Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘And where they don’t correspond?’

  DS Jones regards him reflectively.

  ‘I suppose it’s more omission than divergence. I noticed when Will Liddell described to us finding his wife he made it sound like Suzy Duff was with him the whole time – as though she had telephoned for help on the spot. He didn’t mention that she left the room. She says she raced down to the library – screamed at the others – and it was the butler Tom Montagu-Browne that shot off to raise the alarm – then she ran back up with the rest of them – that’s when she realised she was the only first aider.’

  ‘Did she unlock the door?’

  ‘She says she can’t remember – but that she supposes she must have done. Certainly she used the women’s staircase – for want of a better description.’

  ‘How long was she gone from the bedroom – Lady Anne’s room?’

  ‘She thinks about a minute – or two at the most. The time it took to descend and ascend four flights. It wouldn’t take long, Guv – she looks quite a fit woman.’

  ‘What was Will Liddell doing when she got back?’

  ‘He’d laid his wife on the bed – removed the feather boa – but was just staring at her helplessly – “in shock” was her description.’

  Skelgill is pensive – he glowers at the plate of surviving cookies.

  ‘What about the rest of them?’

  DS Leyton flicks out a hand.

  ‘Help yourself, Guv – I’ve had chicken dinner – plus I’m on pain of death if I don’t eat the missus’s pudding.’

  Skelgill darts an admonishing scowl at DS Leyton – but nevertheless he takes him up on his suggestion. Meanwhile DS Jones supplies an appropriate response to the question.

  ‘It was only a couple of minutes more before Lavinia arrived in the room – she took control – at least as far as shepherding everyone but Will Liddell and Suzy Duff back downstairs. She broke out the vintage brandy to calm their nerves.’

  There is a short contemplative silence. DS Leyton is first to speak.

  ‘The Liddell geezer probably was in shock, Guv – it does funny things to you. I got some award once – out of the blue, called up to the stage in assembly. I mean, me – winning an award! It was all a blur – couldn’t remember a thing afterwards – apparently I even made a flippin’ acceptance speech!’

  Skelgill looks irked that his sergeant has digressed – but curiosity gets the better of him.

  ‘What was the award?’

  ‘Most improved player, Guv – you know the old thing – make the fat kid the goalie – that was me.’ He shakes his head reflectively. ‘Bit harsh on the others really – reckon I had a head start – far as room for improvement was concerned.’

  DS Jones is regarding her colleague benevolently, but Skelgill’s expression is more one of pity tinged with horror. However he eschews the open goal (viz. room for improvement) and instead drags the discussion back on track.

  ‘How do the men’s movements stack up?’

  DS Leyton snaps out of what appears to be fond reverie. He has his pocket notebook on the table, and he flips it open to the current marked page. ‘They all went up to their rooms to have a rest after tea – get their glad rags on. Kevin Makepeace was the first one to go downstairs – said he was bang on the gong at 7pm. Seems like he gets on okay with his ex – but reckons he didn’t have any interaction with her – kept to their own rooms. The other two – Mike Luker and Derek Duff – similar story – except they’d both had their adjoining doors wide open. But they’d agreed the chaps would go down separately from the ladies. They went about five minutes before their wives – maybe 7.05pm – said Suzy Duff was the first woman to arrive, just after them, then the other two women a few minutes later.’

  He looks up questioningly, first at Skelgill – who regards him blankly – and then at DS Jones, who gives a nod of encouragement. He runs the fingers of one hand through his tousle of dark hair and makes a laboured expiration of breath, vibrating his rubbery lips.

  ‘If what you’re looking for, Guv, is that someone went to Scarlett Liddell’s room before seven o’clock – seems to me like they’d have needed to slip past Will Liddell, one way or another.’

  Skelgill’s subordinates regard him with anticipation – they seem to suspect he has some particular calculation in mind. But his expression is one of dissatisfaction. As he sees it, the permutations are plentiful – and therefore constitute unedifying speculation. They cannot even be sure that each guest has given an accurate account of their movements. Rather than dwell on such imponderables he moves the conversation forward.

