Murder on the Lake (7 page)

‘I’ve
got plenty more paracetamol if you want some, Guv?’

Skelgill
shakes his head, though somewhat gingerly.

‘Just
shoot me next time I pick up a glass of red wine.’

‘I’ll
make a mental note, Guv.’

Skelgill
puts down his handset and glances suspiciously about the lobby.  They are
seated in comfy armchairs in a medium-sized hotel at Portinscale, beside the
northerly tip of Derwentwater, and close by the spot where his boat was recovered. 
He has negotiated temporary mooring facilities, and has retrieved his belongings. 
He has yet to recover his car and trailer from the public slipway at Keswick
– and indeed is still to engineer a change of clothes from those in which
he set out to fish yesterday morning.  DS Jones has volunteered to
chauffeur him for the present, while DS Leyton has returned to police HQ, assigned
to coordinate the contacting of next of kin, and as bearer of the bad tidings
to Wordsworth Writers’ Retreats.

‘What
did you make of them, Jones?’

‘On
the island, Guv?’

‘Aye.’

DS
Jones places her elbows on the arms of the chair and interlocks her slender
fingers.  Her nails are neatly manicured and Skelgill, looking at them, self-consciously
folds his own weather-beaten hands into his armpits.

‘I
can’t say I’ve met any writers before, Guv.  They all seemed well educated
– law-abiding.’  She unwinds her fingers and inspects her
nails.  ‘Though definitely idiosyncratic – take the James Bond
character.  Smooth talker.  Suave.  Very self-confident.’

She
refers to Burt Boston, rather than the eponymous doctor.  Skelgill is
instantly disapproving of her assessment.

‘If
he’s ex-SAS I’m a monkey’s uncle.’

DS
Jones seems surprised by his vehemence, and edges back in her seat.

‘What
makes you say that, Guv?’

Skelgill
turns and gazes out over the water, which laps close to the rear lawn of the
hotel.  The weather has indeed improved and, though there is still a swell
rolling up the lake, the sun now glints benevolently off the corrugated surface,
and Tufted Ducks bob contentedly between dives.

‘A few
things.’

‘Such
as, Guv?’

Skelgill
appears reluctant to elaborate, as though telling her will force him to abandon
an as yet incomplete edifice in his mind.  But then he looks her in the
eye and begins to count out on his fingers.

‘For
one, he had no torch with him – basic piece of kit, especially for a trip
to an island with no electricity.  For two, he knows nothing about knots
– he was nodding away when I said I’d moored with a clove hitch. 
For three – and you’re right, he has been watching the
Bond
films
– he started talking nonsense about blowing up a propane cylinder.’

Skelgill
might add that, though Burt Boston had offered to swim for help in his stead,
he had not pressed the point when Skelgill objected on the grounds of his duty
to protect the public.  DS Jones, looking just a hint chastened, raises a
hand in the direction of the lake.

‘It’s
not going to be great PR for this writers’ retreats company, Guv – two
people dying on one of their courses.’

Skelgill
takes a gulp of his coffee and wipes his lips with the back of his hand, which
he then rubs with the heel of the other to disperse the chocolate powder mark.

‘Eighty
per cent survival rate – that’s better than climbing Everest.’

DS
Jones grins obediently at his rather ghoulish joke.

‘That’s
including you, Guv.’

Now
Skelgill blinks self-effacingly.

‘My
mental maths doesn’t extend to seven out of nine.’

‘I
guess it’s an even less flattering figure, Guv.’

‘Anyway,
there were ten of us – I was an honorary member for the night.  Did
I tell you I blitzed them at
Scrabble
?’

‘You
did mention that, Guv.’

‘Aye
– happen I did.’

There
is a shelving unit beside their seats, containing the usual hotel collection of
forsaken paperback blockbusters and bulk-buy second-hand hardbacks that could
only have been produced without reference to publishers or readers, in a time
when it was fashionable to write with absolute and totally uninformed self
indulgence.  DS Jones is glancing musingly along the top shelf, and she pulls
out what appears to be a detective novel.

