‘What is it?’
‘They were just waving us off, Guv.’
‘They?’ Skelgill suddenly sounds alarmed.
‘Him and the dog, Guv.’
‘Ah.’ Skelgill relaxes.
‘What did you think I meant, Guv?’
Skelgill purses his lips before replying.
‘Oh – just that there was someone snoring in one of the bedrooms.’
DS Jones’s eyes widen.
‘You didn’t look in, Guv?’
Skelgill grins.
‘You must be joking – it sounded like a bloke.’ Then he pulls his mobile phone from his hip pocket. ‘I did get this, though.’ He fiddles with the screen and then holds the display so she can see it.
‘It’s one of the photographs he had on the wall, Guv.’
‘Correct – but who’s in it?’
DS Jones takes the handset and looks more closely.
‘Well – it’s Dickie Lampray – and several others – I don’t recognise them.’
Skelgill’s expression hardens.
‘See the tall one, on Lampray’s left?’
‘Aha?’
‘Pound to a penny that’s Rich Buckley.’
8. RBP LIMITED – Tuesday 11 a.m.
‘Yes – that is Mr Buckley.’
The woman nods, her jaw pushed forward with some determination. She is wiry and angular, and of medium height and late middle age. Her dark eyes are watchful, blinking evenly behind horn-rimmed spectacles that perch upon a beaked nose. Her sleek auburn hair is coiffed in a chignon style and her clothes – a grey twinset and toning tweed skirt – add to the impression of a PA from the old school. (Indeed she has a refined accent to match.) She is called Miss Constance Belgrave, and she is – unexpectedly – the sole employee of Rich Buckley Publishing Limited. The detectives have travelled back across town by London Underground, passing more or less beneath their night’s lodgings, first to emerge blinking in the bright sunshine at Holborn (DS Jones schooling Skelgill in the pronunciation “Hoe-bern” and pointing out Staple Inn, an old Holborn landmark made famous by the eponymous tobacco), thence to continue on foot into the fringe of the up-and-coming Clerkenwell district. Here the firm has its offices on the third floor of what was once a lithographic printer’s. The superficially renovated premises retain an industrial character, having exposed pipes, ducts, and vents, large steel-framed windows, and high ceilings with fluorescent lighting. The publisher’s quarters appear to comprise a single large room at the corner of the building, divided into a series of semi-open-plan spaces by tubular shelving units of about six feet in height. They are now seated in what is an improvised reception area, where two minimalistic Bauhaus-style settees face one another across a chrome and glass coffee table. In scheduling their appointment, a detective constable reporting to DS Jones has outlined the purpose of their visit – primarily to acquire some background details on Rich Buckley – and Skelgill has begun by showing Miss Belgrave the awards ceremony photograph he clandestinely obtained en route to Dickie Lampray’s loo.
‘Naturally, madam, we appreciate this must be an upsetting time for you.’
The woman redirects her birdlike stare from the photograph to Skelgill.
‘Why, Inspector – I am not upset in the least – Mr Buckley was a thoroughly unpleasant man.’
Skelgill is not easily knocked off his stride, though he is more accustomed to dealing with rough-and-ready country-folk than polished metropolitan sorts. He perhaps plays for time by taking a bite of the chocolate digestive with which he has been furnished. The opportunity, however, is too good to be passed over, and after a moment he has composed a response that ought to serve his purpose.
‘I did rather get that impression from some of the ladies I met at the writers’ retreat.’
This appears to be an astute tactic – despite lacking substance – for it allies the woman with notional kindred spirits, and there is a distinct release of strain in her taut frame.
‘I am not surprised to hear that, Inspector.’
Skelgill tilts his head to one side.
‘You’re – you were – his secretary, madam?’
The woman appears to flinch at this suggestion.
‘I was ostensibly recruited as PA to the Managing Director.’ She emphasises the job title in a contemptuous tone. ‘At exactly this time last year – but it has turned out that my role is almost entirely devoted to selling.’