  ‘What are they saying about Scarlett Liddell?’

  DS Jones is first to respond.

  ‘I have a ream of notes – but in a nutshell it’s, “complete shock – out of character – can’t think why she did it.” But I get the feeling everyone is treading on eggshells right now – if only out of respect for Will Liddell.’

  ‘So there’s more to it.’

  ‘Reading between the lines – quite possibly – I mean, so far as their relationships go.’ She is nodding in response to Skelgill’s statement. A strand of her naturally streaked honey blonde hair becomes displaced; she blinks and brushes it away. ‘Felicity Belvedere and Belinda Luker were both circumspect. I think they would have preferred not to engage at all. Suzy Duff was more forthcoming – for instance she referred to them expecting Scarlett Liddell to make her “usual grand entrance”, once everyone else had arrived.’

  Skelgill gives a small shrug, as though he is indifferent to such a narcissistic trait. He looks at DS Leyton.

  ‘What did the husbands have to say?’

  DS Leyton gives a rueful grin. ‘Nothing so complicated, Guv. Nice girl – beautiful girl – not a bad word. Just that Will Liddell had fallen on his feet after his divorce.’

  Skelgill raises an eyebrow at this latter remark. He is thinking how gravity seems to favour men with fat wallets in this regard. However it prompts his next question. He directs it at DS Jones.

  ‘Any mention of the ex-wife?’

  DS Jones shakes her head.

  ‘Not as such, Guv. As Will Liddell said – this social group stems from having daughters in the same year at school – Year 7 now – so the adults have had ample time to become familiar. They meet for dinner parties, and there have been several trips like this one – including skiing during school holidays with the kids. Obviously, for most of that period, it was the first wife that was present – not Scarlett Liddell.’

  Skelgill ponders these words. But he trusts his sergeant to have sniffed out anything salient. Since she has nothing to add, he does not trouble himself with inventing further questions. Instead he turns to DS Leyton.

  ‘How about Tom Montagu-Browne?’

  ‘Some cranky cove, he is, Guv.’ DS Leyton makes a distressed face. ‘Hope he’s got better flamin’ manners when he’s doing his butlering. You’d think I’d accused him of strangling Scarlett Liddell and stringing her up!’

  Skelgill glances at DS Jones – perhaps she did not relay Lavinia Montagu-Browne’s cautionary words about her cantankerous relation. With a note of irony in his voice he plays along with DS Leyton’s hyperbole.

  ‘What was his alibi?’

  ‘What? Well – I didn’t exactly ask him outright, Guv. I couldn’t very well go round treating everyone like murder suspects.’ DS Leyton sounds rather flummoxed, as though he has taken Skelgill’s question more seriously than it was intended. ‘I was concentrating on Scarlett Liddell’s movements. Tom Montagu-Browne confirmed that she left the drawing room after tea with the other women – 5.21pm, actually, he said it was – and that was the last he saw of her. He reckons if she were moving about the ground floor after that he would have seen her – or anyone else. He was busy between the drawing room, the dining room and the kitchen – then at a quarter to seven he started to mix a tray of cocktails in his butler’s pantry – that’s got a hatch that overlooks the hall – just before seven
took the drinks into the library and waited for the guests to arrive.’

  Despite this matter-of-fact account, it is plain to see that DS Leyton shoulders an air of unease.

  ‘So what made your lugs prick up?’

  DS Leyton shifts a little apprehensively in his seat.

  ‘I suppose it was more an impression – rather than what he actually said.’

  ‘Aye?

  ‘When Suzy Duff burst into the library – he said the guests thought that was the Murder Mystery game kicking off – but he didn’t hang around to put them right. He went straight to Lavinia Montagu-Browne’s office and told her to call 999.’

  Skelgill is frowning.

  ‘It’s his condition, Leyton. Say something to him – he’ll take it literally. That’s obviously what he did.’

  DS Leyton shakes his head reflectively – as though this does not ring true with his experience of the man.

  ‘Guv – I get that. It’s just – I dunno – there’s another way of looking at it – I mean – what if he didn’t question it – because he knew what had happened to her?’

