Murder on the Lake (26 page)

Skelgill
scowls.

‘She
knocked the idea on the head as soon as I mentioned it.’

‘But
Buckley wouldn’t have known that, Guv – or even if he suspected, from
what we know of him, it’s unlikely to have put him off trying.’

Skelgill
still seems averse to any travel in this direction of thought.

‘Lampray
was wrong – Buckley did need the money.’

DS
Jones nods, undeterred.

‘That
just made it all the more attractive for him, Guv.  Sarah Redmond sells
stacks of books.’

Skelgill
frowns, but now – albeit reluctantly – he joins with her line of
argument.

‘So
what are you saying – Sarah Redmond was bait to get Buckley to Grisholm
Hall?’

DS
Jones hesitates.

‘Well...
yes, I suppose so, Guv.’

‘Aye,
well... maybe she was.’

DS
Jones’s eyes widen at this response – but before she can invite Skelgill
to elaborate, the young woman in black arrives to steal his attention – or,
rather, the plates of piping-hot food she bears do so.  The agenda becomes
suspended while he takes up arms against his black pudding; DS Jones somewhat
more demurely dips into her mushroom soup.  And, when Skelgill speaks
again, it is evident that a more pressing matter has surfaced.

‘It
was Smart that told the Chief about me and Angela Cutting, wasn’t it?’

‘What
do you mean, Guv?’

DS
Jones looks puzzled, but Skelgill has successfully employed his ambush
technique, and the conscious adjustment she skilfully makes to her reaction is
just not quite quick enough to conceal the honest reflex that precedes it.

‘Jones
– there’s no need to be diplomatic on my account.  You know me
– if I’m caught with my trousers down – I’ll put my hand up to it.’

DS
Jones contemplates her consommé.

‘I
think it was, Guv.’

‘Jones,
you know it was.  Did he show you the photo?’

She
gives a little nod.

‘Aha.’

‘It’s
not what it seems.’

‘I
know that, Guv.’  She meets his gaze; however, she does not sound entirely
convinced.

‘She
was just getting me to taste her lobster.’  (At this they exchange knowing
frowns – lobster being such an extravagant dish that it clearly undermines
his defence.)  ‘She’d insisted on trying my pie, and so I felt
obliged.  What I didn’t realise was that she’s a minor celebrity.  I
noticed there were folk staring at us during the meal – but I never
twigged that we were being photographed.’

DS
Jones glances surreptitiously about the pub.  She leans a little closer to
Skelgill.

‘Guv
– the old guy in the corner – the one you bought the drink for
– don’t be surprised if he’s already tweeted our picture.’

‘The
Collie’s heard every word we’ve said, that’s for sure.’  Skelgill laughs,
and seems more relaxed, now that this little issue has been outed.  ‘I
guessed straight away it would be Smart.  The Chief’s above that sort of
thing.  Tiger versus Grizzly’s more her cup of tea.’

DS
Jones grins.

‘He’s
always looking at that website, Guv – he says it’s important in our job
to keep up with current affairs.’

‘Aye,
the emphasis on
affairs
, eh?’

DS
Jones lowers her eyes; her long lashes lying like soft filigree fans upon her
cheeks.

‘I
suppose so, Guv.’

Skelgill
seems to be gathering himself to say something, but just then their starter plates
are cleared and simultaneously replaced by their mains – an efficiency
that might disconcert the average diner wishing to pause between courses, but
which heartily meets Skelgill’s approval – to the extent that he appears this
time not to notice the waitress at all.

There
is a small hiatus as they familiarise themselves with their meals.  Skelgill
has the house pie, and takes a moment or two to determine the most propitious
angle of attack; DS Jones is more delicate, having opted for a lighter portion of
scallops.  The challenging upward trajectory of their conversation seems to
have peaked.  Instead their chatter slaloms through the rather haphazard
landscape of the investigation.  As Skelgill pointed out during his off-piste
exchange with Sarah Redmond, brainstorming is a dangerous game, and can lead to
all manner of seemingly plausible yet precipitous conclusions.  With this evidently
in mind, he takes care to stay within the markers of known facts.  DS
Jones, however, seems more prepared to explore the fringes of their knowledge.

