Murder on the Lake (8 page)

‘A pen
name – like
George Orwell
and
Mark Twain
– it was a fiction
course, after all.  And didn’t you mention, Guv, she was supposed to be an
actress?’

Skelgill
nods, but does not comment.  DS Jones continues.

‘Bella
Mandrake does sound a bit theatrical, when you think about it.  Maybe some
of the others, too?’

‘Burt
Boston.’

Skelgill
says this through clenched teeth.  DS Jones nods.  Skelgill taps the
surface of his desk with both palms.

‘Let’s
wait and see if any of them
has
given us a false name – then we
might have reason to get a bit hot under the collar.’

As it
turns out, it is not a false name that prompts Skelgill to experience a rise in
temperature, but a small item of health information relating to the late Rich
Buckley.  Via his wife, the investigating team have reached his GP, in
order as a matter of protocol to report the death and obtain for the Coroner relevant
details of the deceased’s medical history.   During this exchange it has
emerged that Rich Buckley was not in receipt of anti-diarrheal medication, nor
was he known to suffer any form of chronic ailment that merited such a prescription. 
The tablets that could, in theory, have brought about his death may not have
belonged to him.

Of
course, there are other possible explanations for his possession of the drug. 
He travelled widely, speaking at conferences on a global basis.  The
identical medicine is available, for instance, in the United States, where he
had most recently attended a major international book fair – and he could
have obtained it privately, if not indeed on the same basis in Great Britain or
elsewhere.  Nonetheless, as Skelgill put it, there were simply ‘too many
straws in the wind’ – the wind, from his perspective, also being one of
the straws.

Thus
by late afternoon on Monday, Skelgill and his two sergeants – all
travelling for austerity purposes on second-class tickets – are seated,
upon Skelgill’s insistence, in an empty first-class carriage, that rattles down
the West Coast Line through indistinct countryside and enfolding dusk towards
England’s sprawling capital.

While it
might have seemed sensible, in hindsight, to detain the retreat’s seven
surviving participants in Cumbria – indeed on Grisholm – to
facilitate convenient interviewing, Skelgill has identified that the scenario
is more complex.  (Not least, there is no obvious crime, and no obvious
suspect.)  In any event, to discover much about Rich Buckley it will be
necessary to visit his London office and speak with the staff; there is also
his wife, and potentially his GP; and then the agents that handle the rental of
Grisholm Hall.  Moreover, as has already been recognised, the members of
the retreat had little with them in the way of reference information that may
be of practical use to the police.  And although Dr Gerald Bond and Linda
Gray, who both live in Cumbria, and the successful author, Sarah – aka
Xara
– Redmond, is based in Edinburgh, four of the seven – Dickie
Lampray, Angela Cutting, Burt Boston and Lucy Hecate – reside in the
Central London area.  Finally, less tangibly, there is the view that
Skelgill has iterated to his own superior: that if anyone has anything to hide
they are less likely to be on guard on their home turf.

Skelgill’s
request to pursue the investigation south was thus approved, though not without
reservations on behalf of his boss.  The rationale for ‘foul play’ of some
kind is very much a matter of conjecture, and seems dependent upon a healthy
dose of intuition on Skelgill’s part – not a quality that generally
carries much weight with the powers that be.  Indeed, there is a strong
case to be made that Skelgill’s personal embroilment in the events (albeit not comprehensively
reported) renders him too close to the situation to conduct an objective
investigation.  Countering this, however, is the argument that he has
obtained an insider’s insight into the characters concerned, and indeed the
minutiae of events as they unfolded.  From this perspective he is uniquely
placed to move matters forward with greatest haste.

Perhaps
this latter point was the clincher, given that there is a desire on high to see
the mystery untangled, and its threads neatly wound up, with maximum speed and
minimum fuss.  However, it is only on the proviso that he achieves these
goals that he has been cleared to proceed.  He has thus rallied his
troops, called fleetingly at home to shower, change and pack an overnight
holdall, extend the boarding arrangements for his dog, and rendezvous at Penrith
railway station just in time to jump aboard the departing 4:50 express for
Euston.  Thence, it is not long before trouble arrives in the shape of the
conductor.