  Skelgill is looking increasingly pained.

  ‘Think about it, Guv – if anyone could sneak around without arousing suspicion, it would be him. Plus he’d have access to spare keys.’

  ‘Scarlett Liddell’s door was locked on the inside.’

  ‘We don’t know that, Guv – we don’t even know if the key was actually in the lock.’

  Now Skelgill feels he must state his objection to hypothetical scenarios. His tone is unduly severe.

  ‘Leyton – there’s a hatful of ways folk could have been in and out of that room. I’ve already given up thinking about it. So should you.’

  DS Leyton looks suitably chastised. He is familiar with Skelgill’s attitude in circumstances such as these, and realises he ought to know better. He holds up his hands in a placatory gesture.

  ‘I realise that, Guv – it was just, well –’ He makes a growl of exasperation in his throat. Then he seems to give up on the point. ‘Like you say – maybe it was just his cranky manner.’

  But DS Jones is watching Skelgill intently. For what she sees is not a desire to sweep under the carpet any possible irregularities – but in fact a sentiment underlying his stern countenance that she recognises as doubt. As such she provides a prompt – an outlet for his discontent.

  ‘How did you get on at Carlisle, Guv?’

  Skelgill – in typically capricious fashion – grimaces uncooperatively. He resettles himself in his chair and slides his coffee mug to a revised position. It is twenty seconds or so before he replies.

  ‘There were a couple of things. The duty pathologist last night was a locum in training. As a matter of protocol the senior pathologist reviewed his findings this morning. She performed a second examination and ran some additional tests.’ He pauses, and with furrowed brow stares across the cafeteria beyond his colleagues. ‘There was light bruising on the lower forearm – both arms – matching the pattern of being held firmly. It was fresh – caused the same day – hadn’t really developed. Easy to overlook.’

  DS Leyton is leaning forward eagerly.

  ‘What – like someone restrained her, Guv – held back her arms?’

  Skelgill continues to glare vacantly into space; he answers reluctantly.

  ‘Aye – but you’re forgetting something. What did they tell us? They were at the rope-swing park at Greystoke all afternoon. I know one of the instructors – he’s in the mountain rescue. I gave him a bell after I’d left the hospital. He reckons there’s a half a dozen activities where folk have to help one another. For example, if you’re a lightweight there’s a flying fox that doesn’t reach the lower station – your teammates have to lean out, grab you by the wrists – haul you onto the platform.’

  Skelgill’s own associates look suddenly deflated – that he has supplied them with the oxygen of a breakthrough, and then in the next breath has snatched it away. But DS Jones senses that he has not finished.

  ‘You said there were a couple of points, Guv?’

  Skelgill’s gaze now returns from the abstract of their surroundings to the specific of his coffee. He breaks a cookie in half and drops both pieces rebelliously into the foam. He lifts the mug but does not immediately attempt to drink. He looks from one to the other of his subordinates, his face severe. He seems to be trying to decide upon whom to address. In the event his eyes fall upon DS Jones.

  ‘She was three weeks pregnant.’

  6. REST AND BE THANKFUL

  Tuesday, 6.15am

  Skelgill has been woken by gibbons.

