‘You’re a lawyer, I understand, madam?’
Now she regards him with more overt suspicion.
‘I have not been in practice for several years. The girls and home life occupy a good deal of my time.’
That she adds the proviso – when he does not react – suggests a need for self-justification. Certainly she does not look like the traditional housewife – a glance at her manicured nails is enough – never mind the clanking char out in the scullery.
‘What branch of law?’
‘Corporate litigation – not your line, Inspector.’
Skelgill makes a somewhat pained face.
‘You’d be surprised – fraud’s only a posh word for having your hand in the till.’
Now Belinda Luker frowns. He wonders if she is irked – that she finds his manner mildly antagonistic.
‘Well, that is certainly true, although incompetence is not yet a criminal offence.’
The woman speaks with near perfect diction – it makes him realise just how strong by comparison is Suzy Duff’s Scots accent. Belinda Luker sits a little aloof from the table, rather stiff-backed, her arms folded. Skelgill recalls DS Jones’s observation that both she and Felicity Belvedere were reluctant interviewees. Nothing appears to have changed. Now, rather ponderously he pours tea into his mug, and adds milk and sugar – sufficient of the latter to elicit the raising of an eyebrow.
‘Madam, you’ll appreciate, the Coroner calls the shots in cases like this, plain as the circumstances are.’
She does not respond at first. But in targeting her legal background he gives her little option but to be cooperative. He drinks thirstily, drawing breath over the hot liquid (and further disapprobation from Belinda Luker).
‘What exactly is it that concerns the Coroner, Inspector?’
Skelgill, leaning over his mug, glances up inquiringly.
‘I should like to know that myself, madam.’ At this juncture, one of his sergeants would recognise that Skelgill’s alter ego, the ‘daft country copper’ is on duty. ‘We’ve just been instructed to gather some background information.’ He shrugs and looks at her blankly. ‘If someone kills themself there has to be a reason.’
‘That is certainly logical, Inspector.’
Skelgill shifts position, as though he finds the wooden chair uncomfortable.
‘From what we understand, there was nothing happened on the day – or during the weekend paid for by Mr Liddell – so we have to look back further.’
Now Belinda Luker nods – but her expression shows little accord with his statement – he wonders if her antipathy has something to do with his mention of Will Liddell’s generosity; in these affluent surroundings he sees little need for such charity. He tries a more direct prompt.
‘Scarlett Liddell was a good bit younger than all the rest of you. Do you think that bothered her?’
‘I would say she was very strong-minded, Inspector.’
Skelgill regards the woman broodingly for a moment or two.
‘Madam – you make that sound a bit double-edged.’
Belinda Luker gives a faint shrug of her neat shoulders.
‘She was capricious – though I expect you know that much.’
‘Aye – but we all have our moments, don’t we?’
‘Well – perhaps Will found her a little tiresome.’
Skelgill makes a face that hints at chauvinism.
‘It’s the way of the world.’
‘Will likes the world to operate according to his norms.’
She says this without any rancour, as though it is a natural state of affairs. Skelgill’s reply is measured accordingly.
‘So what of it – she thought he was controlling – or something like that?’
Belinda Luker’s eyes narrow a little.
‘I did not know her well enough to judge. I doubt that I met her on many more than a dozen occasions – and always in company of the others. In such circumstances one tends not to engage in personal intercourse.’
Skelgill’s eyelids flicker.
‘How did you come to be friendly with Mr Liddell?’
Still she looks guarded – though this must surely be a less contentious question.
‘I suppose technically I was introduced to him through the girls’ school. I think the first time I met him was when parents were invited to the dining hall, to experience the quality of the lunches.’ She glances across at the wall where the artworks are posted. ‘Our eldest daughters are in the same academic year. They became friends – when children are dispersed around a large city they tend to spend time together by having sleepovers. The parents inevitably become acquainted. And then there are school social events and parents’ evenings – and supporting hockey on Saturdays.’
‘And Mr Liddell does that?’
‘Occasionally. His daughter is captain.’
‘How about Mrs Liddell?’
‘If you mean Muriel – yes – it is she that attends the hockey matches. Lulu is her daughter, after all.’
Skelgill is looking rather bemused.
