Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘I’m meeting Mrs Liddell – a parent? She’s expecting me.’

  The man lifts his head then tilts it to one side.

  ‘Aye – that’s her car.’

  He indicates a white Range Rover parked on the hatched tarmac in front of some delivery doors – there is a large sign stating, “Keep Clear”. Skelgill notes that the registration contains the combination L1D.

  ‘Is she allowed to park there?’

  ‘Pal – parents cannae drive intae the school until half past four. Look at this wan the noo!’

  He breaks off to jump into the roadway and remonstrate with the female driver of a monstrous road-hogging 4x4 – but she feigns not to see him and the car surges forward with a great roar of its superfluous cylinders. More oversized vehicles follow. He retreats for his own safety.

  ‘What can I dae? They pay my wages – and they ken it.’

  The man utters short staccato bursts that Skelgill can just grasp. He wonders why he was expecting an ordinary worker to have a more refined accent. He notices the letters H-I-B-S, a faded amateur biro tattoo on the knuckles of one hand. But the man seems to have decided that Skelgill – perhaps by dint of his disavowal of his quarry (over her unreasonable parking) – is in his camp. Certainly Skelgill has noted his appellation was swiftly downgraded from “sir” to “pal”.

  ‘You should get the police along.’

  ‘Aye – we dae that. By the main entrance, ken? It works while the polis is there – next day, they’re back up tae their tricks. Stop on the yellow zigzags – come in tae the school during restricted hours. The new Head’s been sending out polite requests. They take nae notice. Cannae be bothered tae walk a couple o’ hunner yards. I cannae manage it ma sel – I’m the janny – no’ a traffic warden.’

  Skelgill grimaces sympathetically (despite some deleted expletives). The man obviously does not often find such an understanding ear. More large vehicles rumble past. Now the janitor vents additional spleen – that these idle mothers treat the school run as a daily fashion show – they get “dolled up” and totter about on preposterous heels. Skelgill manages to steer the conversation around to hockey – that, whatever unsuitable outfit she may be wearing, he is due to rendezvous with Mrs Liddell pitchside. He learns that it is half time – however, from beyond the ha-ha emanates a clue that the restart is imminent: a high-pitched war cry to the beat of a familiar rugby chant: “Sally, Sally, Sally – Oi, Oi, Oi!”

  *

  ‘Go, Sallies!’

  Skelgill holds his breath. It has never occurred to him that hockey might be exciting. For five minutes he has been gripped and delayed in his mission. He has divined that the score is 1-0 to St Salvator’s. Now their tenuous lead is threatened. The visiting side has a penalty corner. The home defence is crowded onto the goal line. Masked, they look ominous. As one they rap the crossbar three times with their sticks. They crouch like sprinters, coiled for action. The whistle shrieks. As the ball skims across the smooth green astroturf one girl streaks from the goal as her teammates fan out behind her. The ball reaches the first attacker – but incredibly, so does the spearhead. In the instant that the former traps for her strike partner to sweep, the defender smashes the pair of them. There is a clatter of sticks – one spins through the air. From the conflagration, without breaking stride the flying defender emerges with the ball – and she is away down the pitch. With a feint she easily beats the onrushing midfield and backstick chops a defence-splitting pass out to the flank. A teammate gathers – she hares for the byline – crosses – and the erstwhile defender swoops to lash the ball into the net. Ten seconds, end to end. Two-nil, Sallies. Skelgill realises he is clapping.

  ‘Attagirl, Lulu!’

  It is the same woman that utters these words as the earlier exhortation, “Go, Sallies!” – but now with a degree of reserve – indeed perhaps even through gritted teeth, holding back the emotion – for Skelgill detects a sparkle in her proud maternal eye. He has established the woman’s identity by inquiring among spectators – and has moved in slowly, engrossed by the contest. Now, at close quarters, he senses she is aware of his approach – but he hesitates to make an introduction. As per the janitor’s assertion, she – like all of the women around – is finely attired – but there the similarity ends. If there is some insidious fashion parade, then the ‘models’ fit the bill – these are ‘yummy mummies’, as the saying goes. But, Muriel Liddell is decidedly plain looking. In profile – as Skelgill sees her – her nose is rather too large, and hooked, and her chin and brows heavy and protruding, her mousy hair cut short and straight. He stops a yard shy, and swivels on his heel so that they both face out onto the pitch. Meanwhile the teams form up for the restart. The winger that provided the assist comes alongside, breathing heavily.