  It is not the anticipated dawn chorus – which in fact began much earlier, and in its lilting familiarity did not disturb him as it drifted on the cool air through his wide-open hotel window. But the jungle hullabaloo, a persistent drawn-out electronic piping that with first light penetrated his dreams brought on a spell of fitful hallucinations. Skelgill, becoming semi-conscious, was reminded that his budget accommodation backs on to Edinburgh Zoological Gardens. Perhaps he should have asked for a room at the front. But – hey – up with the lark – up with the gibbon – what is the difference? He had pulled on his walking shoes and moseyed along the deserted Glasgow road in the direction of the city centre, whence a breach in a wall admitted him into a dense stand of sycamores; above these a heathland of steeply rising gorse and bramble scrub, topped with gnarled Scots pines and oaks and beeches; quite an extraordinary wilderness within the metropolitan limits. Now, plateauing and puffing a little, he has followed his nose through a stone arch, a choke point between zoo security fencing and a golf course – to arrive at a spectacular window upon the ‘Athens of the North’ – although with typical Calvinist rectitude a signboard merely declares, ‘Rest & Be Thankful’. Accordingly, there is provided a bench, above a stone wall, below which another rocky path wends up from the east. The vista is positively vertiginous, telescoping over a sweeping emerald fairway, across the great grey volcanic barnacle cluster of the ancient city, to the silver sands of the East Lothian coastline where – as the information post relates – the Bass Rock stands proud 26 miles hence, its solid white cap an optical illusion, an agglomeration of 150,000 northern gannets. Skelgill sinks down – not in need of the rest, but thankful for the solidity of the bench. He is just pondering why the Bass Rock is so called, and how many mackerel a gannet eats in a year (one a day, two, three?), when he is hailed.

  ‘Good morning to you.’

  This only adds to Skelgill’s sense of disorientation – the voice is of indeterminate origin; it resounds in the ether. He rises and takes a couple of steps forward. He realises that over the wall, below him on the steep declivity, is an elderly man. Of a rangy build he is clad in an all-black outfit of waterproofs, walking boots and a trapper hat with the flaps tied up, revealing protruding ears matched in proportion by a long bulbous nose, red at the tip, and a wide mouth with spittle at the corners. He stands side on to Skelgill, facing out over the golf course; a small black backpack hangs on the spiked railings. He is performing what Skelgill suspects might be Tai Chi.

  ‘I’m disturbing your peace.’

  ‘You’re fine, young man – talking doesn’t affect my routine. Besides, I’m used to it – this is a busy spot.’

  ‘Even this early?’

  ‘Och, aye – you’d be surprised how many folk are up and about. I get a lot of Chinese.’

  The man is clearly Scottish, well spoken.

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Jet lag.’

  He performs an intricate series of hand and arm movements (aircraft, maybe?), balancing on one leg. Skelgill is about to ask a supplementary question when the man pre-empts him.

  ‘Tourists from China. When they land their body clocks are eight hours ahead. They stay in the big hotel down on the Glasgow road. Wake early – find their way up here.’

  ‘You’re kind of describing what I did – except it was the gibbons got me up – not jet lag.’


  ‘Nor do you hail from so far afield.’

  The man’s intonation invites a response.

  ‘Cumbria.’

  ‘Ah – now there’s a wonderful place.’

  Skelgill can’t help some affected modesty, when better decorum would be to return the compliment.

  ‘Happen it’s alright, aye.’

  The man generously makes a sound of agreement in his throat.

  ‘I used to fish there at one time – must be forty years back. Bassenthwaite Lake. I expect you’ve heard of it?’

  Skelgill feels another wave of light-headedness crashing over him. Should he pinch himself? Did the gibbons really wake him up – or is this still the feverish dream: a torrid flight across the Scottish Highlands, malevolent pursuers, their unearthly cries sapping his resolve? Bass Rock – fish. Fishing – on Bass Lake! Is the old man a ghost that haunts this ancient trackway? Shall Scarlett Liddell be the next apparition? He is wrestling with such fancies, when the man speaks again.

  ‘Are you here for a spring break?’

  The question hauls his thoughts back to reality. He wavers. In his profession, this line of conversation can prove problematic. But where a white lie is normally prudent, there is something about the happenstance that defeats his resistance, and he finds himself answering truthfully.

  ‘I’m a police officer.’

  ‘Aha! Cross-border bootleggers?’

  He can see the man is half grinning – and half grimacing, as he continues his vigorous routine. There is an irony – some would say hypocrisy – that for public health reasons cheap whisky now costs more in Scotland than England, and Cumbrian purveyors are handily placed to restore the natural equilibrium.

  ‘Holidaymakers. Just tying up a few loose ends. Parents of kids at a local school.’

  ‘Ah – which one – if you don’t mind my asking? You know how we Edinburghers are obsessed by our alma mater. I’m a Watsonian, myself.’