Murder on the Lake (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 4)

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘He was pointing a knife at me, Leyton – he’s lucky I had to chase his hoppo – else that’s not all I’d have caved in.’

  12. DS LEYTON’S FINDINGS – Tuesday 6 p.m.

  Skelgill’s strategy for the three-hour return journey to Penrith is to occupy a table in the dining car, ostensibly on the grounds that this will guarantee a degree of privacy. His subordinates will no doubt suspect, however, that this stone is cast at two birds, the second of which to be served upon a plate in the form of a handy chicken dinner. It being late October – indeed Halloween falls on the forthcoming Friday, and British Summer Time ended whilst Skelgill was deep in slumber on Grisholm – sundown is presently occurring around the four-thirty p.m. mark, and thus the train sets off to the neon-streaked but otherwise invisible backdrop of London’s dense northern suburbs and over-populated home counties. Soon it will pass into the darker realms of the East and West Midlands’ borderlands, before slicing through the Cheshire-Lancashire urban plain, and finally slipping into the velvety blackness of Cumbria’s fellsides. Lacking external distractions, and despite the obvious fatigue that can be a function solely of travelling – never mind the sustained concentration required for interviewing – all three detectives appear keen to deal with work matters. Thus, Skelgill and DS Jones attend to DS Leyton as he begins to recount his visits to Grisholm Hall’s property agents, Rich Buckley’s general practitioner and – firstly – the recently widowed Mrs Myra Buckley.

  ‘Worth a bob or two, that’s for sure, Guv – my old man always used to say, if there’s a cedar in the garden, there’s a monkey in the bank.’

  ‘A monkey?’ DS Jones produces a bemused grin.

  ‘Five hundred nicker, girl – in those days that was a lot of bread and honey.’

  Skelgill scowls.

  ‘A day in London and you’re regressing into a Cockney, Leyton.’

  ‘You know what they say, Guv – you can take the boy out of the East End.’

  ‘Aye – well let’s have it in plain English now we’re north of Watford.’

  DS Leyton makes an acquiescent shrug of the shoulders, although it is doubtful this rebuke will censor his vocabulary.

  ‘Right, Guv – anyway – big old detached house, Elizabethan style – must have a couple of acres of garden – new BM Dub in the drive.’

  Skelgill glances at DS Jones. She nods to confirm her understanding that this means BMW.

  ‘What about the wife?’

  ‘I’d say business as usual, Guv.’ DS Leyton glances phlegmatically at his notebook. ‘I started by explaining about the Coroner and offering our condolences – and she told me straight out about the divorce – I didn’t even have to raise it.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘That she assumed we knew – she didn’t ask how. I said we did. She said she obviously felt a bit shocked when she heard about his sudden death, but that she couldn’t honestly say she was devastated – “Not a nice man”, she said.’

  ‘Did she elaborate?’

  DS Leyton tilts his head from one side to the other.

  ‘Nah, Guv – I asked her what she meant and she kind of switched it over to the business side. She said he was ruthless and the gentlemen in the book trade weren’t a match for him – that’s why he was successful – plus he had no scruples peddling soft porn.’

  ‘Her words?’

  ‘Give or take, Guv.’

  ‘What about family?’

  DS Leyton shakes his head decisively, and his fleshy jowls tremble.

  ‘None to speak of, Guv – at least, they don’t have kids. Married seven years – she’s quite a bit younger than him. He’s got no previous family – she’s got a grown-up child from a former relationship, that she had young and was brought up by the father. Buckley was an only child and his parents have passed away. She said he’d been married twice before, though – but had no contact with either of his exes as far as she knows.’

  ‘Did she ask about the funeral?’

  ‘I had to prompt her, Guv. I explained the Coroner has to release the body – but it didn’t seem like it was top of her action list – she was togged up as if she was about to go horse riding.’

  Skelgill purses his lips.

  ‘This corresponds to what we’ve been hearing about Buckley.’ He glances at DS Jones who nods in agreement. ‘Especially from his secretary.’