‘I
can’t help thinking of that Agatha Christie story, Guv – where a
house-party get stranded on an island and one by one they start dying off.’

Skelgill
appears only vaguely engaged by this allusion.

‘Aye
– but this crowd are unconnected.’

DS
Jones drums her nails on the clothette cover.

‘So
they were in that story, Guv.’

Skelgill
shakes his head dismissively.

‘Aye,
well you know me and fiction, Jones.’

‘Sorry
to keep you, Leyton – got a bit tied up over at Portinscale – what
with sorting out the boat and one thing and another.’

Skelgill,
finding DS Leyton waiting in his office, is economical with the facts, having
cajoled DS Jones into a pub lunch at a nearby watering hole.  His motives
were a little less than altruistic, as he admitted when supping thirstily on a
pint of strong ale: there had to be some way to shift his limpet-like
hangover.  However, given that the ‘hair of the dog’ has still failed to flush
away all vestiges of discomfort, his politeness is somewhat uncharacteristic. 
DS Leyton, unused to apologies from his superior, looks rather discomfited, and
jumps to attention before sidling out into the corridor, offering to fetch them
teas from the machine.  DS Jones, meanwhile, is consulting with the police
pathologist, Dr Herdwick.

‘Here
we go, Guv.’  DS Leyton slides a polystyrene cup carefully across to
Skelgill’s side of the desk.  ‘How was the boat?’

Skelgill
shrugs, nose already in his tea.  He swallows and smacks his lips
approvingly.

‘Shipshape
is probably the word.  But there is one annoying detail.  Harry
Cobble can’t remember if the painter was on board or trailing.’

‘That’s
like the tow-rope, Guv?’

Skelgill
grins.

‘In a
manner of speaking.’

‘How
is that significant, Guv?’

Skelgill
puts down his drink and makes a little church with his fingers.

‘If it
were on board, I’d know for sure it was cast off and shoved out into the lake.’

DS
Leyton nods.

‘You
still thinking that’s a possibility, Guv?’

Skelgill
glowers.

‘Leyton,
I’ve never had a boat work itself loose in my life.  And how many others
blew free last night?’

DS
Leyton looks unconvinced.

‘Thing
is, Guv – it
was
a storm and a half.’

Skelgill
shakes his head.

‘In a
teacup, more like – I’ve experienced much worse.’

DS
Leyton ponders for a moment.

‘Why
would someone untie your boat, Guv – when you’re the one who can raise
the alarm?’

Skelgill
crafts a wry grin.

‘Well,
if it were deliberate, Leyton – you just said it.’

DS
Leyton looks a little nonplussed.

‘What
– to
stop
you raising the alarm?’

Skelgill
smiles and opens his palms in a helpless gesture.

‘Unless
someone decided I would be such scintillating company that they felt compelled
to keep me for the night.’

‘So,
what are you saying, Guv?’

‘Join
the dots, Leyton – what happened last night?’

‘You
got a bad hangover, Guv.’

‘Ha-ha,
Leyton – now be serious.’

DS
Leyton shrugs.

‘The Mandrake
woman died.’

‘Correct,
the Mandrake woman died.’

‘Accidentally,
though Guv.’

Skelgill
stares at DS Leyton, his countenance hardening.  But then there is a gentle
knock and the door opens; DS Jones enters bearing her notepad.

‘Maybe
Jones can enlighten us, Leyton.’

He
indicates that she should be seated.  He leans back in his own chair and
awaits her news.

‘Just
provisional results at the moment, Guv.’  She glances between her two
colleagues.  ‘But if you want it in a word – it’s
inconclusive
.’

Skelgill
tuts and swills down the last dregs of his tea.

‘That’s
Herdwick’s middle name.’

DS
Jones, undeterred, flips open her notebook and reads verbatim.

‘Bella
Mandrake almost certainly died from an overdose of sleeping pills combined with
excess alcohol.  They’re both muscle relaxants and can kill within a few
minutes by causing sleep apnoea.  The lungs are deprived of oxygen. 
Alcohol can amplify the effect of the drug.’

