‘So what are we looking for, Danny?’
Skelgill turns to face his colleague. He puts his hands on his hips in a purposeful fashion.
‘Identity’s the main thing – Ms Jane Smith, if that’s who she is – next of kin, first and foremost. Relatives, friends – details of her GP would be handy. Also any medicine that’s kicking about.’
‘The report I received from your boys suggested the case wasn’t suspicious.’
‘Aye, well – I’m suspicious, Cam.’
DS Findlay nods, his features assuming an even more grim set than is his natural demeanour.
‘What about that mail? It’s usually a good bet.’
Skelgill has left the contents of the mailbox on the dining table. They move across together. DS Findlay begins sorting through the main heap, extracting bills and suchlike. Skelgill, however, examines the brown foolscap envelope marked for the attention of Bella Mandrake. The name and address is written in a flowery, feminine hand, and the contents weigh heavily in his hands.
‘Cam – these are Scottish stamps aren’t they?’
Without his reading glasses DS Findlay has to lean away, but he nods in the affirmative.
‘Aye, they are that.’
‘It’s postmarked London. I think I know what this is.’
‘Exciting?’
‘Not exactly – but it’s just given me an idea.’
Skelgill crosses to the kitchen units and pulls open a drawer. His first guess is correct and he finds a small vegetable knife. Watched by DS Findlay he slits the package and extracts its contents, a uniform sheaf of A4 papers with a compliments slip clipped to the front. He reads the typed message and then hands the bundle to DS Findlay, who this time reaches inside his jacket for his spectacles case. Thus armed, he reads aloud.
‘It’s from Romance Publishing. “Dear Ms Mandrake, thank you for your submission of the synopsis and opening three chapters of your romantic thriller, Head over Heart in Love. While it features distinctive characters and an imaginative plot, unfortunately this is not quite right for our list at this time. We wish you good luck in placing it elsewhere. We are returning your materials in the SAE you provided.” It’s a Dear John letter, Danny.’
‘Aye – Dear Jane in this case.’
DS Findlay returns the papers to Skelgill.
‘So what’s your big idea?’
Skelgill holds up a palm, evidently wishing to play down DS Findlay’s hyperbole.
‘Not exactly big – but let’s have a look at that box room.’
They file out into the hallway and squeeze between the oppressive furniture of the smaller of the two bedrooms. The talc-scented ambience grows more oppressive. Skelgill opens one of the wardrobes to reveal a rail crammed with ballgown-like dresses, beneath which are new-looking shoes with stiletto heels arranged upon little stacks of paperback novels. There is Daphne du Maurier, Catherine Cookson and Barbara Cartland, and heaps of Mills & Boon. He closes the door and steps over to the bureau – and then with a start he recoils: the cat has installed itself upon the chair.
‘Think it’s trying to tell us something, Cam?’
DS Findlay has opened a drawer of the dresser, but the contents – elaborate underwear – seem uninteresting and he slides it shut, although only with some difficulty and the loud screech of wood on wood vexes the cat, which leaps from the chair and darts out of the room.
‘Maybe it’s just taken a shine to you, Danny – I’ve heard cats can spot a fisherman a mile off.’
‘Smell ‘em more like.’ Skelgill is nothing if not pragmatic. He raises an arm and sniffs the sleeve of his jacket. ‘I accidentally had this lying on a landing net in the back of my motor.’
DS Findlay chuckles and gestures to the bottles and potions that crowd the dresser.
‘There’s plenty of perfume if you want something to mask it.’
Skelgill raises an ironic eyebrow.
‘No sleeping pills, though?’
DS Findlay inclines his head towards the door.
‘I’ll have a look and see if there’s a cabinet in the bathroom.’