‘What about Scarlett Liddell – does she get involved?’
‘I would suggest only if she thought there were a risk of Will meeting Muriel. I don’t believe that other people’s offspring were quite on her radar.’
‘Happen that were troubling for Mr Liddell?’
The woman looks unwilling to decipher Skelgill’s mild use of his vernacular. But when he might have expected her to agree with the sentiment, she surprises him with her answer.
‘I should not think it was too much of an issue.’
‘Aye?’ That Skelgill means “No?” is clear enough from his intonation.
‘I doubt surrogate motherhood was something he would have craved on Scarlett’s curriculum vitae.’
There might almost be some innuendo in her tone – but Skelgill responds in a more pragmatic manner.
‘Sometimes when a man picks a younger woman it’s with the future in mind. Child-bearing age – and all that.’
Belinda Luker, however, seems to want to stick to her underlying theme.
‘I should say rather that Will was enjoying his newly found freedom.’
‘I suppose it’s easy enough when you can farm out the bairns every other weekend.’ He shrugs. ‘And someone mentioned an au pair?’
‘Trudi – but she lives with Muriel. Where the children went, she went.’
‘What about when they stay with Mr Liddell?’
‘Housework for Trudi, I should hope.’
Skelgill glances instinctively towards the scullery, from where strange noises continue to emanate.
‘From what you tell me – and correct me if I’m wrong, madam – would there be something of the mid-life crisis about Mr Liddell’s getting together with his second wife?’
A crease forms between Belinda Luker’s carefully plucked eyebrows; it is an expression of scepticism.
‘That would be somewhat premeditated, would it not, Inspector? Rather cynical.’
Skelgill’s prominent cheekbones seem to redden – but maybe he is feeling the warmth of the kitchen – the Aga pumping out heat – and he has not been invited to divest himself of his jacket. And there is the hot tea. He makes a sound resembling a harrumph.
‘I was thinking along the lines of it not quite working out for Scarlett Liddell. It must have seemed a glamorous option for her – being wooed by one of the country’s richest men.’ He notices Belinda Luker seems to flinch as he says this. ‘But perhaps being pitched into the Liddell’s domestic situation wasn’t all high days and holidays.’
‘That is possible, Inspector.’ She tilts back her head and momentarily closes her eyes. ‘Though I imagine plenty of women would trade places – despite the various downsides.’
‘Are there others?’
Now she shrugs, as though she has inadvertently exaggerated when there is nothing much of importance.
‘Oh – as I said, Will is known to be very demanding – I’m
sure anyone who has worked with him will tell you that – and he applies the same principles to his private life. He likes things to run smoothly. A free spirit such as Scarlett might have met with certain frustrations.’
‘Did she have friends of her own age?’
‘One assumes so, Inspector – but I understand she moved up to Edinburgh from one of Will’s companies in London – about a year before they were married. So I imagine one would need to look there for acquaintances.’
‘What was your impression of her, madam – did you like her?’
Belinda Luker seems a little taken aback by this abrupt twist. But Skelgill notes that she does not appear willing to soften her stance.
‘I had no particular reason to dislike her – it isn’t really something one considers – at least, not when an established friend presents one with someone new – that is plainly going to be part of the furniture. It would not really be the best policy to look for negatives, would it, Inspector?’
‘Aye – but if you don’t mind me saying – you haven’t exactly been gushing about her.’
The woman glances sharply at Skelgill, and then down at her hands, which she has folded on her lap. Her narrow lips are compressed into a flat line.
‘It may be that there is a generational aspect – but when suddenly a good friend whom one has known for many years is supplanted by an outsider – an unknown quantity.’ She looks up, perhaps appealing for understanding. ‘It can take some adjustment. It entirely disrupts the social fabric. One can’t very well say, “Wasn’t it jolly two years ago in St Moritz?” when it was not Scarlett but Muriel who was there.’
Skelgill evidently considers that he is on something of a roll; again his question is blunt.
‘Was she a bit of a flirt – Scarlett Liddell?’
If the suggestion catches her off guard, she is unequivocal in her reaction – as Skelgill reads it, yes: in mixed company, husbands present, drink flowing, an attractive younger woman at the epicentre – perhaps all the more irksome for one approaching “The Big Four-O”, as Will Liddell had put it.
