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

by Bruce Beckham

  Of course, this is something of a sweeping statement – RBP is just one of many fish in the publishing ocean, and a minnow at that – at least by international standards. It seems that Skelgill – to paraphrase his own angling metaphor of a few moments earlier – is for the time being casting aimlessly. However, this may be no bad thing; as DS Jones alluded to with regard to the solving of crossword puzzles, the hopeful charge down a blind alley is the first sign that the subconscious has detected an as-yet indefinable pattern. Indeed, while the little group ponders, it falls to DS Leyton to iterate this conundrum.

  ‘What we need are connections, Guv.’ He throws his hands apart and then clasps them together in mid air, shaking them symbolically. ‘Like Harry Cobble finding your boat.’

  Skelgill looks irked.

  ‘That’s not a connection, Leyton – that’s a coincidence – life’s full of them – I’ve had a hatful today.’

  DSL looks surprised. ‘Really, Guv?’

  Skelgill begins ostentatiously to count on his fingers.

  ‘For one, I woke up and saw a pelican – how often do you do that, Leyton?’

  ‘Er, not very often, Guv – never really, I suppose.’

  ‘Couple of hours later and Jones here solves a clue in Dickie Lampray’s crossword.’

  He stares at DS Jones. She understands she is to answer.

  ‘Pelican, Guv.’

  Skelgill glares at DS Leyton.

  ‘Now, Leyton – that doesn’t make Dickie Lampray one iota more suspicious, does it?’

  ‘True enough, Guv.’ He screws up his features rather grudgingly. ‘Though there’s some would say it was a sign.’

  Skelgill scoffs.

  ‘Next I call upon Angela Cutting. Where do I work?’

  ‘You, Guv?’

  Skelgill stares defiantly at his sergeant. He is clearly determined to play out this game. DS Leyton relents.

  ‘Cumbria, Guv – we all do.’

  ‘Excellent, Leyton. Cumbria – and the part of Cumbria that Penrith is in, in old money was known as?’

  DS Leyton shrugs and shakes his head.

  ‘Search me, Guv – I dunno, Scotland?’

  Skelgill’s stare becomes a glare.

  ‘Leyton – I take it you failed geography and history.’

  ‘And all the ologies, Guv.’

  Despite his uncompromising manner, Skelgill is forced to laugh. He looks to DS Jones to provide the solution.

  ‘Cumberland.’

  ‘Correct – and where does Angela Cutting live – but Cumberland Terrace. Does that make her any more suspicious? No. And it’s not a sign, Leyton. And finally, Angela Cutting takes me for lunch – she can’t possibly know where I’m going next – but what does she do – in the biggest city in the European Union she picks a restaurant that’s less than a minute’s walk from my next destination – Lucy Hecate’s flat. Does that make either of them any more suspicious?’

  By now DS Leyton is obediently shaking his head. But DS Jones seems tense and – in spite of Skelgill’s mini-tirade – readies herself to speak.’

  ‘Guv – Dickie Lampray had that photograph with him and Rich Buckley in it.’

  Skelgill flips the palms of his hands towards her.

  ‘And that – ladies and gentleman – is a connection, although – as I said a few moments ago – if it’s the best we’ve got we’re up the creek. We could pick a bunch of randomers and find they’ve got more in common than this lot.’

  For a minute or two the trio sits in dissatisfied silence, until DS Leyton rather glumly offers a suggestion.

  ‘So, do you think we should just wrap things up first knockings tomorrow, Guv? I can easy enough cancel the interviews.’

  However, despite Skelgill’s pessimistic assessment of their progress, DS Leyton’s proposition seems to find some objection within him. He leans his elbows on the table and lowers his chin broodingly upon the heels of his hands. He closes his eyes. Perhaps he rekindles the memories of his own experience on Grisholm, the mainstay of his determination thus far. After a few seconds he sits upright and shakes his head.

  ‘Ask me again after we’ve had a burger.’

  The other two laugh in a relieved manner, and relax into their seats. Skelgill does likewise, and runs his fingers through his hair and stretches his arms above his head, as though he is preparing to settle down for a nap.

  ‘I do have one unconnected question, Jones.’

  ‘Guv?’