Skelgill nods, then turns and squats down on his haunches and begins to investigate the drawers of the writing desk. The lower one contains unused papers and envelopes. The second, however, is packed with what appear to be the draft manuscripts of novels; on top of these on one side is a pink document folder. It bears the words ‘Bouquets & Brickbats’ written in the same extravagant hand as the self-addressed envelope, and is illustrated with little cartoon drawings of flowers and what might be the occasional piece of flying masonry. Skelgill stands up and places it upon the lowered flap of the bureau. The file contains some fifty or sixty typewritten letterheads and compliments slips, all from different senders. He reads the first, and then begins to flick through them with just a cursory glance at each, until he stops abruptly at what is perhaps the tenth document in the pile. The stiffening of his demeanour must be plain to the eye, for DS Findlay, who has stuck his head back around the door to convey some observation or other, remarks instead upon Skelgill’s reaction.
‘Found your big idea, Danny?’
Skelgill is still staring at the page, though his mind’s eye seems focused far away. After a moment’s silence he replies.
‘It could be what I’m looking for.’
‘What would that be?’
‘In a word – a connection.’
14. SARAH REDMOND – Wednesday 11:00 a.m.
Coincidences may not be connections in Skelgill’s book, but he must be cognisant of DS Leyton’s remark that some folk would consider them an omen, as he stands shivering on the steps beneath Sarah Redmond’s flat: in Cumberland Street. Located on the north side of Edinburgh’s New Town (the latter something of a misnomer, being, according to DS Findlay with his tour guide hat on, “The largest intact area of Georgian architecture in the world”), the east-west thoroughfare is perfectly aligned to channel the icy air that streams unhindered from the Skagerrak. Indeed, on reflection, given the prevailing conditions, simply getting off Cumberland Street is probably foremost in his mind at this moment.
The Leith address has yielded no further clues of significance – for instance no medicines beyond over-the-counter cold remedies, corn treatments, antiemetics, laxatives, and various homeopathic concoctions. Thus Skelgill has been dropped off by DS Findlay in order to conduct his scheduled eleven o’clock interview. The Scots sergeant, meanwhile, has continued on to police headquarters at ‘Letsby’ Avenue (Fettes, actually, but it is Skelgill’s little ongoing joke), to organise the tracing of Bella Mandrake’s next of kin and medical practitioner, procure a constable to knock-up the residents of the apartment block, and locate a suitable means for containing a cat in his office. Ah, the cat. Upon leaving the flats and returning to DS Findlay’s car, the two detectives discovered the creature once more demonstrating its elusive Pimpernel-like qualities as it apparently awaited them, resting upon the bonnet and perhaps enjoying what residual heat radiated from the engine beneath. Urged on by Skelgill, and despite protests that his ‘dug’ (a grizzled and pugnacious Border Terrier that rather resembles its master) “fair hates the wee deils”, DS Findlay has agreed – “temporarily, mind” – to take the feline into protective custody until background checks can be conducted. They parted with the plan that he would return at one p.m. and ferry Skelgill back to his car.
*
‘I didn’t realise you knew Ms Mandrake.’
Sarah Redmond’s electric-blue irises seem to enlarge, but this effect is in fact an illusion caused by the slight contraction of her pupils. It is an involuntary reflex that betrays an otherwise phlegmatic countenance.
‘Inspector, there is knowing and there is knowing.’
Skelgill tips his head to one side, inviting her to elaborate. He, too, perhaps is putting on a front, since his assertion is a shot in the dark.
They do not face one another, but sit just a little apart upon a large and accommodating sofa, of the kind that would be
referred to as a Davenport stateside. Sarah Redmond’s New Town flat – its sought-after location reflecting her writing success – is tastefully furnished, with magnificent Turkish rugs spread about the stripped and varnished floorboards, original artworks – a superb Bellany, for instance, a buoyant and bruising puce fishing boat that momentarily halted Skelgill’s progress – and original oak shutters folded back beside each of the long sash windows. Flames lick eagerly amidst a recently set fire of smokeless briquettes, drawn by the brisk easterly that skims the rooftops – but the centrally heated apartment is already comfortably warm. Indeed Sarah Redmond wears only a pair of faded blue figure-hugging stretch denim jeggings and a flimsy white vest top; her copious fiery locks cascade onto her bare nape and shoulders as she tosses her head with a degree of indifference.