‘Well, she certainly enjoyed the limelight, Inspector.’
‘And how did Mr Liddell feel about that?’
Belinda Luker folds her arms; she reverts to her starched upright stance.
‘You would need to ask Will – after all, most couples have their disagreements behind closed doors.’
Skelgill leans forward and presses his palms flat on the table. He has his head bowed but when he looks up it is with an ingenuous grin – as though to admit he has met his match.
‘Madam – all I’m trying to do is understand Scarlett Liddell. Her medical history indicates nothing that would point to her committing suicide. So I’m left with trying to find out if there was something in her personal life that might satisfy the Coroner. If there’s anything you can say that might help me along that road, I’d be much obliged. However, I appreciate you have a natural loyalty to your friend of longer standing, Mr Liddell.’
Judging by her expression, Skelgill’s appeal seems to have elicited in Belinda Luker some notion of grave concern. Skelgill waits patiently for it to manifest itself in words. In due course she obliges.
‘But, Inspector – aren’t you rather overlooking something?’
‘What would that be?’
‘I can’t be the only person – I mean, it doesn’t require legal training to ask oneself the question – did Scarlett Liddell actually kill herself?’
Skelgill makes some odd shapes with his lips, revealing his front teeth.
‘You might have a point there, madam.’
A more prolonged silence now ensues. Skelgill adds tea to his mug. Belinda Luker glances impatiently at a wall clock above the children’s paintings. Skelgill stares reflectively at the surface of the pale brown liquid.
‘I’m sure you’re not the only person to think it, madam. But perhaps the only one bold enough to say it – and happen that is your legal training.’ Now he looks at her pointedly. ‘After all, it was just the eight of you staying in the castle.’
Belinda Luker is ready for this.
‘But you don’t know that, Inspector – there could have been an intruder – besides – there were the staff. Have you investigated their movements – run background checks?’
Skelgill chuckles. He can picture her across the table in her capacity as a solicitor – and he is happier too that the game of cat and mouse (in which he is not entirely certain of his role) has been replaced with a more frank exchange.
‘I can assure you we’re following all the expected protocols in a case such as this, madam.’ With his two index fingers he taps out a little drumbeat on the surface of the table. ‘But what I would remind you of – for it’s no secret – it was more or less witnessed by you all – is that when Scarlett Liddell died, her external bedroom door was locked on the inside, and Mr Liddell was through in his adjoining suite the whole time.’
Skelgill conveys these facts very much as he might to a member of the legal profession – in his case it would be a Crown prosecutor – a tactic that might pander to the woman’s analytical nature. However, he senses a tightening of her features, an emphasis of the fine lines at the corners of her eyes.
‘Is this why you are asking me about Will? About where my loyalties lie?’
Skelgill grins sardonically.
‘If you’ve worked at all with the police, madam – you know what our job is. Justice trumps sentiment.’
But Belinda Luker’s evident alarm only intensifies.
‘Look – if you’re suggesting that Will was involved – I think you would be very wide of the mark. I would say he idolised Scarlett – even if that was a little misguided. And – yes – perhaps he could be possessive – and controlling, as you say – but the idea that he – well... it’s inconceivable.’
Though Skelgill seems unmoved by her spirited defence, he is half-hearted in his rejoinder.
‘Happen he’s got a ruthless streak when it comes to business – making money.’
‘I don’t know from whom you might have heard that, Inspector. Mike – my husband, I mean – I’m certain would vouch for his integrity.’
Skelgill glances at his watch. It is more than a check on the time.
‘I shan’t ask you to put words in his mouth, madam – there’s no need for that.’
It might now strike Belinda Luker – for certainly she must have known the fact, without necessarily realising the significance – that her husband is being interviewed contemporaneously. A crafty manoeuvre to pre-empt collusion? Not that the police would admit they anticipated any such subterfuge. The woman leans forward in her seat, her hands pressed upon her knees – it seems she is inclined to say something on her husband’s behalf – but is having second thoughts. A lawyer would always advise upon silence in the event of any doubt. Her eyes, rapidly moving about with no obvious purpose, betray some inner turmoil. Perhaps it is simply that, having raised the possibility of a malevolent force in Scarlett Liddell’s death, she is disturbed to have had this thrown back at her in the shape of Will Liddell.