  ‘Right, Guv – well, I asked her about the financial situation, and she claimed she had no idea how the business was doing – she said she had no involvement, and he didn’t speak about it.’ DS Leyton runs a finger around inside his shirt collar, as though the heat of the carriage is bothering him. ‘She didn’t seem too fussed, Guv – she says it's a Limited Company and Buckley was the sole Director – seems like she’s insulated from any debts.’

  Skelgill is absently feeling the cut on his temple.

  ‘She knows enough, then.’

  DS Jones is nodding.

  ‘I bet they had the house in her name, Guv – just as a precaution. It’s a popular arrangement to protect against negligence claims. Except that would have put her in the box seat in any negotiations between lawyers. And now she’ll presumably inherit the shareholding – it could be valuable – if Constance Belgrave is right and the business is making a trading profit.’

  Skelgill and DS Leyton appear surprised by her succinct analysis. Skelgill raises an eyebrow, while DS Leyton bows in her direction before he continues.

  ‘I asked her if she thought he was the suicidal type – she said he was moody, but that he was far too self important ever to admit anything was his fault. She reckoned he’d be the last person to kill himself.’

  ‘How about the medication?’

  DS Leyton shakes his head.

  ‘Nothing that she knows of. She said since we’d been in touch she’s checked all his cupboards and drawers and there’s no trace of anything. She thought hangovers were his only ailment.’

  Skelgill glances at DS Jones. She reaches into her attaché case and brings out the evidence bag containing the packet of tablets.

  ‘We found these in his office.’

  DS Leyton leans forward with interest.

  ‘Maybe that’s the answer, keep it at work – if he didn’t want her indoors to know – perhaps he was embarrassed.’ Now he contrives a rather helpless expression. ‘You know how the missus always finds out about everything?’

  Skelgill and DS Jones look like they don’t, but humour him with weak smiles. DS Jones returns the medication to her bag. Skelgill casts a hand vaguely into space.

  ‘What was she like?’

  ‘Pretty fit, Guv – small, slim, young-looking for forties – blonde – though you never know at first with blondes, do you?’

  DS Jones lets out an involuntary giggle and subconsciously reaches for her own hair, which is shoulder length and a naturally streaked amalgam of fair and light brown. DS Leyton appears suddenly ill at ease.

  ‘Sorry, Emma – I didn’t mean...’

  But Skelgill intervenes.

  ‘Leyton – neither did I – not what she looks like – what she’s like – her personality?’

  ‘Oh – sorry, Guv.’ He shakes his head in self reprimand. ‘I’d say pretty cold, actually, Guv. Has a kind of way of looking at you as though she can’t be bothered with you – got her own little agenda going on.’ He shrugs. ‘She never offered me a drink or nothing – at least, not until I was about to go – and then she said she’d only got Earl Grey, and I remembered what you’d said about it, Guv – so I gave it a miss.’

  ‘Good for you, Leyton.’ Skelgill’s features remain implacable, in the way of someone fighting back a pressing twitch. ‘What does she do – has she got a job?’

  ‘She works part-time in a kindergarten in –’ (DS Leyton consults his notes) ‘ – in Eton Wick, Guv. Three mornings a week, she says. Not doing it for the money, I don’t reckon.’

  Skelgill nods.

  ‘What’s your gut feel?’
>
  DS Leyton shakes his head.

  ‘If she was holding out on us, Guv – I’d say it wasn’t about Rich Buckley’s death. I kind of touched on why they were getting divorced, and she definitely didn’t want to talk about that – just said it was by mutual consent. I did notice a guy pull up outside in a Range Rover while I was waiting for the taxi. He sat in the car on his phone for as long as I was there. Pretended he hadn’t noticed me.’

  ‘Maybe the riding instructor, Leyton.’

  DS Leyton glances at his superior and then furtively at DS Jones, as if he is trying to determine what is an acceptable level of innuendo at this juncture. But since they are both rather non-committal he continues.

  ‘I was trying to work out, Guv – usually there’s one party more to blame than the other – and she wasn’t slow to slag off Buckley – I wondered if maybe she’d got something on him, was forcing his hand.’

  Skelgill folds his arms and furrows his brow.