‘I was
thinking, Guv – about the idea of Bella Mandrake being the killer?’

‘Aye?’

‘We know
that she was left alone with Rich Buckley on the night before he died –
and also that she was wandering about on the landing in the early hours.’

Skelgill
shrugs.

‘
Do
we know?  We’ve only got other people’s word for that.  Neither
Buckley nor Mandrake is here to deny it.  And Buckley died the next day
– the next afternoon.  It’s not like she slept with him that night
and spiked his nightcap.  He woke up and took in his breakfast tray. 
And if she paid him a sneaky afternoon visit and he copped a heart attack, she
did a good job of dressing him up.’

DS
Jones’s eyebrows show a flicker of surprise at Skelgill’s rather blunt
assessment, though she nods reluctantly.

‘It’s
just – the rejection letter – it’s the one tangible motive we do
have.’

Skelgill
shrugs.

‘Aye,
maybe – but I think she was thicker skinned than she made out. 
There’s a whole drawer full of rejection letters in her flat.  Why let one
more bother her?  Why pick on Buckley?’

‘You
said it was particularly scathing, Guv?’

‘Aye
– but nothing worse than I get most weeks from the Chief – and look
at me.’

DS
Jones grins.  In typical Skelgill style, this remark does not really make
sense – but he has a way of concluding arguments with statements that can
confound his opponent purely through their cryptic nature.  Not that he is
trying to baffle DS Jones – he simply appears unwilling to paint Bella
Mandrake as the guilty party.

‘But
if it wasn’t Bella Mandrake who killed Rich Buckley, Guv – then we’re
looking for two motives.’  She screws up her face in a moment of
frustration.  ‘Yet the MO is virtually identical.’

Skelgill
grins in a sympathetic manner.

‘You
can see the appeal of Smart’s theory.’

‘I
know, Guv.’  DS Jones shakes her head ruefully.  ‘I was talking with
DS Leyton – he’s convinced that money’s at the root of it somewhere
– but that would surely cast suspicion in the direction of Dickie Lampray
and Angela Cutting.’

Skelgill
regards her shrewdly.  He decides to add a little meat to the essential
bare bones of his Edinburgh report.

‘Sarah
Redmond reckons that Dickie Lampray has some kind of scam going.  Nothing
illegal – but basically the author ends up paying for their book to be
published.  If Rich Buckley was strapped for cash – Lampray’s deals
would be the sort of thing he’d favour.’

DS
Jones appears perplexed.

‘But
that would be Dickie Lampray killing the golden goose, wouldn’t it, Guv? 
You said that yourself when we were discussing it on the train.’

Skelgill
affects an indifferent shrug.

‘Unless
Buckley was squeezing him – for a bigger cut.’

For a
moment, DS Jones ponders this idea.  She begins to nod in agreement.

‘Dickie
Lampray played down the suggestion that Buckley needed the money – and he
does seem to be struggling financially himself.  And I thought he looked
mightily relieved when you said we shouldn’t need to bother him again, Guv.’

Skelgill
grins.

‘That
might have had more to do with his dog-sitter, though, Jones.’

They exchange
knowing glances, although this remark appears to take them into a little
cul-de-sac, and neither of them adds anything more.  After a moment or
two, DS Jones raises a tentative finger.

‘Actually,
Guv – there is something about Angela Cutting – along possible financial
lines.’

‘Aye?’

‘It’s
a bit of a long shot.’

‘Shoot,
anyway.’

‘Well,
I’ve been searching all of their names online – just to see what comes
up.  For her, you get hundreds of hits – not surprisingly, really.’ 
(She flashes him something of an old-fashioned look.)  ‘But in her
professional capacity – I came across some of her book reviews. 
Most of them are quite positive and constructive – but one recent one was
really blistering – in fact it was so harsh that the review itself had
been reported on.’