‘What
about Rich Buckley?’

DS
Jones nods and taps the notebook with her pen.

‘He
died of heart failure, Guv – Dr Gerald Bond was right.’

Skelgill
scowls disparagingly.

‘However
– preliminary investigation shows very few indications of a
predisposition – Buckley’s heart and arteries were in pretty good shape.’

‘So
what caused it?’

‘That’s
the more interesting aspect, Guv.’  Now DS Jones pauses, perhaps for
dramatic effect.  ‘His blood sample contains residues of cocaine –
and atropine, among other things.’

Skelgill
and DS Leyton remain impassive, until the latter asks the question that his
superior may be resisting.

‘What’s
atropine when it’s at home?’

DS
Jones refers to her notes, as if she senses she should not overplay her hand.

‘It’s
the poison found in Deadly Nightshade.  It kills by stopping the heart.’

‘Stone
the crows!’  DS Leyton starts, and his seat scrapes sharply against the
floor tiles.  But Skelgill is unmoved.

‘Deadly
Nightshade doesn’t grow around here.’

‘There’s
more to it, Guv – apparently it’s used in surgery, and in small doses in
lots of prescribed medicines – including the anti-diarrheal tablets we
found in his room.’

Skelgill
ponders for a moment.

‘These
pills – were they strong enough to kill him?’

DS
Jones shrugs.

‘Dr
Herdwick says cocaine’s more likely to have caused a heart attack.  It’s
well known for it.’

DS
Leyton punches a fist into the opposite palm.

‘Cor
blimey, Emma – you build us up for a poisoning and then let us down.’

‘Sorry
about that.’  DS Jones grins ruefully.  ‘I should add that the doctor
also says that about a third of deaths from sudden cardiac arrest can’t be
explained by observable medical conditions.  They call it
unremarkable
.’

DS
Leyton begs to differ.  He is shaking his head in exasperation and his fleshy
jowls respond a fraction behind time.

‘I
call it flippin’ remarkable – in this day and age.  So where does
this leave us?’

DS
Jones glances apprehensively at Skelgill, but he nods to indicate she should enlarge.

‘The
deaths could be natural, accidental or by misadventure.  But technically
we can’t rule out one hundred per cent that one or both of them were
deliberate.  Dr Herdwick’s admitting that much, at least.’

Skelgill
folds his arms and rocks back in his chair in order to regard the ceiling.

‘If
we’re not just going to put this to bed, we need something to make us
suspicious.  A reason to investigate.  A
desire
to investigate.’

DS
Jones gestures to her notebook.

‘There’s
the cocaine, Guv – Dr Herdwick says for it to have been in his blood he
would have to have taken it while he was on Grisholm.  That’s surely
grounds enough?’

‘Plus
your boat, Guv?’

Skelgill
is still stargazing.

‘Aye
– the cocaine is categorical – the boat we can’t prove a thing
– except it bugs me the most.  But it’s not an easy sell to the
Chief – she’s narked as it is – apparently the head of Cumbria
tourism sits on the board of the Police Authority – and now I’ve landed
myself in the middle of a bad case of public relations.’

DS
Jones is nodding in sympathy, but DS Leyton begins to fidget uncomfortably.

‘Thing
is, Guv – on that score – I’ve not had chance to tell you –’

Skelgill
snaps forward in his chair, rather exaggerating his reaction and causing DS
Leyton to look alarmed.  The latter clears his throat nervously before he
speaks.

‘This company
– Wordsworth Writers’ Retreats – I’ve had two DCs working on it
since I got back this morning – so far, there’s not a trace of it.’

Skelgill’s
features take on a rather cynical cast.

‘How
hard have they tried?’

DS
Leyton reaches for his own notes, which are perched on the tall cabinet at his
side.  He flicks through several sheets until he locates the page he is
looking for.

‘Nothing
online, Guv – just doesn’t come up at all.  The nearest was
something in Canada a few years ago – no connection.  Then we’ve
been on to a couple of trade bodies – the Society of Authors, and
The
Bookseller
magazine – they’ve not heard of it, though they’re asking
around.’