10. RAVELSTON/FELICITY BELVEDERE
Tuesday, 2.00pm
Skelgill seems transfixed by the weir. Certainly it possesses mildly hypnotic properties; constant movement and yet a static form; a pervasive rush that seems to ebb and flow. A heron wades in the downstream shallows, its movements controlled, perhaps to ape passing clouds; it works – so far, five strikes, five minnows. The waters must run cleaner than they once were. Indeed, along the crest of the weir a skittering grey wagtail tilts at hatching flies – olives, by the look of it. And in the millpond calm of the upstream pool a trout is sporadically sipping pupae from the sticky meniscus.
From his bankside bench Skelgill flicks spare crusts to ducks. He was tempted by a poster in the chippy that advertised haggis supper with a half deep-fried pizza thrown in. But it would make a heavy lunch, even by his standards. In any event, now that he has eaten them, t
he sandwiches have sufficed. For a few moments longer, he basks in the spring sunshine. Down here in the wooded sandstone gorge there is not a breath of wind. He reflects vaguely upon his last visit; rain-soaked lung-bursting exhaustion the overriding remnant feeling; there was no time to enjoy the location – another of Edinburgh’s extraordinary metropolitan oases, where kingfishers and dippers and even otters pass within a stone’s throw of the city centre.
He wonders how DS Jones has fared this morning. Derek Duff at his office down river in smutty Leith, then Mike Luker in the more salubrious Charlotte Square. Next for her are Kevin Makepeace, and finally Will Liddell – at the same address in the Old Town. They – the two detectives – have agreed not to communicate piecemeal (except in the event of some stark revelation). Instead they have a 7pm rendezvous at an Indian restaurant near Haymarket station, recommended by Skelgill’s old friend, DS Cameron Findlay – sadly absent on a fishing expedition in the north of Scotland. Skelgill’s thoughts drift back via angling to his most recent foray upon Bass Lake – when Will Liddell’s happily inebriated party disturbed his peace – his only and fleeting encounter with the redheaded Scarlett Liddell. He pictures the scene – recalls the lively group. Of the women, only Felicity Belvedere remains for him to see. A short walk from his present location, up into Ravelston via the steep path through the gallery of modern art. By elimination she must be the short-haired blonde.
*
‘Cracking view you’ve got, madam. I didn’t realise there was any high-rise in this part of town.’
She looks at him as if she is wondering if he has used a deliberately disparaging term – for the art deco apartment block is one of the capital’s most sought-after addresses.
‘Built into the sweep of the wooded hillside it tends not to stand out. When I see the Ravelston development from afar I always think of Sheffield.’
‘Not a city I know, madam. Did you used to live there?’
‘I studied at Hallam – for my architecture Masters.’
Skelgill turns from the window and takes the seat she has indicated. The apartment is furnished in keeping with its provenance – club chairs with curved arms upholstered in fawn suede and tan beading, a large figured walnut coffee table, and the Clarice Cliff tea service that was set out ready and waiting – it is like stepping onto the set of a Poirot movie. And, while Felicity Belvedere is dressed (he guesses trendily) in flowing loon pants and a loose black top, her bob hairstyle would grace the bygone era. She is tall – almost Skelgill’s height, though there may be high heels beneath the trousers – a slim slightly asexual figure that goes with her boyish looks, a retroussé nose and only the faintest hint of pale eyebrows; her posture is upright, and she moves with a certain careful stiffness suggestive of lower back problems. And she is indeed the blonde that Skelgill has anticipated. Though her tone of voice is cooperative, her expression suggests otherwise – but Skelgill begins to realise that the narrow lips and downturned mouth, and smooth stretched skin with little facial movement – giving the impression of a mask assumed for the purposes of concealment – simply represent the default position of her facial muscles. For there is life in her bright blue eyes – and her words come naturally – another accent that carries only a hint of Scots – more like a well-spoken southerner to his ear. One slight irritation: she has that kind of antipodean inflexion, the ‘uptalk’ that seems to pose a question with the completion of each answer.
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4 Page 8