‘This
is a second-class ticket, I’m afraid, sir.’

Skelgill
nods.  His jacket lies on the spare seat beside him, and he reaches into
the pocket to retrieve his warrant card, now restored to his possession. 
He brandishes it at the railway employee, an underfed and rather lopsided young
man burdened by an unfashionable hairstyle and a permanently harried set to his
pale and pinched features.

‘It doesn’t
make any difference I’m afraid, sir – we’re a private company these days.’

Skelgill
takes back his card and patiently stows it away.  He squints at the man’s identity
badge.

‘Are
you a taxpayer, Norris?’

‘Of
course, sir.’

‘And
serving the public – if not by name a public servant?’

‘In a
manner of speaking, sir.’

‘We’re
travelling south to investigate a very serious case.  We need to discuss
our plan – it’ll take us an hour or so.’  He lowers his voice
conspiratorially.  ‘It’s a double murder.’  The ticket inspector’s eyes
widen.  ‘At the moment we’re on contracted time – but we can’t conduct
the meeting in second class because it’s packed full and people will overhear. 
If we have to wait until we reach London we’ll need to do it tonight and the
taxpayer will be charged overtime.  Think how much that will cost.’

‘I
see, sir.’

The
conductor takes a half step backward and glances up and down the
carriage.  Skelgill casts an arm about the four-seater section they
occupy.

‘I
notice these seats are not reserved.’

‘That’s
correct, sir.  It’s not a popular service, this time of day – at
least not for business travellers.’

‘So
you could do both us and the taxpayer a favour if we were able to use
them.’  Skelgill grins in a friendly manner.  ‘Naturally we’ll move
if the carriage begins to fill up – but I wouldn’t have though there’s
much chance of that this side of Manchester?’

‘It’s
Warrington we go through, actually, sir.’

Skelgill
beams.

‘There
you go then – one-horse town – no danger of getting busy, eh?’

‘Probably
not, sir.’  The man frowns, however.

‘Excellent
– and when do we get the free buffet service?’

The conductor
hesitates for a moment, as though he is having second thoughts.  But then
he sighs and his shoulders droop – lopsidedly – by another inch or
so.

‘It’ll
be along in about twenty minutes, sir.’

‘Perfect
– thanks for your cooperation, Norris – we’ll keep you posted on our
progress as the journey goes on.’

‘My
shift ends at Warrington, sir – that’s... where I live.’

‘Good
for you, Norris.’

Skelgill
settles back and folds his arms, as though the matter is closed.  His two
sergeants, somewhat embarrassed, tender their tickets for clipping, avoiding
eye contact.  The remainder of this operation is conducted amidst an
awkward silence, until finally the man shambles swaying along the aisle and
disappears from their carriage with a swish and a clunk of the automatic door.

‘Fair
enough, don’t you think?’  Skelgill addresses his subordinates, seeking
approval.  ‘No point having all this empty space – never mind good
food going to waste.’

DS
Jones grins at her incorrigible superior.  DS Leyton shakes his head.

‘I
think you nearly blew it, slagging off Warrington, Guv.’

Now
Skelgill paradoxically disagrees.  ‘Nothing wrong with Warrington, Leyton
– I was best man at a wedding there once.’  He falls silent, and
appears to be replaying an old memory, for the hint of a smile creases his
lips.

‘Anyway,
Guv – it did the trick – we might be stuck on here for a while if
there’s a knock-on effect from the tube strike.’

Skelgill
breaks off from his reverie.  ‘All the more reason to be comfortable,
Leyton.’  He activates the recline position of his seat and places his
hands behind his head.  He nods to DS Jones who has arranged her notebook
and documents on the table before her.  ‘Give me a shout when the trolley dolly
turns up.’  And he promptly closes his eyes.

*

‘Beats
me how you can solve those things, Emma – does my head in, even the easy
ones.’