‘How does that work, madam?’ Again the woman shows a flicker of disapproval – or at least some impatience, as if Skelgill’s question is improbably naïve – and he quickly adds a caveat. ‘You’ll have to bear with me, I’m afraid – I’m a complete duffer when it comes to the book world – but ask me anything you like about sheepdog trials.’
The woman seems to soften a little at this admission, and – having cleared the hurdle of her admission to labouring in what she evidently considers a menial capacity – she elaborates with good grace.
‘You could euphemistically call it publicity, Inspector – or marketing, come to that. For each book that we publish we need to gain trade support and media exposure. If it is not prominent upon the booksellers’ shelves and display tables, and there is no public awareness of its merits, a book will simply wither and die. And then it is returned to us for a fate known as pulping.’ She inhales, and for a second appears perturbed – but then she reaches into the handbag that rests beside her and brings out an electronic cigarette. ‘Do you mind, Inspector... Sergeant?’ Skelgill shakes his head. DS Jones looks a little alarmed, but does not comment. They might wonder if this is the mouse beginning to let down its hair now that the cat has perished. They watch with some interest as she ‘vapes’ – Skelgill seems fascinated by the little puff of steam that disappears into the ether. There is a brief flutter of her eyelids – a glimpse of pleasure – and then she resumes her explanation. ‘A publisher has only a short window of time for each book to establish itself. These days, unless the author is famous – or infamous – it can be nigh-on impossible to achieve the level of coverage that will deliver profitability.’
‘A bit of a thankless task, then, madam?’
‘And a thankless taskmaster to boot, Inspector.’
Skelgill again resists any temptation he might feel to home in on the unpopularity of the late Rich Buckley. Instead, he picks up on the theme she has outlined.
‘In terms of publicity, madam, there was a woman on the retreat – quite a well-known book critic, I’m led to believe – Angela Cutting.’ He pauses to watch another puff of steam. ‘Would she be someone you dealt with?’
For a moment Constance Belgrave looks distinctly peeved.
‘Inspector, there were certain associates – perhaps those considered to be of a more senior level, or perhaps of a longer standing – that Mr Buckley kept to himself. I believe Angela Cutting fell into that category.’
‘So they did know one another?’
‘I am sure they did, yes.’
‘Do you know the extent to which they were in contact?’
She shakes her head and sucks in another shot of vaporised nicotine.
‘I was not privy to Mr Buckley’s diary – if indeed he kept one.’ She frowns censoriously. ‘But certainly he was no stranger to the extended lunch hour – several times some weeks.’
Skelgill raises his eyebrows, mirroring her disapproval.
‘There was some mention that Mr Buckley was interested in signing up the author Sarah Redmond?’
Skelgill leaves the question hanging.
‘Xara Redmond, Inspector.’
‘Aye – of course – the pen name.’
Now Constance Belgrave folds her arms, holding the cigarette against her left shoulder.
‘I should have thought that was very unlikely, Inspector.’
‘Why is that, madam?’
‘The scale of advances an author such as Xara Redmond could command would be beyond the resources of Rich Buckley Publishing – espec
ially under the current circumstances.’
Skelgill plays dumb.
‘The current circumstances, madam?’
The woman now seems to ride a little roller coaster of emotions – perhaps a surge of glee, followed by a braking realisation of disappointment.
‘Mr Buckley was in the midst of some very taxing divorce negotiations, Inspector – the financial implications, I understand, were putting considerable strains on the resources of the business.’
‘Did Mr Buckley tell you this?’
For moment she seems a little ashamed – as though she has betrayed a confidence that she ought not even to know. But then she is perhaps reminded that one can neither slander nor be rebuked by the dead, and she casts a hand in the general direction of what must have been Rich Buckley’s workstation.
‘When one person is talking loudly on the telephone, Inspector, the rest of us can overhear everything that passes.’
