Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘I feel it’s more likely that he won’t have known about it.’

  ‘Whatever.’ Skelgill shrugs indifferently. ‘When he finds out – he’s smart enough to realise it’s not going to be difficult to identify the father.’

  DS Jones nods reflectively. If this is an ace they hold up their sleeve, then she wants to deploy it to best effect – but what is the desired outcome? Some kind of confession from Kevin Makepeace? But to show their cards risks handing over the advantage – and simply providing their opponent with the means to mount a defence. If there were a clandestine relationship, then only one person is alive to write its history. And circumstantial evidence alone will not prove that Kevin Makepeace was involved in the death of Scarlett Liddell any more than her husband – or any of the other members of the party, come to that. Perhaps she must resign herself to ‘seeing which way the wind blows’.

  ‘What about you, Guv? What will you do?’

  It takes a while for Skelgill to answer. When he does, it is with another from his repertoire of slippery clichés.

  ‘I’ll sleep on it.’

  21. IUNCTA SORORIBUS

  Tuesday, 6.15am

  ‘Gibbons, Inspector?’

  Skelgill takes a seat on the bench above the stone wall, below which the elderly man, David Balfour performs his Tai Chi before the great vista of Edinburgh, the city’s spires and stacks wreathed in a smoky mist that recalls its epithet Auld Reekie. The newly risen sun picks out the distant Bass Rock, and Skelgill is reminded that he has not checked his boat for evidence of its erstwhile epithet, Covenant. For this is the man that might well say, “Ah kent yer faither.”

  ‘Something like that, aye.’

  This is a white lie – for the zoo’s primates were curiously silent this morning – and Skelgill’s wakefulness stemmed from some internal source. He was alert with the nervousness of an impending challenge – for many people an examination, albeit not for him – but a fell race, perhaps or a cricket match – though neither of these are activities in which he has much formal involvement these days. It can only be the Liddell case. That this might be the crucial day. But even so – he is not the one going into bat, so to speak – for DS Jones pads up to face Kevin Makepeace at 10am at Fettes Avenue police headquarters. Skelgill’s strategy is that she has, if not exactly his trust, then the man’s cooperation – but perhaps more importantly she has his measure – and thus Skelgill’s presence might clip the wings of one who tends to preen before the fairer sex. Though he was guarded before – maybe Kevin Makepeace will reveal to DS Jones a chink in his shining armour.

  ‘I never got very far with the Sallies girls.’

  Skelgill starts. David Balfour has broken off from his exertions and has turned to face him. A sympathetic grin seems incongruous on the lopsided features. Yet – though he obviously speaks of bygone times, and of a matter of a different nature – there is perspicacity in his words – and he seems to sense something of Skelgill’s discontentment.

  ‘It’s not the lasses I’ve been speaking with.’

  Now the old man raises a sagacious finger.

  ‘But their mothers will be Sallies girls.’ Skelgill must look puzzled – for the man elaborates – if in obtuse terms. ‘Iuncta sororibus.’

  ‘You’ve got me there, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Their motto. I’m not sure that whoever came up with it was all that hot on Latin – but it just about passes muster. The infamous wall of silence!’ He frowns and shakes his head reflectively. ‘Sisters side by side.’

  *

  Skelgill is looking at what appears to be a row of nondescript females in old-fashioned long smock uniforms. There is something of the domestic servant about their appearance – although this strikes him as paradoxical, since surely these carved images are meant to represent the daughters of wealthy Victorian merchants. They stand straight, arm in arm, and their sandstone eyes look vacantly over the grassy quadrangle as they must have done for the past 150 years. He wonders that he did not notice the commemorative tablet on his last visit – it must be six feet by three, and it tops the central portico of the old school building. Beneath the static figures, sure enough, is the motto, Iuncta sororibus, a new addition to his smattering of Latin, to go with Esox lucius, aurora borealis and et cetera.

  His attention is distracted by a proletarian cry, “Hallo, there!” – it is the janitor – some distance away – but distinctive in his high-visibility vest – displaying a palm of recognition above the cropped head. However, if the man intends to conduct some shouted conversation he gives up before he has begun – a small cavalcade of showroom-fresh 4x4s lumbers into view along the school entrance road, and he jumps out to intercept them. Skelgill is reminded of a clip he has seen on television, of a protestor valiantly trying to face down a column of tanks. By the look of it, the janitor has a similarly futile mission. But now the clatter of hockey sticks and a sudden crescendo of high-pitched cries tell him the ‘push-back’ (another recent addition to his knowledge) has taken place.

  *

  ‘You weren’t at this school.’

  Suzy Duff blinks but does not look away from the hockey pitch.

  ‘I grew up in Hamilton – south of Glasgow. I attended the local state academy. Over here in the east they consider me a Weegie.’

  Skelgill nods, perhaps commiseratively. He is familiar with this regional appellation for anyone vaguely Glaswegian, generally well meant – like Scouser, or Geordie, or Cockney – but he suspects in these more exalted circles it carries a hint of disparagement, and class differentiation. Her accent alone probably divulges this is not her alma mater. To look at, however, there would be nothing especially to distinguish her from the other well-heeled mothers who bask in the luxury of watching their daughters play hockey on a weekday morning. When last he saw her she was a little dishevelled – just out of the shower, her hair damp, with casual wear thrown on for a dog walk. Now her hair is brushed and glossy, and she sports a navy quilted knee-length coat that is tailored at the waist and hints at her shapely athletic figure; beneath she wears black leggings and calf-length boots. The coat looks new, although the boots on reflection are perhaps a little scuffed. He wonders if she has invested any thought of meeting him into her appearance; certainly there is perfume – but the warm, tactile manner of their walk on the wooded hill has deserted her. She had sounded a little flustered on the telephone – that she was about to leave for hockey – her daughter Poppy has been drafted into an older year-group to play an important cup tie. Skelgill had offered to meet her pitchside; and here they stand, in the cool, bright morning, the sun still low, streaming through bare treetops between south and east. She has pointed out to him that Lulu, the Liddell girl is also playing; but Skelgill sees no sign of her mother along the touchline; he wonders if the arrest of Will Liddell is keeping her away. Out on the pitch the action is as frantic as before, although – he notes – more precise. This is the under-16s squad, and he sees Catriona Brodie across in the home dugout, animated, engrossed, making each sweep and block, silently cursing at each infringement; he wonders if she has noticed his presence.