‘What
about the people who were on the retreat?’

DS Leyton
is already nodding.

‘Thing
is, Guv – they’re all in transit.  Plus most of them didn’t bring
their mobiles with them, like they were asked.  We got hold of the Lampray
geezer – he’s on the train to London – he’s plugged his phone in
– but he says he can’t remember any details and needs to check what info
he’s kept at home.’

‘When
will that be?’

‘He
reckons before close of play – but he’s already delayed –
apparently there’s wildcat tube strikes in London all this week.  It’s holding
up some of the mainline trains.’  DS Leyton taps the page with the back of
his hand.  ‘We’re keeping trying the others, obviously, Guv.’

Skelgill
nods pensively.

‘Wordsworth
Writers’ Retreats.  Sounds like it ought to be a local firm.’  He
glances at DS Jones.  ‘What do you think, Jones – you’re the big
bookworm?’

DS
Jones seems unsure as to whether this is a compliment or a ham-fisted slight.

‘Maybe
it was just a one-off event in the Lakes?  It’s a good name really –
it links the Lakes and the poet, and it says ‘words worth’ – clever idea
when you think about it – whoever came up with it.’

Skelgill
appears unconvinced.

‘Should
have been held at Grasmere – though there’s no islands there, if that’s
what they wanted.  Or Cockermouth, come to that.’

Though
he may not be of a literary bent, he refers to the illustrious bard’s locus of
best-known domicile, and birthplace, respectively – no local lacks this
knowledge of Lakeland’s most famous son.  DS Leyton, who still employs the
incomer’s pronunciation of Cockermouth (and, indeed, has his own Cockney rendering),
chips in with a light-hearted contribution.

‘Don’t
quite have the right ring to it, though, Guv – Cockermouth Writers’
Retreats.  Sounds like a cross between a cock-up and putting your foot in
your mouth.’

DS
Jones looks suitably amused, but she is keen to add a serious suggestion.

‘What
about the owners of Grisholm Hall – surely they’ll have an address?’

DS
Leyton slaps his hands onto his ample thighs in a gesture of frustration.

‘One
step forward, two back.  We’ve been on to the estate office – they
don’t know much about it.  Apparently bookings are handled through agents
in London – we’re waiting to hear from them.’

Skelgill
folds his arms and, yawning, stares out of the window at the darkening sky.

‘They must
have liaised to organise all the provisions, get the place ready, arrange for
the boatman – probably had to pay something up front – plus the
hire of the property.’

‘I
reckon so, Guv, but – these agents – it’s one man and his dog and
the dog’s in charge of the admin.’

‘Well,
get them chased up.  We’re not going to look too clever if Wordsworth find
out first and start kicking up a fuss – dog or no dog.’

‘Will
do, Guv.’

DS
Leyton inhales as though he is about to say more, but then he hesitates and
frowns at his notes.

‘What
is it, Leyton?’  Skelgill’s tone suggests he suspects there is more
incomplete news to follow.’

‘Er...
the deceased, Guv – next of kin.’

‘Aye?’

‘No
problem with Rich Buckley – his office in London was open so we’ve got
his wife’s number – that’s being dealt with.  Bella Mandrake,
though, Guv –’

‘Aha?’

‘She’s
not what she seems.’

‘In
what way?’

‘Well,
Guv – among her personal effects – there’s not a lot – but
there’s a credit card – in the name of Ms J Smith.  Nothing else to indicate
she’s really Bella Mandrake.’

‘What
about an address?’

‘Nothing,
Guv.  We’re waiting on the credit card company to get back to us –
that should do the trick, obviously.’  He scratches his head and frowns. 
‘Unless it’s not hers.’

DS
Jones sits forward.

‘Maybe
it’s a pseudonym, Guv?’

Skelgill
juts out his chin and rubs the weekend’s stubble broodingly.  DS Leyton
looks inquiringly at DS Jones.  She elaborates.