Murder on the Lake (23 page)

DS
Leyton looks momentarily alarmed – for it seems that Skelgill is about to
hand him the invisible rod in order to experience exactly what playing a
Grayling is like.  But, to his relief, his superior casts the equipment
into the ether, slaps both hands on the table in a perfunctory manner and looks
him in the face.

‘So,
what about you, Leyton – how was Linda Gray the galloping gourmet?’

‘How d’you
know that, Guv?’

‘Know
what?’

‘She’s
got a stables.’

Skelgill
grins rather inanely – it appears he has invented the phrase purely for limerick-like
purposes.

‘And
why not?’

DS
Leyton appears more confused.

‘There’s
no horses any more, Guv – it’s been converted into her restaurant,
The
Stables.
’

Now Skelgill
lifts an imaginary phone to his ear.

‘A
table for Mabel at
The Stables
.’

Quite
what has possessed Skelgill it is impossible to know.  Perhaps it is the
sugar rush of five doughnuts.  But bubbling beneath the surface of his
typically enigmatic demeanour is a little well of euphoria that appears to be
in danger of erupting in a display of unpredictable outpourings – indeed
it would not be difficult to imagine him suddenly go gallivanting about the
canteen and join in a waltz with a bemused member of the catering staff. 
Or maybe that would be going at bit far.

‘Guv?’

‘Aye?’

‘Linda
Gray, Guv.’

‘Fire
away, Leyton.’

Skelgill
clasps his hands together and leans forward, regarding his sergeant with an
expression of deep-set concentration.

‘Righto,
Guv.’  DS Leyton composes himself.  ‘Seems a nice lady, Guv. 
When I explained about the Coroner and the probable causes of the deaths, and
how we’re obliged to investigate, she burst out in tears.’

‘What?’

‘That’s
right, Guv.  The full waterworks.  She said she’s been worried stiff
that it was something to do with her.’

Skelgill’s
abnormal burst of energy appears to be subsiding.

‘Because
of her cooking?’

‘That’s
right, Guv – she said she’d done her best – but the kitchen was a
bit antiquated and the food was all supplied in advance – mostly tinned
and vacuum packed – she said it ought to have been alright – but
she likes to source her own ingredients so she knows they’re fresh and completely
safe.’

‘Her food
tasted fine to me, Leyton – and as far as I could see everyone else was
tucking in.’

DS
Leyton nods.

‘That’s
right, Guv – she said they all complimented her – but I suppose you
never can know with food – the bugs are invisible.’  He wipes a hand
across his brow and shakes his head.  ‘After that last time we were at the
Taj
, Guv – I mean – I was never out of the khazi all the
next day.’

DS
Jones giggles at her colleague’s bald admission, but Skelgill is back in
serious mode and she curtails her mirth.  He points a finger skywards to
emphasise his response.

‘Anyway
– if she’d poisoned Bella Mandrake on Sunday night she’d have poisoned the
lot of us – we all ate the same soup and hotpot.’

If a
little seed has been sown by Sarah Redmond’s scatterbrain ramblings – in
this instance that a deranged chef would be well placed to administer poisons
– Skelgill appears underwhelmed by the idea.  Indeed, given that
servers brought out the food from the kitchen where Linda Gray toiled, there
would be no guarantee that a doctored plate would reach its intended target.

‘I pointed
that out, Guv – but she’s been doubly worried because she was the one
that found Rich Buckley – she said Sarah Redmond told her that in half of
all murder cases, the killer leads the police to the body of the victim.’

Skelgill
grins ruefully and shakes his head.  It seems Sarah Redmond’s mischief making
extended beyond the baiting of Bella Mandrake.  Nevertheless, he would
perhaps identify with her methods – there is something about provocation
that lifts the veil of feigned naivety, and it is a technique he is not averse
to employing when the opportunity arises.

‘So
what about Buckley – what's the story, there?’