Skelgill nods – but rather than explore her revelation about finances, he picks up on what appears to be a little idiosyncrasy in her reasoning.
‘Madam, when you say “the rest of us” – I thought it was just yourself that worked here?’
‘Presently, that is correct, Inspector.’ Constance Belgrave creases her lips as if there is a bitter taste in her mouth. ‘But we chew up and spit out a constant stream of attractive young female interns.’
She rounds off this statement with a disapproving glance at DS Jones, who is diligently taking notes, and does not see that she has been unjustly targeted, simply for the crime of being an attractive young female – an impression perhaps compounded by her short skirt and low sitting position. Skelgill watches as Constance Belgrave draws rather more urgently upon the cigarette, and he reaches for his tea as if to create a lull in which the dust may settle.
‘If I understand you correctly, madam – are you saying that Mr Buckley was the cause of the, shall we say, high staff turnover?’
The woman regards him sharply, as if trying to discern whether he harbours predatory tendencies of a similar nature.
‘Certainly, Inspector.’
‘Do you have staff records of these, er... young ladies?’
‘We do not, Inspector.’ There is an angry edge now to her voice. ‘Since they were unpaid, there was little formal recruitment – just an ad placed on a local student jobs website – and a brief audition with Mr Buckley on the casting couch.’ She indicates the settee upon which Skelgill and DS Jones sit. ‘I think three months is the longest any individual has lasted during my tenure.’
Skelgill nods, and then frowns inquiringly.
‘Just to be specific, madam – what would you say were their main reasons for leaving?’
The woman is quick to reply, as if she has had the words stacked ready to topple from her tongue.
‘Primarily sexual harassment, Inspector.’ She stares indignantly at Skelgill, but then she looks away rather fretfully, as if – paradoxically – there is an element of her outrage that she herself never suffered such a fate. But the distraction is short lived, and she gathers her wits. ‘To that you can add Mr Buckley’s traits of arrogance, intolerance, miserliness, rudeness and a wholesale lack of empathy as far as other human beings were concerned.’
‘It must have been difficult for yourself, madam – were you not tempted to do something about it?’
She chooses to interpret the question in pragmatic terms.
‘It is not easy for a woman of my age to gain employment in a prestigious sector of the economy, Inspector.’ And with these words she seems to shrink, her shoulders to droop and the defiant façade to show cracks of vulnerability. She even allows a small sigh to escape from her compressed lips. ‘And I do love books.’
Skelgill nods several times, furrowing his brow in an intelligent way, as if he empathises in particular with her latter point.
‘I realise it’s early days, madam – but what do you anticipate will happen to the company?’
But now a flicker of surprise crosses her features.
‘Oh, I should imagine we shall be sold as a going concern – if nothing else the RBP brand has a strong identity.’ She indicates beyond the settee on which the detectives sit. Behind them, against the window, stands a cardboard unit that holds a stack of new paperbacks, all identical – there is a backboard with an enlarged photograph of the book, and it appears to be a prototype for a store display. ‘As well as our popular non-fiction list, we are outright market leaders in gay and lesbian fiction – and erotica.’
Skelgill cranes his neck, and squints into the bright sunny backdrop as though he is struggling to read the title – although it might be the somewhat lurid cover image that clamours for his attention. Just when it could be considered rather indecent to gaze any longer, he swivels back to face Constance Belgrave. He affects a vacant shake of the head.
‘I thought that kind of thing was all online these days, madam.’
She flashes him an old fashioned look – as though she suspects his naivety to be ingenuous.
‘The rehabilitation of the call girl and the social acceptability of sexual fantasies has led over the past decade to something of a mini boom in explicit belle lettres and bondage adventures, Inspector. We receive approximately three submissions per week in which a carnally repressed college student cavorts with an over-sexed American billionaire. The agents have given up on it, but hopeful authors keep them coming.’ Now she gestures to a stack of unopened foolscap envelopes and A4-sized packages that rests with other items of mail and magazines upon a small table near the entrance. ‘There you see this week’s unsolicited manuscripts, and it is only Tuesday.’
