Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘What about Muriel Liddell – she obviously goes, too?’

  ‘It sounds like they kept their distance. That’s probably why he’d wait in his car until the match started – get the lie of the land. Catriona said sometimes she’d see him talking with one of the other mums.’

  ‘Catriona, Guv?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You said Catriona.’

  Skelgill looks momentarily nonplussed.

  ‘Aye – the coach – Miss Brodie’s her name.’

  DS Jones grins benignly. She notices little patches of blush on Skelgill’s cheekbones – and her expression becomes just a hint interrogative. He reaches for his lager – there is not much left and he tilts the bottle to drain it. He wipes his lips, and then his brow.

  ‘That chilli’s getting to me.’

  DS Jones nods accommodatingly.

  ‘I think I avoided the worst of it.’

  Skelgill remains agitated. He shifts in his seat and puts his palms upon his midriff.

  ‘Tell you what, Jones – I’m stuffed. Why don’t we skip the pudding and get a proper drink?’

  ‘Sure. I noticed from the bus there’s a new wine bar near that pub DS Findlay took us to – at Roseburn? That’s on our way back – we could even walk from here.’

  For a moment Skelgill’s unease turns to alarm.

  ‘Maybe the pub, eh, lass?’

  13. LOGANLEA

  Wednesday, 6.30am

  ‘Whose idea was it to have a “proper” drink?’

  ‘Er – yours, Guv?’

  Skelgill makes a resigned growl.

  ‘I blame Cammy for putting me on to that IPA – it’s the best bitter this side of Cockermouth.’

  ‘Apart from the hangover.’

  ‘I reckon that was the Hobson’s.’ On top of the wine that he has not mentioned.

  They sit in silence for a few moments while Skelgill concentrates. He is tying a fly onto what seems to DS Jones’s eye an invisible length of line. It is barely after dawn, and a smooth blanket of grey stratus affords only flat early morning light; objects near and far lack resolution, with neither shadows nor highlights. The little loch on which they float is hemmed in by dark heather-clad banks that rise steeply into hills – the Pentlands, the range that guards Edinburgh’s southern reaches. To all intents and purposes they might be somewhere in the Highlands, so wild and secluded is the scene – yet hardly half an hour ago Skelgill was waking his sergeant with a proposal that, bleary-eyed and somewhat befuddled she found herself accepting. Skelgill seemed to know the way, hammering round the deserted city bypass and taking a couple of obscure turns that found them on a single-track lane, winding its way up first through a wooded glen and then into more open country, over rattling cattle grids and past staring sheep and rusted signs prohibiting unauthorised vehicles. His manner had seemed spontaneous; and yet a certain note of preordained mischief that DS Jones had detected was borne out when they arrived at a planked landing stage to ‘discover’ that one of half-a-dozen rowing boats – apparently chained – had been left cleverly unlocked, its oars shipped ready for use. Skelgill had dragged a crate of tackle from the back of his shooting brake, and selected a rod from an assortment strung up on a DIY rack that incorporates the interior grab-loops. Now he bites on the line and spits the loose end. He is ready to fish. But he has one more act. He rummages in the crate.

  ‘Here – put this on.’

  Waiting patiently, DS Jones has become mesmerised by their surroundings. Blinking, she accepts the little bundle that he thrusts at her.

  ‘What is it, Guv?’

  ‘Midge hat – the visor’ll protect your eyes.’

  ‘Isn’t March early for midges?’

  Skelgill glances at her sternly. He lifts the rod and gives it a sharp flick. There is a whip crack and the loose line shoots out and settles upon the water in front of them.

  ‘Do you know how fast a fly travels?’

  She realises he means the artificial variety – that which has for its undercarriage not six legs but a glinting hook. She does not need to know the answer; his demonstration is sufficient. She nods compliantly and attends to what is a faded green bush hat with a beekeeper-style veil that has a clear plastic panel for the eyes. She works out that she does not need to wear the full veil, and tucks most of the mesh up inside the crown of the hat. She puts it on and turns to Skelgill for approval.

  ‘That’s the ticket.’