‘Pretty
much as she told you, Guv.’  DS Leyton refers to his notes.  ‘Went up
to speak to him about dinner at just after four p.m. – that was their
regular afternoon tea break – and found him spark out on the bed. 
She said she didn’t touch anything in the room – rushed down and got hold
of the doctor.’

‘And
we think time of death was mostly likely two o’clock.’  Skelgill glances
at DS Jones, who nods in confirmation.  ‘Though it could have been as late
as four.’

He
leaves this suggestion hanging in the air – and apparently has no
corollary to offer.  After a moment or two DS Leyton continues with his
account.

‘I did
ask her what she thought of him, Guv.’

‘Surprise
me, Leyton.’

‘Actually,
Guv, she was quite civil.  She said he was a very bright man and that he’d
obviously got a lot on his mind.  She said the first night before dinner
he’d asked her what she was writing, and then on the second night he asked her
exactly the same question.’

Skelgill
raises his eyebrows.

‘Sounds
par for the course.’

‘I
think she’s the accommodating type, Guv – I suppose you need to be in her
line of work.’

‘I
thought that was hoteliers?’

‘Very
good, Guv.’

Skelgill
grins abruptly.

‘And
what about musical bedrooms?’

‘She
was a bit shocked when I suggested that, Guv.  She said she went to bed early
every night – since she’d volunteered to be up to prepare breakfast. 
Plus the day was tiring, what with writing
and
doing the cooking.’

‘Remind
me, is she married?’

‘Divorced,
Guv.’

‘Where’s
the restaurant?’

‘Egremont,
Guv – bit of a trek, actually.  I didn’t think there was
civilisation past Whitehaven.’

 ‘Some
would say it stops long before there, Leyton.’  Skelgill purses his lips
thoughtfully.  ‘Still – might give it a give it a look in, next time
I’m out that way.’

‘The
food’s alright, Guv.’

Skelgill
folds his arms and cocks his head on one side.  DS Leyton has made a minor
slip of the tongue.

‘She
insisted I had lunch, Guv – she’s good as gold – I would have felt
bad refusing.’

Skelgill
nods grudgingly.  While it is not ideal protocol to accept a meal under
these circumstances – whether paid for or otherwise – it is unimaginable
that he would have left such a gift horse in the stables, so to speak.

‘Let’s
hope she’s not poisoned you, Leyton.’  He grins wryly.  ‘And talking
of lunch.’

He
casts an eye over towards the servery.  It is still half an hour before
high teas will be available, but such rules are made to be broken.  He
appears to be assessing which members of staff are on duty, and therefore whom
to target with his charm, when he becomes aware of a person standing politely
beside him, awaiting his attention.  It is a young WPC from the Chief’s
office.  Skelgill casually turns towards her, in the manner of a self-confident
celebrity to an autograph-hunting admirer.  Accordingly, almost
curtseying, she reaches out and presents him with a folded sheet of paper.

‘Message
for you, sir.’

Skelgill
opens the page.  It is a handwritten note, the script penned in an angry,
expressive style.  However, its contents comprise a succinct one-sentence
summons.  Skelgill nods to the WPC, and turns to his sergeants.

‘Chief
wants to see me – I reckon we’ve got enough to keep her happy, eh?’

They nod
eagerly.  Skelgill resumes his perusal of the food counter, but then he
realises that the WPC is still standing to attention.  He looks at her
inquiringly.

‘I was
to accompany you upstairs, sir.’

Skelgill,
for a second, appears as if he will object – but, lunch or not –
perhaps he has a pang of sympathy for the agitated constable, who looks like
she ought still to be at school.  Moreover, given his propensity to
interpret orders from on high with whatever degree of latitude he can get away
with at the time, it is perhaps no surprise to him that a chaperone has been
despatched to ensure his attendance.  He shrugs resignedly and rises to
his feet.

‘Leyton,
do us a favour – get us a burger or something – whatever they’ll
rustle up.’  He glances at DS Jones.  ‘She only wants to see me for
five minutes – we’ll carry on the meeting in my office – I’ll give
you the lowdown on Bonnie Scotland.’