‘Not
one of Bella Mandrake’s books?’

Skelgill’s
quip is intended to be flippant.

‘No,
Guv – but the novel was published by Rich Buckley.’

Now Skelgill
raises an eyebrow.

‘Let
me guess – it must have been one of Dickie Lampray’s authors.’

DS
Jones shakes her head.

‘I
checked that, Guv – it’s actually quite a well-known writer – with a
different literary agent altogether.’

‘So
what’s the story Jackanory?’

DS
Jones folds her hands together, and assumes a patient air.

‘You
know how – inside book covers – they have all this glowing praise
– and you never believe it – it’s like it’s been commissioned?’

Skelgill
looks only vaguely engaged with this notion.

‘Go
on.’

‘Whereas
the independent reviews – in the Sunday newspaper supplements –
they seem a lot more credible.’  Her features are eager.  ‘Guv
– a positive review from Angela Cutting must be worth a lot of money
– to a publisher.’

Skelgill
pulls a doubting face, although his next comment reveals that he is in fact
following her line of argument.

‘And
Buckley stopped paying?’

‘If he
was in financial difficulty, Guv.’

Skelgill
inhales slowly.  He folds his arms and looks up to the timbered
ceiling.  Perhaps he is assessing to what extent Angela Cutting would be
in need of money: her apparent lifestyle would suggest not – although to
sustain it might require otherwise.

‘What
you say could be right.’

DS
Jones looks pleased – but she knows this idea is still short of being a compelling
motive.  Indeed – even if she is right, it may be a fact with no
bearing on the case whatsoever.

‘DI
Smart wasn’t interested, Guv.’

Skelgill
scoffs.

‘Aye,
well – why let the facts spoil a good yarn?’

‘He
said he’d have Dr Bond squealing by midnight, Guv.’

Skelgill
looks at his watch and shakes his head.

‘I'll drag
a twenty-five pound pike out of Derwentwater between my teeth before Bond
admits to murder.’  His gaze wanders and settles now upon a display case
that holds a crumbling plaster cast of a monster Eamont salmon.  ‘In fact
I’ll break the Estonian record, to boot.’

DS
Jones is pensive.  Skelgill’s uncompromising view of DI Smart’s chances begs
the question about what makes him so sure.  It is quite possible that
personal enmity is clouding good judgement.  To dismiss Dr Bond as the
most likely culprit undoubtedly flies in the face of the facts.  But
Skelgill’s allusion to his angling challenge now provides the opportunity to
tack away from the choppy waters of the investigation.

‘I
take it you drew a blank today, Guv?’

Skelgill
looks back at her in surprise.

‘What? 
No – I caught a bucketful – just couldn’t get through the jacks,
though.’

DS
Jones folds her arms on the table and leans forward.  Her silky dress is
close fitting, and the action accentuates her cleavage.  She appears to
have his attention.

‘You’ll
have to translate that one for me, Guv.’

Skelgill
blinks exaggeratedly.

‘Jack
pike – officially it’s the male fish – they don’t grow much above
ten pound.’  (He has the fisherman’s habit of using the word pound as
singular, irrespective of weight.)

DS
Jones grins.

‘So
it’s a female you’re after?’

Skelgill
grins ruefully.

‘They’re
more of a challenge.’

‘But
the greedy little males keep stealing their dinner?’

‘That’s
one way of putting it.’

Now DS
Jones smiles with affected condescension.

‘Lucky
I had scallops and not lobster, then, Guv.’

‘Very witty,
Jones.’

