
nodding as you bring it back.’