  ‘Aye, well – according to his secretary, he wasn’t too happy with the way things were panning out. Did you ask about his extra-curricular activities?’

  ‘In a roundabout way, Guv – I tried – but she wasn’t having any of it – I think she’s twigged she’s just won the lottery and ain’t going to upset the applecart – all she’d say was that if he did have any vices he didn’t bring them home – but that he wasn’t home a great deal, anyway.’

  Skelgill picks up the menu card and taps it several times on the formica of the table. Then he leans out into the aisle and glares impatiently down the train. As yet, there has been no sign of a waiter.

  ‘This is not the service I’m accustomed to.’

  DS Jones grins – she guesses he refers to his lunchtime assignation with Angela Cutting.

  ‘Why don’t I go and get us some teas from the buffet counter?’

  Skelgill is quick to accept.

  ‘Good thinking, Jones – see what snacks they’ve got while you’re at it.’

  He rises and steps away from their seat to let her out, and then occupies her position beside the window. For a few moments he presses his forehead against the glass – the dim lights of a rural station flash by, but it is impossible to read the signs at 125 mph and he returns his attention to DS Leyton.

  ‘So what did Buckley’s doctor have to say?’

  ‘I couldn’t get an appointment, Guv – three weeks was the first he could do.’

  ‘What?’

  Though Skelgill speaks quietly he sounds mildly enraged. DS Leyton chuckles.

  ‘Only joking, Guv – you know what it’s like.’

  ‘Very funny, Leyton.’

  ‘Nothing to add, really, Guv – I think our boys got all there was when they phoned him in the first place. He said the last time he’d prescribed any medication for Buckley was three years ago, and that was for a fungal toenail infection. He’d had one of those private medicals last January and the GP had been sent a copy of the report – he said he’d double checked that and there was nothing significant – a minor blood problem,’ (here DS Leyton refers to his notes) ‘slightly high uric acid level, probably from drinking too much red wine – causes gout, apparently, Guv.’

  Skelgill shrugs and appears only vaguely interested. Then he is distracted altogether as DS Jones reappears, empty-handed.

  ‘It’s closed at the moment, Guv – they’ve got some sort of electrical problem – they’ve shut the buffet counter and the kitchen – they’re hoping to get an engineer on board at Crewe.’

  Skelgill glowers irritably.

  ‘Might have to make a dash for a kiosk when we stop.’

  DS Leyton frowns.

  ‘It’s a bit risky, Guv – what if you didn’t get back on board in time?’

  Skelgill smiles candidly.

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of being the one fetching the scran, Leyton.’

  DS Leyton pulls his head into his broad shoulders, rather like an old tortoise that is accustomed to taking regular self-preservation measures.

  ‘Right, Guv.’ He swallows and then suddenly perks up. ‘I suppose, looking on the bright side, if you were stranded at least you’d have three burgers for company.’

  Skelgill frowns his disapproval, as though he has not considered this eventuality. He points to DS Leyton’s notebook.

  ‘Anyway – carry on Leyton. You’ve not missed anything, Jones.’

  ‘That’s it for the doctor, Guv – then I went back into town to the property agents. Eventually I found this tiny little place down an alley just off Piccadilly. It was like walking into a Dickens novel – what with a decrepit old geezer in the darkest corner and hardly any lights on – I tripped over a Labrador lying in the middle of the floor.’

  ‘That’d be the dog you mentioned – does the admin.’

  DS Leyton laughs, as he recalls his original assessment.

  ‘So it would, Guv – wish I’d thought of that – reckon I’d have got more sense out of it than old Ebenezer himself behind the counter.’

  ‘This doesn’t sound promising, Leyton.’

  ‘Like drawing teeth, Guv.’ DS Leyton puffs out his cheeks in recollection of the ordeal. ‘And top line is we’re no further forward. They rent out Grisholm Hall for house-party weekends and corporate junkets. They’ve got a little crew of locals that stock it up and do the cleaning and maintenance – according to what’s needed. They took a booking from Wordsworth Writers’ Retreats about two months ago – he thinks by email but he couldn’t find it – the computer looks like something out of a black-and-white episode of Doctor Who. They received a down payment by cheque seven days in advance of the entry date.’