There
are few places in England more beautiful than Borrowdale, and Skelgill must
reflect that, when you live in the Lakes and fishing is your thing, all clouds
have their silver linings.  Not that there are any clouds to speak of this
morning.  The scene is pure chocolate box, a cobalt blue sky and a silver
lake, and the glow of golden oaks as autumnal sunshine creeps like a warming
blanket down the fellsides beyond Derwentwater’s western bank and begins to draw
a delicate mist from its mirrored surface.  This deferred dawning obliges Skelgill
reach for his wide-brimmed
Tilley
hat, as the sun crowns High Seat, king
of the ridge that divides Borrowdale from Thirlmere.  A few more minutes sees
its rays flood Ashness Fell, raising the flat landscape into a relief of highlighted
bluffs and shadowy crags.

It is
the last day of October; Skelgill’s final chance to win his bet, and to this
end he has again gravitated to the southern reaches of the majestic lake, in
the vicinity of Grisholm, well away from any disturbance that may emanate from jetties
in the neighbourhood of Keswick.  Already two hours into an expedition
that began in the dark, and apparently none the worse for little sleep, he is
alert and purposeful as he goes about the business of catching a pike.  It
being the cusp of the year, there is no one mode that is favoured, and thus Skelgill
is pulling out all the stops.  He has two rods rigged with dead-baits
(steadfastly a winter technique), cast from the stern, the rods splayed like
outriggers; a whippy fly rod (definitely a summer method), ready and waiting
should he head for one of the shallower bays; and his trusty spinning rod
– to hand – loaded with his most productive plug, known as
‘Harris’, after the manufacturer of the paintbrush, the handle of which forms
the main body of the improvised lure.  Plugging is the most reliable way
to catch a pike, but also the most demanding.  If pike fishing were horse
racing, spinning would be a graceful flat stakes, fly fishing a relatively easy
hurdle, and plugging an energy-sapping steeplechase.  While the cast is no
different to spinning – the aim being to achieve a good distance, in
order to cover water that looks likely it might hold a patrolling pike – much
greater skill lies in the retrieve.  A plug vaguely resembles a small fish
that bristles with treble-hooks.  Once submerged it is intended to ape a
distressed or stricken creature: one that is signalling its presence as easy
prey.  To achieve this effect requires a jerky retrieve, with erratic but
coordinated movements of both rod and reel, and thus constant effort and
concentration.  For the novice angler – or even novice
plugger
– this soon becomes tiring, and half an hour’s labour can lead to
repetitive strain injury of the hands, wrists and arms.  At this point,
technique goes to pieces, and all hopes of catching a fish fade.  But
Skelgill exhibits no such fatigue, his metronomic cast and retrieve unflagging,
as his grey-green eyes – reflecting the colour of the lake – scan the
surface for essential signs of aquatic life.

But,
in due course, he does halt.  He has been watching an area of water with
greater interest than any other, and now he spends some time and effort
manoeuvring his boat into this very particular spot – one that, it must
be said, is apparent only to his keen senses.  Carefully, so as to
minimise disturbance, he drops anchor, and counts the depth as he hands out the
line.  Derwentwater is a relatively shallow lake, but here he lies in
about fifty feet of water.  The boat settled to his satisfaction, he reels
in the dead-baits, and is just about to re-cast the first of them when his
mobile rings.

With a
predictable expletive he winds over the bail arm of the reel and carefully lays
the tip of the rod across the gunwale.  Uncharacteristically (although
purely to keep warm) he is wearing a scuffed and faded life-vest that normally
serves as a seat cushion, and he has to burrow into its obstructive bulk to get
at the handset in his breast pocket.  Additional expletives from his
repertoire are now required – but these are curtailed when he sees who is
calling him.  He taps the screen and lifts the phone to his ear.

‘Hans.’

‘Ah,
Daniel – not too early, I hope?’

Skelgill
shakes his head but does not answer directly.

‘Hans,
I can see your cottage from here.’

‘And
you are wearing your strange hat and an orange tank top.’

Skelgill
squints across the water; the professor’s cottage is a good half-mile away.

‘You
must have binoculars.’