  ‘What was the clue if the answer was pelican?’

  DS Jones’s full lips stretch into a satisfied grin.

  ‘I’ll trade you, Guv – if you tell me what you called Miss Trimble.’

  13. Ms J SMITH – Wednesday 8:00 a.m.

  In order efficiently to mop up the three outstanding interviews with members of the Grisholm retreat Skelgill has decreed that DS Jones will meet Dr Gerald Bond and DS Leyton Linda Gray – both of these relatively local affairs in Cumbria – while he shall undertake the two hundred mile round-trip to Edinburgh to visit Sarah Redmond. The cynic might speculate that this allocation has something to do with the fact that Skelgill has got to know each of the candidates, and is expressing some personal preference – although an equally robust hypothesis might identify the opportunity such a trip provides to inspect various fishing haunts, the route intersecting as it does the Esk and the Eden in England, before picking up the source of the Tweed in the Scottish Borders and following its course for some twenty miles, and subsequently crossing smaller but no less interesting waters such as the Tarth and the North Esk. Certainly, Skelgill has planned to delay his departure until around eight a.m., when it will be fully light, and angling reconnaissance optimised. His appointment with Sarah Redmond is scheduled for eleven a.m. at her apartment in the Scottish capital.

  However, a salient item of news reached the weary detectives during the latter half of their train journey yesterday evening, and this has impacted upon Skelgill’s itinerary. The credit card in the name ‘Ms J Smith’ found among the late Bella Mandrake’s personal possessions has been traced to an address in Leith, the ancient port town on the Firth of Forth, where a teenage Mary Queen of Scots landed to reclaim her throne in 1561, and which today is contiguous with greater Edinburgh. The local Scottish police have identified a rented property, and access arrangements have been made through the factor. Thus Skelgill sets off in darkness at six a.m., for a rendezvous with his regular contact for such cross-border affairs, DS Cameron Findlay.

  Some two hours later they meet near DS Findlay’s home in the western Edinburgh suburb of Corstorphine (one of Scotland’s many unpronounceable place-names – Kus-tor-fin being a near-enough rendition, with the stress on the middle syllable), where Skelgill leaves his car at a large chain hotel near the zoological gardens. DS Findlay has thoughtfully furnished them with takeaway coffees, and the pair catches up on various matters as they cross the city. Edinburgh’s rush hour is a peculiar affair, and mainly takes place between 08:20 and 08:40 during term-times only, when thousands of affluent parents in oversized vehicles deliver their small (and not so small) charges to the illustrious private schools that serve their particular dynasties. DS Findlay’s suggestion of meeting at eight a.m. has served to position them ahead of this unruly tsunami of traffic, and they move steadily as they set out to cover the remaining five miles of Skelgill’s journey.

  Their route from the zoo in Corstorphine passes the great rugby stadium in the adjoining Murrayfield district, where understated Edwardian terraces house much of Scotland’s legal profession, to Roseburn (crossing the Water of Leith) where DS Findlay makes a dog-leg through a semi-industrial area of delivery depots and working men’s clubs and blackened stone railway bridges. They skirt past Tynecastle, home of the ‘Jam Tarts’ (Heart of Midlothian FC), and pick up the old Caledonian Railway line, now a motorised highway that cuts into the city centre. Lothian Road, the Grassmarket, Cowgate and Canongate bring them to Holyrood, where the palace and the parliament glower at
one another across centuries of antipathy. Here, too, there is the sudden shock of the park, with its mini-mountains and thrusting volcanic escarpments that make Edinburgh the ‘Rio of Europe’, and St Margaret’s Loch where wintering wild ducks patiently await the arrival of mums and toddlers, and unsuitable food in the form of artificially coloured extruded snacks. Exiting Holyrood Park they dip down into an area less familiar to Skelgill – though between the blocks of drab post-war tenements he gains glimpses of Meadowbank stadium and the green-and-white painted Hibernian FC ground at Easter Road. There is a haar sliding in off the North Sea, and the very tops of the pylons that bear the floodlights for these gladiatorial arenas are dissolved in the brackish mist. Skelgill might be a little disoriented, but DS Findlay’s superior local knowledge has served them well and, just fifteen minutes after their departure, they slide into the southern fringe of Leith, by one of its lesser-known access roads.