‘I usually run one of the writers’ workshops at the festival,’ (she refers to the Edinburgh International Book Festival, which occupies Charlotte Square each August) ‘she was a regular – and prominent – attendee.’
‘Were you aware she lived in Edinburgh?’
‘Not until we met at the retreat – there are hundreds of bibliophiles who come back to the festival every year – it’s the largest literary event in the world, you know?’
‘Seems like you have more than your fair share of world number ones – my Scottish colleague was instructing me on the history of your New Town.’
‘I’m not an Edinburgher myself, Inspector – and the New Town is rather austere, don’t you feel?’
‘A good setting for your crime stories, then?’
She shrugs languidly.
‘I suspect they have run their course – I’m searching for something a little more original.’
She stares at him, unblinking, the glint of a challenge in her eye. Skelgill, at the age of thirty-seven, is three years her senior, but inside him lurks the spirit of Peter Pan, that will be forever seventeen. Perhaps Sarah Redmond’s novelist’s intuition detects this chink in his regulation policeman’s armour, for she seems ready to confront him with the same blend of confidence and mischief that she was quick to employ at their previous encounter. Skelgill, however, responds to her probing thrust with a somewhat oblique parry.
‘So Dickie Lampray was correct – when he accused you of researching your next novel?’
She glances away, for a moment giving the impression that this question bores her.
‘I shouldn’t say that exactly, Inspector – the scenario was rather like Lord of the Flies, don’t you think?’
Skelgill creases his brow.
‘Wasn’t that something to do with pigs?’
Now she smiles benevolently.
‘I understand where you are coming from, Inspector.’
Skelgill shakes his head.
‘It’s just – coincidences and all – Grisholm means Isle of Pigs. It’s an Old Norse name.’
‘Ah – now you are teaching me, Inspector.’
She settles back and crosses her legs; the tip of a blue-and-white plimsoll hovers within touching distance of Skelgill’s nearest knee. He adjusts his position, so that he can look at her more easily.
‘It’s questions I need to ask you.’
She opens her palms and surveys him coyly.
‘Ask away – I am at your service.’
It is noticeable that Skelgill has thus far avoided his habitual use of the stock title ‘madam’ – normally a safe fall-back, albeit rather formal – but neither has he trespassed upon the intimacy of her first name.
‘You’ll be aware from contacts with my colleagues – we’ve not managed to get in touch with the retreat organisers – but, that aside, what made you decide to attend?’
‘Overwhelmingly the change of scene, Inspector – I’m between novels – at a loose end, even – and, you know, I’d never been to the Lake District until last week.’
‘What did you think of it?’
Skelgill’s tone suggests he anticipates a glowing review. There is an impressionistic watercolour above the hearth, suggestive of a windswept Hebridean seascape. Sarah Redmond gazes searchingly at what might be glaucous swathes of swaying marram, foreground to a turbulent oceanic sky.
‘There isn’t the sense of wilderness one finds in Scotland,’ (she glances at Skelgill, and it must be evident he is a little crestfallen, for she elaborates with additional emphasis) ‘but there is a special kind of – how can I put it – handsome cragginess. Let’s call it designer stubble to Scotland’s unkempt full beard.’
Skelgill looks suitably mollified. Subconsciously his hand wanders to his chin, with its two-day-old growth of the non-designer kind.
‘Can’t say I’ve ever heard it described like that – I know what you’re getting at – but don’t be fooled – it can be as dangerous a place as anywhere when the weather decides to take a turn – you saw the storm on Sunday.’
She nods, and – as if she realises how easily she has led him to digress – grins contritely and steers the dialogue back around to his own question.
‘So it felt rather like going off on a singles holiday – not knowing whom I should meet or how it would all work out. Rather exciting, really.’
She bats her eyelashes in an exaggeratedly naïve manner.
‘You didn’t know Rich Buckley would be there?’
She is quick to shake her head. It is a denial that appears convincing.
‘I had no idea, Inspector.’
Skelgill considers her reply for a moment or two, and then, intoning rather mechanically, reveals a snippet of information gleaned during his inquiries.