‘I was
waiting until you stopped rowing – and before you made a cast – I
appreciate there is never a good time to interrupt a man hunting a pike.’

‘I’m
always prepared to make an exception for you, Hans.’

‘In
that case, Daniel – I propose to meet you at my landing stage in one hour
– I have something that might be of assistance to you in both of your
quests – and, more pertinently, Annika is intending to furnish you with a
flask of hot tea and some wholemeal toast.’

Skelgill
chuckles.

‘It’s
a no-brainer, Hans – I’ll come now if it’s all the same?’

*

Skelgill’s
boat, though unanchored, is becalmed at a spot close to where he took refuge
during Sunday afternoon’s tempest.  Now, although a light south-westerly
breeze has picked up, it does not trouble this mill pond-like reach in the lee
of Grisholm.  It seems the perfect location – and yet Skelgill does
not fish.  He sits unmoving on the centre thwart.  Facing him on the
bow thwart is arranged a series of items supplied by the kindly
Sinisalus.  There is the foil-wrapped toast, and an aluminium flask; there
is what resembles a small rigid model of a pike (about six inches long, it is
coloured in the correct mottled greens, subtly lighter below and darker above,
and where it lacks tail and pectoral fins there are gleaming treble hooks); and
there is a sheet of lined paper, covered by neatly handwritten notes made in
black ink.

A
sleuth – even one knowing something of Skelgill’s character – might
be challenged to explain how he has gone this long and far, a good
fifteen-minute row back across the lake (followed by a considerable pause for
thought), without eating the toast, drinking the tea, and trying out the
professor’s prized Estonian lure,
“Beebi Haug”
(‘Baby Pike’).

The explanation
lies in the notes.  These comprise the concise – though expert
– findings, analyses and musings of the professor, following on from as frank
a debrief as Skelgill was able to provide prior to his departure yesterday lunchtime. 
The professor had few words upon handing them over, and instead left Skelgill
to peruse them at his leisure – which he did the instant that Hans
Sinisalu had left him apparently casting off from the little jetty.  Now
he takes up the page once more.  It has three underlined
sub-headings.  The first two of these are, not unexpectedly, ‘Atropine’
and ‘Benzodiazepine’, but it is the third that has had most impact upon
Skelgill.  This is marked ‘Chloroform’.

After a
short while Skelgill carefully folds up the sheet, tucks it into his shirt
pocket, and fishes out his own notebook from his rucksack.  He locates the
page headed ‘Grisholm’ and removes the pencil from its band.  Of the
remaining five names he methodically crosses out two.  Now he stares at
the list – though his eyes become glazed and unblinking, and it is clear that
his mind is drifting from his immediate environs.  With the pencil held
between his index and middle fingers, he begins gently to brush the tip of his left
thumb across his lips.  He has full lips for a man – together about
the width of his thumb – but now he parts them slightly as his breathing
becomes more audible.  After perhaps half a minute he seems to become
conscious of what he is doing, he blinks suddenly several times, and withdraws
his hand from his mouth, an expression of alarm creasing his features.  He
raises the notebook – and, with less certainty, slowly crosses out two
more names.  Now there is just one left.  He looks away, towards the
island – and makes several blind attempts to replace the pencil in its
holder – but then some afterthought must strike him, and he inscribes a
question mark against the first name he crossed out yesterday morning. 
Now he jams the notebook back into his rucksack, and fumbles in his pocket for
his mobile phone.  Hurriedly he brings up a number, and watches the screen
intently until the call is answered.

‘Hello?’

‘Jones
– can you hear me?’

‘Sure,
Guv.’

‘You’re
really faint.’

‘I’m
whispering, Guv – DI Smart’s just come into the canteen – he’s beside
the counter with DS Leyton – he’ll want to know who I’m talking to.’

‘Tell
him it’s your fiancé inviting you away for a romantic weekend.’

DS
Jones is silent for a moment.

‘That
would probably get me in even more trouble, Guv.’

