Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 2

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘Fire away then, lass.’

  DS Jones begins to trace a nail across the top of the page, and stops at the third column.

  ‘The Director of Haresfell, Briony Boss.’ She glances briefly at Skelgill, but his features remain impassive. ‘She was second in charge at Broadmoor until five years ago – so her time there would have overlapped with Harry Krille being a patient. She had worked her way up through the administrative ranks after starting her career in nursing. From Broadmoor she went on to manage two regular NHS hospitals in Greater Manchester – both jobs were considered promotions, and required urgent troubleshooting, so she must have been successful. Then she was appointed to the number one position at Haresfell two-and-a-half years ago.’

  ‘Same time as Harry Krille arrived.’

  DS Jones nods – though neither detective appears to attach any significance to this particular conjunction. DS Jones moves on to the next column.

  ‘Dr Peter Pettigrew. He has been based at Haresfell for over eight years. He seems to be a highly regarded forensic psychiatrist. He sits on various NHS steering committees and advisory boards, such as for public appointments, and he also has a roving teaching and consulting role, mainly in psychiatric hospitals. He is a prominent advisor to the courts – considered to be the leading authority in the North West.’

  Skelgill is scowling – this is not fresh news.

  ‘Aye, that’s come up – he was in charge of the panel that sent Meredith Bale to mental hospital instead of prison.’

  DS Jones again nods.

  ‘His wife, Dr Helen Pettigrew, her background has been mainly academic – most latterly she was at Lancaster University lecturing in psychology. It looks like she took a career break to have children, and then started back part-time. Obviously the NHS doesn’t have records of this – solely what’s filed on her CV. Then she got the post at Haresfell – six months ago.’

  Skelgill raises his eyebrows to indicate her bad luck – falling victim in so short a time.

  ‘Dr Agnetha Walker.’ Now DS Jones hesitates – it seems she anticipates an interjection from Skelgill; she has pronounced Agnetha in the authentic Scandinavian style, with the silent ‘g’ and the hard ‘t’, and it must surely strike a chord with Skelgill – although there is something in her demeanour that suggests she is testing the name upon herself. ‘She’s a psychologist employed by the NHS – it seems to be quite a specialist role and involves assignments in various locations, on a patient-basis rather than being attached to a specific hospital. She also sits on advisory panels – largely for court work. She was based around the East Midlands until about three years ago, and then transferred to Greater Manchester – until this latest project in Cumbria. It appears because of the isolation of Haresfell she has worked there exclusively since the move in May.’

  DS Jones falls silent, but her closing intonation suggests that this particular résumé is not yet complete. She watches for Skelgill’s reaction, but when nothing is forthcoming she continues. A more solemn note takes possession of her voice.

  ‘The psychiatric unit in which Meredith Bale worked at Altrincham Vale – it falls within the list of hospitals in Dr Walker’s remit.’

  Now Skelgill is scowling.

  ‘So what?’

  DS Jones indicates a section of the chart with a movement to and fro of an index finger.

  ‘There’s a period of about a year in which their paths could have crossed.’

  ‘But she’s outside the management hierarchy – she doesn’t have anything to do with nurses. She works directly with patients.’

  DS Jones evidently senses a rise in tension.

  ‘Sure, Guv – and the same possible connection applies, by the way, to Dr Peter Pettigrew – his teaching and consultancy portfolio includes Altrincham Vale.’

  Now a flicker of uncertainty crosses Skelgill’s countenance – DS Jones detects his grudging interest.

  ‘The point is, Guv – there are overlaps – we don’t know what might have happened during these times – but there could be reasons why Dr Walker and Dr Pettigrew, through his wife – have been targeted now by Meredith Bale. If the woman’s crazy, like they say – even a misplaced word could have got them in her bad books.’

  Her eyes are bright with an intelligence that Skelgill cannot deny; though in typical fashion he retreats behind a pained grimace, as if there is a debate raging for his political allegiance, and his nature knows only independence. His rejoinder dodges the conundrum.

  ‘What about Arthur Kerr? I see you’ve got a column for him.’