  ‘Glad to see the old radar’s still in working order.’

  ‘This is Roadworks City, Danny – use the satnav and you never get anywhere on time, if ever.’

  Skelgill grunts his agreement, and again more vocally as DS Findlay without warning swings the car beneath an archway that separates two five-storey stone buildings. He conducts them along a narrow cobbled thoroughfare that opens on the right into a yard some eighty feet by forty. Their surroundings give the impression of a bonded warehouse – and, indeed, that was its original purpose. Today, like almost all that survive of Leith’s hundred-odd nineteenth century whisky repositories, it is converted into flats. And here, in Constitution Street, they hope to unravel the mystery of ‘Ms J Smith’. DS Findlay nudges the marked police car into an empty resident’s parking bay and applies the handbrake with a flourish.

  ‘Welcome to Leith – did ye ken, the first penguins for Edinburgh Zoo were brought ashore here by the whalers over a century ago?’

  Skelgill shakes his head and chuckles.

  ‘That’s what it is – remember last time I saw you – I told you there’s a career waiting for you as a tour guide.’

  ‘Och, aye – but they’d never let me loose with the double-decker bus, Danny.’

  Skelgill ducks out of the vehicle and together they saunter across to the entrance of the stair. Though the building is Victorian, it has been renovated from a gutted shell, and its main door, sash windows and communal post-box unit are fashioned of modern materials and uniformly painted in an agreeable olive green. The cobbled yard is tidy and litter-free, and the stone edifice itself has been pressure-washed and belies its age. Skelgill looks about appreciatively, and is only distracted when the laughing cry of a Herring Gull causes him to glance skywards. The large grey scavenger bends like an iron bar against the irresistible easterly, and wheels away out of sight.

  ‘Sounds like we’re beside the seaside.’

  ‘A good stone’s throw would do it, Danny.’

  Skelgill nods.

  ‘Nice job they’ve made of these flats.’

  ‘Aye – and, according to the records they were converted above ten years ago.’

  ‘They look as good as new.’

  ‘That’s the benefit of having a factor – they collect in the money and make sure all the repairs are done.’

  Skelgill has moved across to inspect the mailboxes. The gabled unit is fixed to the pale sandstone wall of the property. There are twenty-four numbered doors, each with an aluminium letterbox and an individual lock.

  ‘Do you have a key for these, Cam?’

  DS Findlay fishes out a jangling bunch from his jacket pocket. With his thick fingers he separates them into a little fan and squints determinedly.’

  ‘Aye – maybe this long thin yin.’ He approaches the unit. ‘Flat eleven, now.’

  The key turns the lock but the plywood door is recalcitrant, perhaps a shade warped, and requires a sharp tug to open. He stands back and gestures to Skelgill that he should go ahead.

  ‘Be my guest.’

  The interior of the box – measuring about eight inches tall by eighteen wide and the same in depth – is jammed full of envelopes and flyers. The first impression is that it has not been emptied for some time, but as Skelgill pulls out an armful and begins to sift through, it becomes clear that one or more enterprising leaflet-distributors have taken the opportunity to divest themselves of their stocks, for there are multiple repeats advertising unmissable pizza deals, takeaway restaurants, window and rhone cleaning, and superfast broadband.

  ‘It’s all junk mail, Cam – no wait – look at this.’

  He swivels at the waist to show DS Findlay a large manila envelope that he has uncovered about halfway down the pile. DS Findlay appears perplexed.

  ‘Bella Mandrake? I thought we were looking for a Jane Smith?’

  ‘Bella Mandrake’s her pseudonym – pen name, stage name, or whatever. It means you’ve brought me to the right place, Cam.’

  DS Findlay contrives a severe expression.

  ‘You’re dealing with Police Scotland, now, laddie – none of your Sassenach amateurs.’

  Skelgill pretends to be offended.

  ‘I take it you don’t include Cumbria in that definition?’

  ‘Och, no – you Geordies are just like us... gie or tak a sense o’ humour.’