They
have been given complimentary newspapers, and DS Jones is steadily working her
way through the cryptic crossword of the
Daily Telegraph
, while DS
Leyton peruses the pages of a less cultured journal.  Skelgill is perhaps
sleeping, although at intervals during the journey so far he has surprised them
by suddenly chipping in with a contribution to their conversation, despite his lowered
eyelids and sporadic snores.  DS Jones smiles at her colleague.

‘Oh,
well – a... friend... showed me how to do them when I was at uni –
half the battle is cracking the secret code that the compiler uses.  If
you can work out what the clue means the answer’s usually staring you in the
face.’

DS
Leyton puts down his own newspaper and glances across at her half-completed
grid.

‘Give
us an idea, then.’

DS
Jones taps her pen on the folded broadsheet.

‘Ok
– take this one – I’ve already solved it.  The clue says,
“Go
without love, with girls getting visual aids”
and it’s seven letters long.’

DS
Leyton puffs out his cheeks and stares vacantly at the page, and then hopefully
about the carriage, as if they are playing a game of I-spy and the item is close
at hand, if only he can spot it.  But after a few moments he shakes his
head and concedes defeat.

‘That’s
just double Dutch to me, Emma – it might as well be written in French.’

DS
Jones smiles patiently.

‘Let
me show you.  There are a couple of encrypted elements in here.’  She
writes out the clue along the foot of the page, spacing it into three distinct
phrases.  ‘See this last bit,
“getting visual aids”
?  The word
“getting”
is telling us that the answer is something that means
“visual
aids”
and the first parts of the clue will resolve to make this word.’

DS
Leyton scratches his head.

‘Visual
aids?  What – like for a presentation when you hold up crime-scene
photos?’  He counts on his fingers, silently mouthing letters.  ‘How
about
‘example’
– that’s got seven letters?’

DS
Jones nods encouragingly.

‘It
could be – but if we work out the rest of the clue, it will tell us.’

‘Go on
then.’

‘Well,
there’s another coded phrase:
“go without love”
– that means the
letter
“g”
– because
“love”
is usually code for an
“o”
– so
“g”
is the first letter of the solution.”

‘Bang
goes my example.’  He puffs out his cheeks.  ‘What about
‘gadget’
then?’  He counts again.  ‘Cor blimey – not enough letters.’

She
chuckles.

‘And
lastly we need another word for
“girls”
– because the clue is
telling us to put “g” with girls.’

‘Lasses.’

They
both glance up, for this submission comes from the ‘slumbering’ Skelgill. 
It is a word from his regular northern lexicon.

DS
Jones writes down
“lasses”
– and then with a flourish inks the
letter
“g”
in front of it.

‘Glasses?’

DS
Leyton looks crestfallen – as though her little exercise has been futile
– he puts a supportive hand on her arm, as though to share some of the
burden of her failure.

‘Specs
– you Cockney oik.’

Despite
Skelgill’s disparaging remark, DS Leyton’s face suddenly lights up.

‘Stone
me –
that
kind of visual aids!’  He claps his hands together
joyfully.  ‘That’s brilliant, Emma – mind you I still don’t reckon
I’d get anywhere near it on me Tod Sloan.’

Skelgill,
having apparently returned to his siesta, has a contentedly smug grin spread upon
his countenance, as though he considers himself solely responsible for solving
the clue.  DS Jones glances sympathetically at DS Leyton.  She places
the newspaper on the table and rests her pen on top of it.

‘Actually,
I was on a training course in September.  One of the sessions was really fascinating. 
They had this guy who works in advertising as a Creative Director.  His
job is to invent ideas for campaigns.  He showed us how he uses cryptic
crosswords as a kind of brain gym to practise what he called
slow thinking
.’

‘Sounds
like that’s right up my street, Emma.’

DS
Jones laughs.

‘Actually,
he made solving an advertising brief seem just like solving a crime.  You
have all these pieces of information – first you have to decide which
ones are important – and then discover how they fit together.  He
believes there’s always a perfect solution.’