  DS Jones inhales sharply, as if she has not finished trying to win Skelgill over – but she relents and moves on to his new inquiry.

  ‘He worked at Broadmoor until six years ago – which means he has overlapped with Briony Boss and Harry Krille at both institutions.’

  Skelgill is frowning.

  ‘Are you sure – about the six years?’

  DS Jones flashes him a surprised glance. Then she leafs through the pages beneath the chart until she finds the corresponding notes.

  ‘Aha – that’s what I’ve been given – see, Guv.’

  Skelgill looks pensive, but does not comment. DS Jones, however, has more to add.

  ‘There are confidential notes on his file, Guv – not the sort of thing we could put in print – it would compromise our source – I haven’t even written it out in longhand.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘He’s known as a bit of a militant. There was a period at Broadmoor when the unions apparently ruled the roost – and worse if the rumours are to be believed – he was one of the leading convenors, Red Arthur, they called him. Perhaps that’s got something to do with his move away – to Haresfell.’ (Skelgill nods in a fashion that suggests this information doesn’t surprise him.) ‘I wonder if Briony Boss – when she landed at Haresfell – wasn’t too pleased to see him?’

  ‘Or the opposite.’

  This is a typically oblique Skelgill response – and DS Jones looks hard at him. Is he playing devil’s advocate for the hell of it, or in fact is there some basis for his glib quip? His features remain implacable.

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Er – yeah, Guv.’ It takes her a couple of seconds to get back on track. ‘There’s a bit of a blot on his professional copybook. At Broadmoor a patient in his care died unexpectedly. It went to a tribunal and he was exonerated of any blame. Evidently they accepted his defence that the institution was under-resourced, and he was overstretched.’

  Skelgill is feeling the stubble on his chin.

  ‘What was the cause of death?’

  ‘It was a heart attack – apparently the patient was awaiting regular medication and the nurses were late doing their rounds. There’s some suggestion that they were having an unauthorised staff party, but nothing could be proven. It looks like the workers closed ranks.’

  DS Jones glances up from her notes. Skelgill is staring fixedly into his coffee mug; at the same time methodically stirring the residual froth into what little is left of the liquid beneath. When he does not respond to her latest statement, she offers a prompt.

  ‘What are you thinking, Guv – that there might be something more to Frank Wamphray’s death – given the Arthur Kerr connection?’

  Skelgill jolts out of his daydream and gazes at her, blinking.

  ‘What? No – I was just wondering what confidential notes are on my file.’

  DS Jones regards him with a certain amused irony; he forces a rueful grin and consults his wristwatch.

  ‘I need to make a phone call.’

  Now DS Jones sits back in her chair – but then she realises he might mean that he wants privacy, and is not prepared to find a quiet spot. She pushes back her chair to indicate she is willing to move away.

  ‘Are you hungry, Guv? I haven’t eaten – they only offer a detox tray at the hotel – I don’t think they expect their guests to be up in time for normal breakfast.’

  Skelgill cranes his neck ar
ound to inspect the service counter.

  ‘Do they serve bacon rolls in here?’

  ‘Afraid not, Guv – there’s toasted panini – ham and cheese, maybe?’

  Skelgill shrugs.

  ‘Aye – whatever looks biggest.’

  DS Jones smiles and gets to her feet. As she moves away, Skelgill suddenly calls her back. He is digging in his jacket pocket.

  ‘Jones – here – it’s my round.’

  She stops and turns and shakes her head.

  ‘It’s okay, Guv – DI Smart has got approval for full board expenses – may as well put it on his account?’

  Skelgill hesitates for a moment – but just a moment.

  ‘Better make it two of those paninis, then. And get something for yourself.’

  DS Jones grins broadly and resumes her mission to place an order. She waits at the counter not only for fresh drinks to be prepared, but also for the food to be heated. By the time she returns bearing a loaded tray, Skelgill has concluded his call and is reading an article in a complimentary tabloid newspaper. He is shaking his head and clicking his tongue irritably.

  ‘This reminds me why I don’t get a paper.’

  He rotates the periodical so she can read the headline: “Bonnie & Clyde Confound Cumbria Cops.”