He
straightens his jacket and falls in with the WPC, who walks gingerly beside
him, plainly afraid to make eye contact.  As they reach the exit door he
can be heard saying in a jocular tone, “What is it about redheads?  It has
to be
now
.”

*

When
an audience with his boss has gone badly, and he has been pulled up either for
lack of progress or – as is more usually the case – his maverick
approach to some aspect of an investigation, Skelgill is wont to return to his
office with a face like thunder; a sign that warns his unfortunate subordinates
to tread upon eggshells until his temper has subsided.  On this occasion,
however, there is something radically different about his entire demeanour. 
While such a berating usually comes as at least a partial surprise to Skelgill
(although rarely to anyone else concerned in the matter) – which must add
fuel to the flames of his indignation, having expected praise and received a
rebuke – whatever has just passed has exceeded the norms in terms of its capacity
to shock him back into line.  Indeed, while under similar circumstances
his waiting sergeants would do exactly that –
wait,
until he has
something to say – such is his pallid and stunned countenance that they both
look shocked themselves, and DS Jones is unable to contain her concern.

‘Guv
– what’s wrong – are you okay?’

Skelgill,
upon entering his office, has rounded his desk.  There is a burger and
chips in a polystyrene takeaway package, and – whereas his normal
response would be to fall hungrily upon this meal before all else – now he
ignores it and stands awkwardly behind his chair.

‘I’m
on leave.’

DS
Leyton looks confused.

‘What
do you mean, Guv?’

‘I’m
off the case.’

‘Guv
– why?’

Skelgill
swallows as if he has a mouthful of grit.

‘Dr
Gerald Bond has made a complaint.’

At
this revelation, DS Jones’s face falls; her lower lip starts to curl and her
eyes glisten as though they begin to flood with tears.

‘Guv
– but – that must be my fault – I know I was a bit hard on
him.’

Skelgill
glares at her, penetratingly. 

‘You
were
hard on him.’  He raises an index finger and jabs it at her.  ‘And
you know what?  You did a good job.’ (There is an expletive deleted here,
an Anglo-Saxon adjective.)  ‘And you know what else – that’s exactly
what I said to the Chief.’  He lowers the finger and rests both hands on
the back of his seat.  ‘Furthermore – she agreed with me.’  He
shakes his head.  ‘He did mention the interview – but that’s not the
substance of his complaint.’

‘Well,
what is it, Guv?’  DS Leyton sounds incensed.  ‘We can’t have punters
deciding who runs an investigation.  Especially when they’re a suspect.’

Skelgill
bares his teeth, in a somewhat manic grimace.

‘That’s
the operative word, Leyton –
suspect
.  Technically, I’m one,
too.  I was there when Bella Mandrake died.  I socialised with the
group while off duty.  I formed “relationships” that might influence my
judgement.’  He makes inverted commas in the air with his fingers around
the word relationships.

‘But
he must want you off the case, Guv – he must have a reason for that
– something to hide?’

Skelgill
shrugs.

‘That’ll
be for Smart to discover.’

Now
there is a descent into an enhanced state of despondency.  DS Jones, ashen-faced,
lowers her eyes under Skelgill’s searching glance.  DS Leyton leans across
from where he is sitting and head-butts a metal filing cabinet, causing
trophies on top to fall over.  Skelgill ignores this and steps across to
the window; he stares out, thoughtfully watching the dusky sky, as
orange-tinted clouds drift above the burnt umber of the landscape.  Perhaps
he is already assessing the conditions for fishing.

What
he has not told his team is the full story.  It is correct that Dr Gerald
Bond has telephoned the Chief to register a complaint.  And he did mention
the interview with a tenacious sergeant whom he referred to as having
Stasi
-like
qualities; both Skelgill and his boss warmed to this description.  He also
exaggerated Skelgill’s role during his evening on the island – to
paraphrase, he claimed the inspector was drunk and had to be helped to
bed.  Skelgill couldn’t deny there was a semblance of accuracy in this
– although he had said in his (somewhat weak-sounding) defence that he
felt ill rather than inebriated.