‘Don’t
worry – I’ll take the rap – but there’s a couple of things I want
you to check – as soon as you get a minute on your own.’

‘They’re
scheduled to interview Dr Bond again in a quarter of an hour.’

‘Have
you got a pen?’

‘Just
tell me quickly, Guv – he keeps glancing over.  Better if I don’t
write it down.’

Skelgill
outlines his requests.  As she feared, DS Jones is obliged to hang up
before he can elaborate – but she insists she has the gist of what he
seeks.  Skelgill shrugs resignedly and returns his mobile to his shirt
pocket.  For the time being, machinations are out of his hands.  But,
thanks to his Baltic friends, he does have other distractions.

He inspects
the Estonian lure, taking care not to snag himself on its evil-looking
hooks.  A barb in the hand is not worth two in the bush – in fact it
means either an eye-watering DIY wrench with a pair of disgorging pliers, or
complete abandonment and a trip to A&E at Carlisle General (not an easy
drive, with a treble-hook embedded in one hand).  The lure itself is a
floating plug that dives to about ten feet when it is swiftly retrieved. 
It is designed as a replica of a small pike – not to scare off other
species and leave the waters clear, but because big pike are cannibal.  As
the professor’s sagely coined phrase goes, “It takes a pike to catch a pike”.

Skelgill
deftly replaces
Harris
with
Beebi Haug
.  He wraps a piece of
damp rag around the new lure, and, with all his might, tests the trace, knots
and clips.  If a big pike bites but gets away, he does not intend it to be
with his friend’s prized lure in tow.  Now he weighs the rod with its new
rig. 
Beebi Haug
is lighter than
Harris
and will require a
more energetic cast.  He rises, and widens his stance in preparation, meaning
to put his back into the action.  He eyes the striated wind lane that
trails off the southern tip of Grisholm, a feature that concentrates food and
attracts surface-feeding fish (which in turn attract bigger ones from below). 
But, just as he lifts the rod above his shoulder, at the edge of his vision a red
kayak slides into view.  Then he sees there is an entire matching school
of them, their occupants wearing standard-issue yellow life-vests and red
helmets and the whole ensemble recalling the Spanish flag.  He lowers his
rod and watches.  They must be coming up the lake from a boat-hire
business not far from the Sinisalus’ cottage; it does a good trade with a
number of outward-bound centres dotted around the area.  Skelgill counts
eight craft – the leader is a male instructor, though it is hard to
discern the other rowers’ ages at this distance – and then there is one
additional laggard, a couple of hundred yards behind the main group, although
its unisex paddler sports an all-black athletic outfit and the kayak is a
bright apple-green, and may be unconnected – or perhaps a second
instructor catching up.

Although
they are a long way from interfering with his fishing (or he their paddling,
come to that), it is not clear at the moment whether their trajectory will
bring them between him and Grisholm, or if they will pass behind the islet, out
of harm’s way.  While he awaits the outcome, he turns his attention to the
warming picnic thoughtfully provided by Annika Sinisalu. While he has with him,
as ever, his trusty
Kelly Kettle
, it can be a bit of a faff, and in any
event far from safe to start a fire aboard a wooden-hulled boat.  Thus the
simple convenience of a flask, especially one freshly made and piping hot, can
win the day.  Indeed the rich brown liquid steams in the chilly air as he
pours.  Then there is the toast – now cooled, but no matter –
he can dip it in the tea.  He unwraps the foil; there are four thick slices
– his legendary appetite goes before him – made up in two rounds. 
He extracts the first of these and pokes a rather grimy finger between the
slices to inspect its contents.   There is a generous layer of a pale
creamy substance.  It looks rather like stiff lemon curd, though the smell
appears to baffle him.  He might guess at some obscure Estonian delicacy,
made from the roe of zander – but when one is angling, it is difficult to
smell much other than fish.  Undeterred, he takes a substantial crunching
bite, and then grins approvingly as he recognises the taste.