  ‘How much for?’

  ‘Three grand, Guv – to cover the food and drink, mainly.’

  ‘Have they got the cheque?’

  DS Leyton shakes his head dejectedly.

  ‘Nor a copy of it, Guv. With it being near the end of the month they’ve posted a whole batch off to the bank – so they don’t even know if it’s going to clear – never mind whether it’s bona fide.’

  ‘Was it an account in the company name?’

  ‘He can’t recall, Guv – he’d actually forgotten I was coming, and he was struggling to remember where Grisholm Hall is – they’ve got hundreds of properties on their books – cowsheds and cottages and castles on country estates from John’s End to Land O’Groats.’

  DS Jones once more giggles involuntarily, and DS Leyton looks puzzled – until he mouths the phrase again and hears his transposition error.

  ‘It might as well be that, for all the use they were.’ He picks up his notebook and then lets it drop back down upon the table. ‘I’ve put one of the lads onto contacting the bank, but they’re saying three to five days before the cheque comes out in the wash.’

  Skelgill folds his arms and looks decidedly frustrated. DS Jones makes an effort to rally their spirits.

  ‘We’ve still got three interviews to do, Guv.’

  Skelgill stares out into the black void beyond the window and slowly shakes his head.

  ‘I’m concerned by how little we’ve found out.’

  His subordinates sit uneasily for a moment, perhaps trying to read his mood. After a few seconds DS Leyton speaks in a consoling tone.

  ‘Maybe there is nothing, Guv?’

  Skelgill gives no visible indication of whether he agrees or disagrees with this idea.

  ‘It’s like the bloody Loch Ness monster – how do you prove a negative? You can’t. Until we bottom this business of the retreats company, we’re in limbo. The economics of it don’t stack up – but that doesn’t mean it’s not genuine. If we knew it was bogus – and had some inkling of who was behind it – we’d know what we’re looking for. In the meantime, we’re guddling around in the dark.’ He turns back and looks first at DS Leyton and then at DS Jones. ‘Has one of these people got something to hide – or are they perfectly normal innocent human beings? Aye – a couple of them have been a bit cagey – but there’s not one obv
ious lie – and we all know what folk can be like when the Old Bill turns up.’

  DS Leyton is nodding sympathetically.

  ‘I know what you mean, Guv – only takes the missus to start on me and I confess to things I’ve not even dreamt of.’

  Skelgill looks coldly at his sergeant and DS Jones is obliged to disguise a snigger as a sudden cough. Skelgill continues unprompted.

  ‘And if there were some bedtime shenanigans – why would you admit it? Especially if the other party is dead.’

  DS Leyton appears still to be out of step with the rhetorical nature of his superior officer’s monologue.

  ‘Who’s not got a skeleton in their closet, Guv?’

  Skelgill is evidently not listening. He gazes down the carriage and speaks in the manner of someone talking into the clip-on microphone of a mobile telephone.

  ‘Logic says the start point must be Rich Buckley. His secretary tells us he was a sexist boor, he harassed and humiliated female interns, he was miserly, and he was in the middle of an acrimonious divorce. “A thoroughly unpleasant man,” she said. “Not a nice man” – from his wife. To some extent, that’s what we’ve heard from Lucy Hecate and Burt Boston. But... he already knew Dickie Lampray and Angela Cutting – and the pair of them have played down these bad reports. So why is that?’

  DS Jones coughs again – although this time she clears her throat in a way that signals an intervention.

  ‘He obviously had a direct business relationship with Dickie Lampray, Guv – and perhaps there was something similar with Angela Cutting?’

  Skelgill stares at her, an expression of doubt clouding his features.

  ‘So what?’

  DS Jones hesitates – as though she hasn’t really got a clear answer to this.

  ‘Maybe if they had something to protect, or that they didn’t want made public – they would try to deflect things away from an investigation into the publishing firm?’

  Skelgill shrugs listlessly.

  ‘Aye – it’s possible – that’s all very well – but take things on a step or two – why would they want to see him disappear from the scene? He’s the kingpin that keeps the likes of them in a job.’