Skelgill gazes at the pile for a moment.
‘What do you do with them?’
‘Mr Buckley would glance through them. If there is return postage we send them back with a standard rejection letter.’
‘All of them?’
She shakes her head.
‘He would pick out half a dozen every week. It would be the job of the intern to review them and present a critique of each to him. Of course – how could a raw undergraduate possibly know his mind? So then he would slap them down. Tear apart their reviews. Interrogate them on what they thought of the explicit passages. A thoroughly humiliating ritual. It clearly served some perverse purpose of his – although we never took on a new author that way.’
Skelgill nods pensively.
‘You mentioned the agents – there was one on the retreat with Mr Buckley – called Dickie Lampray – are you familiar with him?’
The woman nods, although she exhibits no sign that his name holds particular significance.
‘Yes – we published an anthology by one of his authors earlier in the year – a summer read supposedly – Bondage Shorts it was called.’ She glances at the nearest unit of shelves, peering through her polished lenses, as if she expects the book to be in that section, but after a moment she gives up. ‘Why we took it on, I don’t know – the writing was of an abominably poor standard and the BDSM scenes positively toe-curling.’
It must seem contradictory to the two detectives, to hear these words uttered so matter-of-factly by the severe-looking, prim and proper middle-aged woman. They might be forgiven for wondering if she perhaps leads a double life, and – once in the privacy of her own home – casts off her staid outer garments, dons the outfit of a dominatrix, and descends into a concealed dungeon equipped accordingly. Whether such thoughts tumble across the plains of Skelgill’s mind it is impossible to know, though he spends a few moments wandering in reverie before he returns to the matter in hand.
‘And, er... Mr Lampray – was his relationship with Mr Buckley – or the firm – any different to those other agents you dealt with?’
The woman considers for a moment, but then she shakes her head.
‘Not that I am aware of, Inspector – as I mentioned, Mr Buckley tended to keep his business relationships to himself – I had no involvement with the contracts that were dra
wn up – and we publish around one hundred books per year – so each one of those could theoretically be represented by a different agent.’
DS Jones has placed some papers between herself and Skelgill, on the surface of the coffee table. The top sheet lists the names and occupations of the members of the retreat (the would-be authors simply classified as ‘writers’, along with Sarah Redmond). Skelgill picks it up and hands it to Constance Belgrave.
‘Apart from those we’ve mentioned, are any of these people familiar to you?’
The woman’s spectacles are bifocals, and she stares down past the aquiline nose like a hawk surveying potential prey. But she shakes her head and returns the page.
‘Sarah Redmond is the only author of whom I have heard, Inspector.’
Skelgill fans the page in the air between them.
‘The others are all hopefuls, I understand, madam.’ He replaces the paper on the table and takes the opportunity to scoop a chocolate digestive from the communal plate. ‘So far we’ve been unable to trace the company that organised the retreat – we were hoping there may be some correspondence here among Mr Buckley’s admin.’
‘Unfortunately his email is password protected, Inspector.’ Her sallow complexion appears to colour a little at this admission, and she quickly adds an explanation. ‘I have already had cause to check – in an effort to resolve an inquiry yesterday from one of our book trade customers.’
Skelgill looks as though he understands entirely the need to investigate someone else’s private email account.
‘How about his desk – maybe there’s a letter or something?’
‘His desk is also locked.’ But now she glances furtively between the two detectives. ‘There is a spare key.’
‘You know where it’s kept?’
She nods; the blush around her cheeks diminishes, perhaps as she realises that in police work ends justify means.
‘He made it rather obvious on a number of occasions – he was rather careless with leaving his own keys lying randomly about the office and had a spare set to take out when he couldn’t find them.’
Murder on the Lake (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 4) Page 11