  DS Jones raises her eyebrows.

  ‘It hasn’t taken them long to come up with Bonnie and Clyde, Guv.’

  Skelgill shakes his head, his countenance sour. He crumples the newspaper onto the vacant seat beside him.

  ‘Bloodsuckers. Let’s stand on the sidelines with no qualifications and pull down people who are knocking their pans out.’ He makes a gesture, pointing alternately with his sandwich to indicate he includes the pair of them. ‘Look at us now – on a Sunday morning – in our own time – a hundred and twenty miles from home.’

  DS Jones nods.

  ‘What does the article say, Guv?’

  Skelgill takes an exploratory bite of his sandwich. The toasted bread is crisp and dry and it takes him a few moments to chew and swallow and he needs the last dregs of his previous coffee to wash it down. He glowers angrily.

  ‘Quotes the Chief – we’ve apparently got the situation under control – just a matter of time before we locate them.’ He makes a sarcastic scoffing sound. ‘The worst thing is – the headline writer’s got it right.’

  DS Jones’s brow is furrowed pensively.

  ‘There’s probably more we could find out, Guv – from the NHS records. My friend’s willing to meet us today – if you think it would help – to give him a better idea of what we’re looking for?’

  Skelgill is raising his sandwich for the next bite, like a flautist preparing to play. A sudden reticence clouds his eyes. He gives a slight shake of his head.

  ‘I’ve got an appointment on the Eden – with the Lady of the Stream.’

  21. FISHING WITH ALICE

  ‘Does one eat grayling, Daniel?’

  ‘Some folk prefer it to trout – it’s supposed to smell of thyme – but it’s pretty similar if you ask me.’

  ‘And is it in season?’

  ‘Aye, you’re allowed two fish a day – provided they’re between a foot and fifteen inches.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘To conserve the stocks – the lower limit protects the juveniles that are still to spawn – the upper safeguards the specimen fish – that make it through the net, you might say.’

  ‘It is such a beautiful creature – it would be a shame to kill it at all, Daniel.’

  ‘I’m pretty much a catch-and-release man myself.’

  ‘Then go ahead.’

  Skelgill slides the silvery lady back into the stream and watches as she slips away with the current, her elegant dorsal fin momentarily slicing through the surface ripple before she submerges whence she came. He washes his hands of slime and dabs the landing net into the river for the same purpose, and then clambers back up the bank from his position as ghillie. Alice Wright-Fotheringham regards him with evident satisfaction. He raises a quizzical eyebrow.

  ‘Except when it comes to criminals, obviously.’

  ‘Well of course, Daniel – I think the release part was more my bag – much to your chagrin at times.’

  Skelgill shrugs phlegmatically.

  ‘Time for a cuppa, eh?’

  With care he relieves the retired judge of his best spinning rod, and secures the hook in the keeper.

  ‘Ah – the contraption. Will it work in the rain?’

  ‘Aye. Some folk call them a storm kettle.’ He glances skywards, as though he senses he is tempting fate. ‘Or a volcano kettle.’

  And now he stops in his tracks – perhaps this postscript has rekindled the image of the last time he used his kit, eight days ago on Bassenthwaite Lake, when the attractive Swedish psychologist Agnetha Walker showed her mettle as a outdoorswoman – perhaps something that will stand her in good stead in her present state of jeopardy.

  ‘I think this must be the best part of being an angler, is it not?’

  Skelgill stirs from his deliberation and leads the way to his assortment of kit, heaped beneath a spreading yew where the ground is dry despite weeks of persistent rain. He considers his companion’s suggestion with a tilting of his head.

  ‘It’s a close-run thing, that’s for sure.’

  He pulls a couple of sit-mats from a rucksack, and offers a hand to help Alice Wright-Fotheringham lower herself into a recumbent position.

  ‘It was kind of you to take up my plea to fish so soon. And now my first grayling.’

  There is a mischievous note in the woman’s voice, and Skelgill evidently decides that he will not be well served by beating disingenuously about the bush.

  ‘I have to admit to a professional interest.’