‘It has been mentioned that you’re thinking of changing publisher.’
She raises her palms in affected shock.
‘I really don’t imagine my readers would feel comfortable to find my books in the Buckley stable.’ Then she breaks out into an improvised and lascivious smile. ‘Unless, of course, there was my racy new Cumbrian detective.’
Skelgill’s cheekbones colour, and for a moment he appears to flounder about in search of a response. Sarah Redmond, still grinning, fills the little silence.
‘I take it that was from Dickie Lampray?’
‘I think it was – aye.’
‘Don’t worry, Inspector – nothing gets past old Dickie, fact or fiction – he’s the gossip queen of the literary court.’
Skelgill nods sheepishly, evidently relieved that his indiscretion is excused.
‘He seems to have quite a reputation.’
Now she flashes him an old-fashioned look.
‘That depends what you mean, Inspector – but, certainly, if you’re struggling to become published, he’s your man.’
‘So why wouldn’t everyone flock to him? He sounded hard pressed for work.’
‘Because, Inspector, a contract arranged by Dickie is known in the trade as the next nearest thing to vanity publishing.’
Skelgill looks somewhat blank.
‘You’ll have to explain that one to me.’
‘In short, the author pays. The agent gets his cut. The publisher is quids in.’
‘I see.’ Skelgill ponders for a moment. ‘That seems to defeat the object of writing a book.’
Sarah Redmond considers his response. Then she shrugs in a resigned manner.
‘I know this from my workshops, Inspector – there are so many people out there who are just desperate to get their book published – I should say finance is a secondary consideration.’
Skelgill nods, his eyes thoughtful.
‘So how does this all work then? Agents and publishers – who would I go to if I’d written a novel?’
‘You could approach either, Inspector. An agent is more likely to look at your work – and a publisher will generally listen to an agent – they both know not to waste one another’s time. Many publishers these days don’t accept unsolicited manuscripts – and those that do oblige the author to wait months for the rejection letter.’
‘You make that sound like it’s a foregon
e conclusion – being rejected.’ Skelgill’s tone suggests this apparent inevitability offends his sense of fairness. ‘Surely if you keep trying, eventually you’ll get accepted.’
She regards him with some sympathy, as though she admires his spirit but pities his naivety.
‘Not if you can’t write, Inspector.’
For the first time, there is just the hint of self-importance in her choice of words, though not in her tone. Skelgill looks as though he identifies with those who can’t write.
‘What about Bella Mandrake?’
Sarah Redmond seems to detect his inner discord. Her features soften, and she shakes her head gently.
‘Sadly, Inspector, no.’
Now Skelgill looks perplexed.
‘Shouldn’t someone have told her that?’ He folds his arms purposefully. ‘I mean – if I’ve got a junior officer who’s obviously not up to scratch – I don’t keep stringing them along – they get the boot. It’s only fair to everyone – them included.’
She smiles again, more broadly, as though his practical ruthlessness appeals to her.
‘The publishing business, though cut-throat in its own way, is nothing if not polite – even the most incomprehensible of manuscripts will receive a positive-sounding rejection letter.’
Skelgill responds to this with a blank stare. It is perhaps evident to Sarah Redmond that he is distracted in thought, and so she provides a postscript.
‘And you never know, Inspector – why cause offence when you can't see into the future?’
Skelgill breaks from his reverie and nods as if he knows what she means. His next question perhaps confirms his understanding of this insight.
‘Have you had books rejected, yourself?’
‘Inspector – my first three novels are still gathering dust.’ She flicks up her hair with the fingers of both hands, and rolls her eyes to the ceiling. ‘And they are probably exactly where they deserve to be.’
‘I’m sure they’re very good.’
She looks back at Skelgill and smiles sweetly, perhaps she edges nearer; indeed it seems she gently pounces upon his throwaway compliment and magnifies its import. She lays her hands one on top of the other on her thigh, her slender fingers pointing towards him. She bows her head a little so that tresses of hair fall to frame her eyes, and emphasise her coquettish demeanour as she gazes up at him.
Murder on the Lake (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 4) Page 18