  DS Findlay has a glint in his eye – this is not the first time he has, perhaps mischievously, misplaced Skelgill’s provenance – and his strait-laced joshing is sufficiently endearing to pass muster. Skelgill stuffs the bundle of mail under his arm and closes the door of the box with a firm shove.

  ‘Come on, let’s have a gander inside – I’ll sort this lot later.’

  They approach the entrance and DS Findlay successfully matches one of the keys on his loaned bunch to the brand name on the lock at the first attempt. Unlike a typical Edinburgh tenement there is a modern feel; the stair is light and airy, with brushed steel handrails, freshly emulsioned white walls, grey marble-effect linoleum and the smell of recently applied lemon-scented floor-cleaner. However, it is not this pleasing combination of features that causes the detectives to pause on entry, but a large tabby cat that eyes them from the head of the first flight of stairs. Skelgill makes a kissing sound by sucking air between his lips, upon which the animal turns and disappears from sight. He shrugs and they begin to climb, Skelgill holding back so as not to outpace the older, bulkier man. Two flights separate each landing, and DS Findlay is panting heavily by the time they reach the third floor, where they spy the number eleven on a door at the end of a short corridor to their right.

  ‘It’s a wee while since I climbed my last Munro, Danny.’

  Skelgill grins affably.

  ‘You should get the missus down to the Lakes for a weekend – I’ll point you in the direction of a couple of decent walks.’

  ‘A couple of decent pubs might be more the ticket.’

  ‘Aye, we’ve plenty of them, too.’

  Skelgill moves aside to allow DS Findlay to tackle the front door. There are two separate mortise locks, and he has to try both of these – one is for the landlord’s use between lets and has not been engaged – but the brass keys are almost identical. The door opens into a narrow hallway about twenty feet long, and the immediate impression is of a householder who has decamped from a larger, older-style property. A mahogany sideboard blocks half the width of the passage, and oversized landscape paintings and an ornately framed mirror are too big for the walls and the low ceiling. The air is stale and cloying, hanging with an invisible mist of lavender-scented talcum powder. They pass an internal bathroom on the right, gaining glimpses of a sizeable collection of toiletries, and ahead of them a small bedroom: lacking a bed but crowded with wardrobes, a dresser – itself stacked with an array of cosmetics – and a writing bureau with an upright chair set before the window. The corridor turns sharp right and passes a second bedroom adjacent to the first (this one housing a double bed, an elaborate affair with a carved oak headboard and footboard, that dominates the cramped space), bef
ore opening into a larger room that is an all-in-one kitchen, diner and lounge. It is situated at the corner of the building, overlooking the cobbled lane and yard, and has good natural light from windows on two sides, and a set of French doors that open onto the tiniest of balconies, really nothing more than a broad sill enclosed by a safety rail. The fitted kitchen is entirely modern, and clashes rather with a teak Jacobean-style dining table and chairs. The lounge section into which it merges is, like the other rooms, fussily cluttered with elaborate ornaments and over-sized furniture, in particular a purple velvet upholstered chesterfield. Upon its nearest arm, resting in the heraldic pose known as couchant, is the tabby cat. Winking, it watches them warily.

  ‘Struth – how the deil did that get in here?’

  Skelgill shakes his head.

  ‘Maybe it’s a cat burglar?’

  DS Findlay lumbers back out into the corridor – he returns nodding his head.

  ‘There’s a cat-flap, Danny – it’s painted the same shade as the door – I didnae notice it.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  Skelgill meanwhile is making a second attempt to endear himself to the feline. It is a large, striking specimen, beautifully marked, and it seems well fed and quite at ease in these surroundings. He makes more pishing sounds, and this time the animal permits him to stroke it across the top of its head.

  ‘Looks like it’s home alone, Danny.’

  Skelgill nods. He leaves the animal – which rises into a sitting position – and checks about the room.

  ‘There’s no food or water – or litter tray.’

  ‘Maybe it belongs to someone else in the block – it could be just visiting. Or maybe a neighbour’s feeding it. When did the woman leave here?’

  Skelgill purses his lips.

  ‘It would be about a week ago, Cam. I think you must be right.’

  ‘Well it seems happy enough.’

  ‘Aye.’ Skelgill shrugs and moves across to the French doors, from where he can just glimpse DS Findlay’s car in the yard below.