  ‘Nice cross, Poppy!’

  The girl flashes a steely glance through pale blue eyes – then grins briefly, and sprints away.

  ‘You’re the Detective Inspector.’

  But Skelgill is plainly distracted; he is watching the winger. It takes him a moment to respond.

  ‘Poppy – isn’t that the Duffs’ lass?’

  Muriel Liddell turns her head to look at him curiously.

  ‘Don’t be surprised – her father was a professional footballer.’ When Skelgill continues to frown, she elaborates. ‘Derek Duff? Heart of Midlothian? He was forced to retire through injury in at twenty – he had just been called up for Scotland.’

  Skelgill makes a face of vague acknowledgement.

  ‘And you actually played for Scotland, madam.’

  She smirks, it seems rather sardonically.

  ‘Look – I don’t wish to sound resentful, Inspector. But spend two minutes at a parents’ social evening and you’ll find surgeons – plastic surgeons – chief executives, entrepreneurs, political leaders – and, some, mere athletes.’

  Skelgill hunches, and glances about – as though he should feel in awe of such august company, the who’s who of Scotland’s capital – though he does wonder if these are mainly the wives of those to whom she refers. But all he can glean is that his approach to Muriel Liddell has elicited some attention. She perceives his concern.

  ‘Would you prefer to go over to the Hub – there’s a self-service cafeteria and we can sit more comfortably in a booth?’

  Skelgill bites his cheek.

  ‘I’m happy watching, madam – I shouldn’t like to tear you away – I get the feeling this is a bit of a grudge match.’

  The woman grins.

  ‘Sallies v Muirhouse – it’s the oldest rivalry in Scottish women’s sport.’

  Indeed the girls fight like tigers – limbs and sticks flailing, red faced, gasping, bright gumshields flashing sinister snarls – it is a battlefield where the point of combat moves with alarming speed from one locus to another as girls successively try to beat the hell out of their opponent, the ball a mere excuse.

  ‘If these are thirteen-year-olds I shouldn’t like to face the full size version.’

  Muriel Liddell seems to appreciate his comment. She smiles softly. Her eyes track the play hawkishly.

  ‘I would ask how may I help you, Inspector – but of course you want to know about Will.’

  Skelgill’s candid answer would be that he doesn’t yet know what he wants to know – but more likely about Scarlett Liddell.

  ‘Have you spoken to him, madam?’

  ‘He telephoned on Sunday morning – with the children in mind.’

  Skelgill notes she is quick with the rider.

  ‘I gather you’ve been up front with the youngsters.’

  ‘The bare bones – if that is not an unfortunate turn of phrase.’

  Skelgill gives the hint of a shrug.

  ‘I wouldn’t call it gruesome.’

  Though her gaze continues to follow the action, he senses her concentration has shifted.

  ‘There is something particularly disturbing about suicide, Inspector.’

  Skelgill’s face is grim. To hi
s mind – yes, when it is in doubt. But, if he is honest, there are times when to find no foul play comes as a relief.

  ‘Were you surprised, madam?’

  ‘Not especially.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  She is pensive; her gaze becomes fixed.

  ‘I suppose when you accumulate a certain number of traumas of magnitude – a critical mass, if you like – thereafter, their occurrence becomes the norm. You understand that is the nature of life.’

  It is a philosophical answer, not what he was expecting.

  ‘I was thinking more along the lines that you would have known her – known their circumstances –’

  Skelgill tails off but she is quick to fill the void.

  ‘I knew little of either, Inspector.’ Now she pauses – quite deliberately it seems – before resuming in a controlled monotone. ‘But objectively it would seem to be curious timing – when Will has only recently doubled his fortune.’