  ‘What about you, Guv?’

  Skelgill scowls and begins to cast, yanking out line with squeals of protest from the reel, and simultaneously increasing the airborne load until he finally lets it go with a forward sweep of his left arm.

  ‘With my looks – why worry?’

  He stares out as the leader unfurls in a neat loop and drops the fly gently upon the meniscus. He is using sinking line and the crease it makes on the surface seems progressively to be ironed out by an invisible hand that runs away from them and finally drags the lure under.

  DS Jones must be tempted to quip that he is surely fishing for a compliment.

  ‘Well, I’m up to date with my first aid, Guv – but I can’t promise cosmetic repairs.’

  Skelgill grins ruefully – and then abruptly he hands her the rod.

  ‘What – me? What do I do?’

  Skelgill positions her hands, one at a time.

  ‘Trap the line there against the rod with your index finger – lock it if you feel a pull – lift into the fish. Otherwise retrieve with short tugs of your left hand.’

  She begins doing as he instructs.

  ‘Guv –’

  There is sudden urgency in her voice and with a lunge Skelgill assists her to strike. He is ebullient.

  ‘Wha-hey! They’re hungry – I bet they’ve not been fed all winter!’

  The fish – a decent rainbow trout – is leaping out of the water, tail dancing and turning somersaults. It disappears and the rod bends alarmingly.

  ‘Let it run – just keep it tight – when you feel it turn and come back, strip in the line as fast as you can.’

  The reel shrieks as the trout takes line, but DS Jones seems to have the idea of braking its progress – and then strips in more or less correctly. A couple of runs and it begins to tire. Skelgill directs her to lift the rod tip to bring the fish alongside. He leans over and has it in two hands.

  ‘Wow – what a beautiful creature, Guv.’

  Skelgill flashes her an inquiring glance.

  ‘Want it for your tea – your Ma?’

  DS Jones frowns reproachfully.

  He picks out the hook and sets the leader aside.

  ‘Nice job – you had it in the scissors – didn’t even make a mark.’

  The fish appears to be panting, but Skelgill seems relaxed. He holds it up to inspect it – and then presents it to his colleague.

  ‘Get a photo – that’ll impress Leyton. Wet your hands.’

  DS Jones looks askance for a second time. But she dunks her hands into the water and gamely accepts the fish.

  ‘Get a good grip.’

  Skelgill pulls out his mobile phone.

  ‘Oh, Guv – I’m going to stink!’

  However, she obliges for the snapshot.

  ‘Now put it back – lean over and submerge it – hold it gently until it swims away.’

  He shifts to the opposite side of the boat for counterbalance. DS Jones lowers the fish into the water – it becomes buoyant and she relaxes her grip, cradling it in outspread fingers. Its gill flaps start working, its fins begin gently to cycle, it waggles its body – and then with a sudden spurt it darts away, making a little bow wave with its dorsal fin before diving from sight. Skelgill is observing DS Jones; her eyes are alight.

  ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘That was amazing – my heart’s pounding! How much do you think it weighed?’

  ‘Three-pound-seven – maybe eight. Call it a four pounder in the pub.’

  She grins.

  ‘I ca
n’t believe how strong it was.’

  Skelgill seems pleased with her assessment.

  ‘A fish is a muscle with fins and a mouth.’ He is admiring the photo. ‘You know what I like about fishing here?’

  He turns the screen for DS Jones to see. She squints – the reflection of the sky may be interfering – but he suspects she is as intrigued by her own image as her catch. She looks up at him with insouciance.

  ‘The company?’

  Skelgill grunts sarcastically.

  ‘Look again.’

  She does.

  ‘The scenery?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘It’s connected with that.’

  She purses her lips.

  ‘I give up, Guv.’

  Rather jauntily, Skelgill pockets his phone.

  ‘No signal.’

  DS Jones chuckles. Now she slides her wrists over the gunwale and dangles her hands in the water. As she rubs them together, there is a sparkle as scales tumble free.

  ‘I can feel the slime, Guv – it doesn’t want to come off.’