  ‘Your Haresfell case, of course.’

  She says this as a statement of fact, and indeed her tone suggests she would be offended if he had anything other in mind. Nonetheless, he manages to contrive a certain look of discomfiture, as he begins to busy himself with assembling the Kelly kettle.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘It is not so straightforward as the media would have it?’

  Skelgill shakes his head ruefully.

  ‘It’s like a wind-knot – you know, when you’ve made a shoddy cast? It’s not a true knot at all – just a great bunch in the line itself, and you can see the whole thing – but just not how to undo it.’

  ‘So how does one unravel a tangled wind-knot?’

  Skelgill pours a little methylated spirits into the chimney of the kettle, and then drops in a lighted match. There is a whoosh and he jerks his head back and instinctively rubs at his eyebrows. A cloying sulphurous smell now taints the air. Alice Wright-Fotheringham gives an amused chuckle. Skelgill is still thinking about his answer.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But it must be a predicament you face from time to time – even a proficient fisherman such as yourself?’

  Now he shrugs with affected modesty.

  ‘Aye, well – you know – I just go at it – I don’t think “pull that loop through here, and push that strand through there” – I just sort of do it by feel – working the line from the inside out.’

  ‘And does this method bring success?’

  Now Skelgill nods musingly.

  ‘Aye, usually – you think it’s never going to clear – next thing, it’s out.’

  Already the water is beginning to boil, and now Skelgill sets up a pair of tin mugs and charges them with tea bags and milk from a small flask. Then deftly he lifts the kettle from its base and tilts it to fill the mugs. Alice Wright-Fotheringham watches, intrigued – is it his adeptness with the device or his crime-solving simile? She leans to one side and delves into a pocket of her waxed-cotton stockman’s coat. There is a rustling sound and she produces a paper bag – and as if by magic two dogs appear silently at her side; Cleopatra, Skelgill’s Bullboxer, and Justitia, her own chocolate Labrador Retriever, have spent the past hour cu
rled contentedly on an old tartan rug between the roots of the yew.

  ‘Ah, my dears – to what do I owe the pleasure?’

  Skelgill glances up from his stirring of the tea with a smile on his face. For once he looks relaxed, and enjoying the moment, and he continues to beam paternally as the retired judge breaks a stick of shortbread in two and invites the pair of drooling canines to sit. Clearly knowing on which side their bread is buttered, they obey almost instantly.

  ‘Nicely.’

  Her second command is also followed to the letter, and the dogs simultaneously with the greatest of care take the pieces of biscuit from her fingers, like trout that nonchalantly sip unsuspecting mayflies from the surface film with barely a show of lips.

  ‘I ought to have you training my team.’

  ‘Oh – I think I can be of more utility as a sounding board, Daniel – and, of course, I still have contacts in the right places – or some them, at least.’

  Skelgill makes an ahem-like cough and, at the same time, glancing sideways to see that she is gazing regally across the fast-flowing Eden, with forefinger and thumb he deftly plucks the teabag from her mug and presents it to her, handle first.

  ‘Aye, well – I know you’re not one to gossip, Alice – but I was wondering if you could do a little digging among your old acquaintances?’

  She turns, a little stiffly, to face him. Then she proffers the paper bag.

  ‘I’ve done it. Here – have a piece of shortbread – it’s home made – in fact, take two.’

  Skelgill is looking somewhat wide-eyed, but nonetheless he accepts her offer.

  ‘Don’t mind if I do. Thanks.’

  ‘Yes, Daniel – I anticipated your curiosity – particularly after the clumsy hints you dropped when you rather casually appeared at my regular dog-walking spot the other day.’

  Skelgill now ruminates sheepishly.

  ‘Was it that obvious?’

  ‘Daniel – when one has spent a lifetime in the courts, hearing the truth, the whole truth, and nothing like the truth – one becomes rather adept at dissecting between the lines, so to speak.’

  Skelgill bows his head obediently – then he remembers the shortbread and dunks a baton into his tea and pops it into his mouth. Now he nods with approval, and holds up the remaining piece to indicate his sentiment.