  Skelgill’s features become strained – an outward sign that he resists a little flood of otherwise intoxicating possibilities.

  ‘You mean – it would be a good time to be married to him?’

  ‘If super yachts are your thing, I should say so.’

  Skelgill opts for a pragmatic question.

  ‘What was the source of the financial success?’

  She casts him a sharp sideways glance – as if she distrusts his naivety.

  ‘A website – for the exchange of reputable trades services – plumbers, plasterers... prostitutes.’ She allows the final word to sink in. ‘I imagined you would be aware of it – there was an exposé by a tabloid newspaper a couple of years ago.’

  Skelgill glances around, as though concerned on her behalf.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, Inspector – I am not tarred with that brush.’

  She turns slightly and bends back her wrist over her shoulder, indicating with one finger. It is an act of reluctant acknowledgement. Skelgill follows the direction and squints through the wire fencing – beyond grass hockey pitches stands a modern clubhouse. ‘Besides – when Will sold it to the Americans he paid off the school’s mortgage on the new sports pavilion.’

  Skelgill contorts his features. It is one way to suppress dissent. But again he notices they are being observed; a couple of striking blondes further along the touchline have them under surveillance. It must be pretty obvious what they are talking about. He turns back to the pitch, and pointedly follows the play for a couple of minutes. Muriel Liddell sporadically shouts encouragement – of a sufficiently technical nature to convince Skelgill that she knows what she is talking about. He joins in each time she claps.

  ‘Madam – just coming back to what you were saying – that Scarlett –’ (here he hesitates – but manages to refrain from using the surname – or ‘Mrs’ – it seems a sensitive expedient) ‘that Scarlett was motivated by – well – plain and simple, money?’

  She flashes him an old-fashioned look.

  ‘What attracted the nubile nymphet to the dour middle-aged businessman?’

  ‘He’s only just turned forty. That’s no age at all, madam.’

  Muriel Liddell is clearly amused by his reaction – as if she recognises the intervention of his ego – but she makes a little curtsey, implying he has by default aimed a compliment at her.

  ‘Unfortunately, Inspector, there comes a day when one begins to develop religious feelings for the claims of anti-ageing creams.’

  Skelgill averts his gaze – a clumsy act of chivalry, and not his forte. He folds his arms, a subconscious gesture of solidarity – but his mind replays her words – for she has juxtaposed a succession of insinuations. And her tone – can he synthesise some sentiment from its echo before it fades – is it bitterness – or resignation – or is it relief that he detects? Whichever, her next line jolts him from his musings.

  ‘At least I cannot be a suspect – unless you think I am some kind of Svengali?’

  ‘Madam – you said yourself – it’s a suicide we’re investigating.’

  ‘You are going to some considerable lengths, Inspector.’

  Skelgill shifts position, a little awkwardly. He digs his hands into his trouser pockets and sways forward, as if he might topple over the touchline.

  ‘Look – we’d be investigating whatever the circumstances – it’s an unexplained death – it’s the law – you can’t just have folk popping their clogs – then sign it off as though it were nothing unusual.’

  His colloquial turn of phrase entertains her; there is a gentle smile on her lips.

  ‘But it is evident that you believe there is something more sinister afoot. Isn’t the expression, driven to suicide?’

  She says no more – and Skelgill stumbles over his eventual rejoinder.

  ‘Happen – that’s just me, madam.’ He casts about – almost helplessly – as if to demonstrate such exalted surroundings find him outwith his comfort zone – and are the root of the misapprehension. ‘I’m probably too ham-fisted for this sort of thing.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know – a certain guilelessness probably helps to pierce the veneer of artificial respectability.’

  It is a frank acknowledgement, if perhaps inadvertently a little patronising. But it reinforces Skelgill’s impression of Muriel Liddell continually sailing up close to the wind. And it invites a more precarious tack on his part.

  ‘Madam – you must know Mr Liddell better than anyone.’ Though he watches the game, he can sense that she is nodding. ‘Would he harm his new wife?’