  ‘It’s doing what it’s designed for.’ He swivels at the waist and delves into the crate of fishing tackle and related paraphernalia. He retrieves a frayed and rather disreputable-looking hand towel. ‘Here – this’ll do the trick.’

  DS Jones accepts the rag with a small amount of trepidation. Skelgill watches her closely. He suspects she has perhaps had her fill. And all of a sudden he is feeling hungry – and for once he lacks the wherewithal – rainbow trout excepted. DS Jones perhaps detects something of his ambivalence.

  ‘How long do you think we should stay, Guv?’

  Skelgill makes a face, his features screwed up, his front teeth revealed. An image of the hotel’s well-stocked breakfast buffet is erupting Vesuvius-like in his mind’s eye.

  ‘Half an hour. Hour max. Cammy reckons the chap that keeps the place opens up at seven. I wouldn’t mind seeing him. Let him know we’ve been and that Cammy’s regular tub’s still in one piece.’ He raps a knuckle twice against the strakes of the hull.

  Now something of a silence descends between them. Skelgill seems in no hurry to re-cast. They inhale the still, fresh, dewy air – it is cool, cold almost – but they are well wrapped up. Sound is resonant across the water. Early birds are beginning to make their presence known – a pair of ravens sail over high, croaking to one another like a cantankerous old couple – a distant red grouse prevails upon some rival to ‘go-back’ – repeating its entreaty a dozen times in a quacking diminuendo – and nearby a parachuting meadow pipit proclaims precedence over its little patch of heather.

  It is DS Jones that finally breaks the spell.

  ‘I made a list, Guv.’

  ‘Not of suspects.’

  Skelgill’s tone conveys that to do so would surely be stating the obvious.

  ‘Not exactly, Guv – after our conversation last night – not so much the who, as the why.’ She has her shoulder bag with her, stowed in the bows behind the thwart on which she sits. She reaches around and extracts her notebook. ‘I thought – now that we’ve seen everyone – closer at hand – back in their comfort zones – found out a bit more about them.’ She removes the midge hat and lays it on the thwart and shakes out her hair. ‘If Scarlett Liddell were killed. Why that might be – looking at it from the perspective of possible motives.’

  The notebook falls open at a marked page. She rotates it and hands it to Skelgill. He squints suspiciously, and is reluctant to accept – but then is perhaps relieved to see she has in fact drawn a diagram, a sketch. It might almost be for his benefit. There is the outline of Greenmire Castle, with roughly drawn crenulations, its two towers and their staircases, and five storeys, with the guests’ names in positions corresponding to their rooms on descending floors:

  4th – Scarlett Liddell – Will Liddell

  3rd – Felicity Belvedere – Kevin Makepeace

  2nd – Belinda Luker – Mike Luker

  1st – Suzy Duff – Derek Duff

  Lavinia Montagu-Browne – Thomas Montagu-Browne

  The Montagu-Brownes are marked on the ground floor – and set apart, away from the building, a stick figure, beside the name, Muriel Liddell. Above the castle float a series of overlapping clouds, a kind of Venn diagram – and inside each of these is written a single word:

  Jealousy

  Revenge

  Greed

  Threat

  Skelgill scrutinises the page. He is frowning.

  ‘There’s at least one missing.’

  ‘A person?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Control.’

  DS Jones appears perplexed.

  ‘How do you mean, Guv?’

  Skelgill immediately looks unhappy. There will be a place – and a time – for this kind of speculation, but his gut knows this is neither – and not because they bob at dawn upon an obscure Scottish loch. His pained expression tells that he regrets raising the point. Unwillingly, he elaborates.

  ‘Say it were Will Liddell – killed his wife.’ He glances up from the page to see that DS Jones seems uncomfortable with the suggestion. ‘If I heard one thing about him yesterday, I heard it half-a-dozen times dressed up in different ways. He likes to be in charge. Scarlett Liddell was a bit of a rebel, a redhead – a hothead. Put the two together and what have you got? He goes in to her bathroom – doesn’t like the way she’s dressed – or not dressed – she tells him where to go. He loses his rag and –’

  Skelgill glowers – in fact not so much at what might have happened next – but that he is being drawn down this route – much as it is a perfectly logical train of thought. There is silence for few moments before DS Jones responds.