  She makes an immediate movement – a little jerk backwards of the head and shoulders – as if this is an impossible statement. It is a good five seconds or more before she replies.

  ‘Do you have a dog, Inspector?’

  ‘Aye – I do, as a matter of fact – Bullboxer.’

  Now he detects a little raising of her head – as if she understands the character of the powerful breed.

  ‘Is it well behaved?’

  ‘It’s daft as a brush.’

  ‘What about when you are not home?’

  ‘It gets bullied by the cat, I reckon.’

  She suppresses a little chuckle.

  ‘Your cat is obviously expendable, Inspector.’

  Skelgill begins to protest that she doesn’t know his Scottish cat – but she interrupts.

  ‘Would you leave your dog with a baby?’

  ‘No one in their right mind would do that.’

  She falls silent – and Skelgill realises she rests her case. Much as it is a curious analogy, he feels license to probe further.

  ‘Was he ever threatening towards you – violent?’

  She shakes her head. But there is something unconvincing in her demeanour as she stares out across the pitch. Just then a great cry goes up – suddenly they are both drawn to the action. Skelgill saw it – a Sallies attacker bearing down on goal was blatantly tripped – hooked around the ankle – but the umpire at that end – one of the visiting coaches – has called play-on, much to the displeasure of the home contingent. And now from the dugout on the far side the Sallies coach races onto the field of play – to Skelgill it seems to remonstrate with the umpire. It is perhaps just as well that the injured girl lies in her path – for she recalibrates her urge in the nick of time – she skids to a halt and stoops to tend her charge. But even at a distance Skelgill can see the fire in green eyes that burn beneath a flaming mane of red hair. Familiar eyes – familiar hair – for she is the runner who swept past him early this morning.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Miss Brodie – Head of Sport – she coaches this year-group and above. She likes to win.’

  ‘She looks like my kind of coach.’

  Muriel Liddell glances interrogatively at Skelgill.

  ‘Her temperament matches her hair.’

  Skelgill wonders if he detects some irony in her tone – a deliberate allusion to Scarlett Liddell, perhaps. He opts to remain neutral, and silent. Meanwhile the incen
diary incident seems to have defused itself – the fallen girl has climbed to her feet and declared herself fit to continue. The coach stalks away. Presently the umpire awards a series of soft decisions in favour of St Salvator’s – perhaps trying to atone for her error; the home team keep their opponents pinned in their defensive half – and soon there is a long blast of the whistle. The girls in navy blue raise their sticks two-handed above their heads in celebration. Skelgill notices the redheaded coach turn away into the dugout and pump her fist. The teams line up to exchange three cheers – Sallies led by the Liddell girl – and then snake past one another sportingly shaking hands. They trot to their coach for what is a short debrief. Skelgill watches as the girls break out into little knots, and begin to drift away, still congratulating themselves. A lone wolf himself, he feels a certain pang of longing for such camaraderie.

  Muriel Liddell clears her throat; she has begun to back off.

  ‘I must take Lulu – she has training at her club in thirty minutes.’

  ‘More hockey?’

  ‘She plays in her sleep.’

  ‘Aye – I do that with fishing.’

  The woman grins. ‘So – was there anything else you wanted to ask me? The rush-hour traffic – you know?’ She indicates vaguely with a wave of a hand. Skelgill seems partially distracted.

  ‘Are you about tomorrow?’

  ‘I have a couple of engagements – but I could work around them.’

  Skelgill nods perfunctorily.

  ‘I’ll let you know madam.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Inspector.’

  Skelgill watches for a few moments as she walks away, making a beeline that will intercept her daughter, who is heading with several of her cohort towards a gate in the high fence. Then he turns to see that the coach is packing items of gear into a wheeled kitbag. There is a ball close by that has rolled against the sideboards. He picks it up and then ambles across towards the dugout. The woman is crouching to zip the bag. Now he sees that her lilac and black outfit must be the school coaches’ colours – there are other staff around in the same strip.