  ‘I suppose I would have put that down as jealousy, Guv. You know – the idea that she intended to go without underwear – it might have sent the wrong signal.’ She regards Skelgill rather tentatively. ‘But isn’t it more likely she did it for his titillation?’

  Skelgill is staring out across the water – he gives the impression that he is looking for promising rises at which to aim his fly – except that his gaze is fixed, his features stern, and perhaps the only fish he imagines making a leap is a red herring. When he does not speak DS Jones adds a rider.

  ‘Besides, Guv – what you say about ‘control’ – that might be the way he likes things to be – but it’s exactly his nature. Have you ever met anyone so in control of their emotions? I just can’t imagine him flying off the handle.’

  Skelgill grimaces. There ensues another long pause.

  ‘What kind of dog would he be?’

  Now DS Jones does a little double take.

  ‘Sorry, Guv?’

  Skelgill looks at her as if this is a perfectly regular question.

  ‘If he were a dog – what breed would you say he were?’

  DS Jones remains puzzled. Her tone is uneasy.

  ‘I really don’t know.’

  ‘Start with one of the others, then.’

  Eventually DS Jones comes up with a suggestion.

  ‘Well – Kevin Makepeace – maybe – maybe a Dalmatian?’ She pulls a face as if to suggest she is not convinced. ‘He’s quite showy.’

  Skelgill shrugs in a way that indicates he grudgingly accepts her first attempt.

  ‘Derek Duff.’

  ‘Labrador.’ Her answer here is unequivocal. ‘A friendly one, trying to please.’

  Now Skelgill grins fleetingly.

  ‘There you go – it’s easier than you thought. Mike Luker, then?’

  ‘Hmm. Something of the Bloodhound, I think, Guv. He looks a bit hangdog and disinterested – but you probably wouldn’t want him on your case. He’d be determined to sell you an investment.’

  Skelgill waits and watches. DS Jones knows she has to come up with a proposal for Will Liddell. Still she finds this most difficult.

  ‘I think – it’s hard to say –’ Now she closes her eyes. ‘I kind of see a – a Husky.’

  �
�Husky? He’s nothing like it.’

  DS Jones shrugs rather helplessly.

  ‘Well I know, Guv – not to look at – but maybe it’s because of his eyes – they’re a really icy blue – and that’s what I associate with Huskies.’

  Skelgill ponders this assertion. His silence suggests he buys into her logic.

  ‘Er, Guv?’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  Still holding the notebook he stretches, reaching his arms above his head and bringing them down and flexing his biceps like a strongman.

  ‘Muriel Liddell – I don’t know if she was trying to tell me something – like Will Liddell’s not what he seems.’

  Now Skelgill looks again at the page. Whether to see if some connection has emerged following his unorthodox intervention – or just long enough to pay lip service to his sergeant’s efforts, it is hard to say. But he hands it back with a wry grin.

  ‘You need a list of weapons – like, what’s it called? – Cluedo.’

  DS Jones looks momentarily downcast – that his allusion reduces her method to that of a parlour game.

  ‘Except we know it was a feather boa, Guv.’

  Skelgill grimaces.

  ‘We just don’t know if it was a murder weapon.’

  *

  ‘Feeling better, Guv?’

  Skelgill has cast down his cutlery and now he settles back in his seat. They have the same breakfast table as yesterday morning, overlooking the Glasgow road, silent through the thick plate glass. He nods, experimentally almost – as if he is testing for a sore head. The good old ‘Full English’ – although in this case he has to remind himself it is a ‘Full Scottish’, bacon, egg and beans, augmented by potato scone and haggis pudding, and the sausage a square of Lorne. It has no basis in biochemistry, but saturated fat and salt, washed down by sugary tea, seems to cure hangovers where paracetamol fails.

  ‘There’s sommat not right.’

  DS Jones looks at Skelgill with apprehension – she realises he doesn’t mean with himself – he might be recalcitrant but her boss is no hypochondriac.