  ‘What about the others?’

  ‘The others?’

  It is a stalling rejoinder. Patiently, Skelgill elaborates.

  ‘Mrs Luker. Ms Belvedere. Mrs Liddell – Muriel Liddell.’

  Her response is overly slow.

  ‘Yes, I believe they did – attend Sallies.’

  In this feigned doubt Skelgill detects a note of foreboding.

  ‘Another reason to send their bairns here.’

  ‘Yes.’

  For a man often impatient and too self-absorbed to be a master of social niceties, Skelgill can be crafty. But he is less than comfortable in dealing with platitudes such as they exchange now – and it must be obvious to Suzy Duff that these are facts of which he is well aware. As a silence descends – it feels like for several minutes – they watch the play; they are both still, and seem absorbed in their thoughts;
but Skelgill gets a growing sense that Suzy Duff is waiting for him to make his move. Her face has taken on a mask of impending doom; she seems resigned to her fate; yet Skelgill is an unwilling executioner. But there is a lighter moment – a vigorous tackle just a couple of yards from them. It involves Poppy Duff and her opposite number. The ball ricochets up – in their direction – Skelgill half-ducks and simultaneously flings out his left arm to make a decisive catch. The umpire signals it is Sallies’ ball – Skelgill holds it out to the girl – who regards him with her cold blue eyes – but as she takes it there is fleeting yet endearing smile. Suzy Duff – when she might be expected to encourage her daughter – does not speak. As the play surges down the wing, it is Skelgill who does.

  As the words come to Skelgill he feels like they have been with him for a long time – not exactly on the tip of his tongue – somewhere more visceral – and that they are ancient words in themselves – and that these were the words that he slept on – albeit fitfully, the disquiet would not leave him – letters that formed like embryonic tadpoles and finally spelled out the uncomfortable truth that has nagged at his subconscious.

  ‘She’s Will Liddell’s.’

  He does not employ further explanation – or even a hint of inquiry in his intonation – such is his phrase borne with the certainty of gut feel – and it is a conviction that is thus conveyed to Suzy Duff. She continues to gaze out over the pitch, her eyes no longer following the play, or even her daughter, come to that.

  ‘Is it so obvious?’

  In the dizzying instant Skelgill can only just hear her words, such is the sudden pounding of blood in his head, his heart rising up in his chest. When he speaks, his voice sounds disembodied, as though it cannot be his own. But he feels a great weight lifted from him, as though an angel has swooped unseen.

  ‘I shouldn’t say so. She’s got your sparkle in her eye.’

  That Skelgill describes a maternal tempering of the icy blue paternal eyes might just as easily be interpreted as a slight as the compliment he intends; however she accepts his observation with apparent equanimity. It is a little while before she replies.

  ‘Will is a very old friend – of Derek’s – a very good friend.’

  Skelgill too continues to gaze out over the pitch, as if to face her will prick the little bubble of confidence that has enveloped them. Indeed, his demeanour might be considered overly passive, but a fellow angler would recognise a focus in his eyes, a possession that prevails in that interval between a bite being indicated and the quarry to be discovered floundering in the net. But he does raise an eyebrow at the remark.

  ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

  ‘It’s the truth.’

  ‘Strikes me Will Liddell’s got an interesting take on friendship.’

  There is more silence. Out of the corner of his eye Skelgill can see that Suzy Duff is biting her lip. Does she hope that he knows less than she fears? She does not respond to his observation.

  ‘When Scarlett Liddell didn’t come down to the library – and Mr Liddell found the door locked – it was definitely you that suggested you should accompany him back up – not the other way round?’

  She does not seem surprised that Skelgill has fast-forwarded to this question. Still she does not look at him; however there might be a sign of relief, a relaxation of the shoulders. Certainly her tone is unguarded.

  ‘Yes – my idea.’

  Skelgill inserts another pause before he poses his next question – but she waits patiently.

  ‘Me and my sergeant – DS Jones – we did a reconstruction. To get up one stair, through the rooms, and down the other. You took about three-and-a-half minutes longer than us.’

  At last she turns her head to face him – but he detects no sign of panic in her eyes. She seems to understand that he requires an explanation.

  ‘Inspector, have you asked Will about this?’

  Skelgill grimaces.

  ‘I hear that Mr Liddell has been advised by his lawyer to answer “No comment” to all questions at the moment.’

  Suzy Duff is plainly interested that Skelgill is honest about this point – when he could have resorted to subterfuge. Could he be on her side? To Skelgill, it seems apparent she is wrestling with divided loyalties, yet she is not rushing to cover her own tracks, a condition he would recognise in an instant.

  ‘Naturally, we go back a long way, Inspector.’

  Her tone carries neither bitterness nor affection; neither regret nor yearning. It is wholly empty of emotion.

  ‘Long enough for Scarlett Liddell to come between you?’

  ‘Oh, no – no – nothing like that.’ Now her features become alarmed. ‘We entered Scarlett’s room – it was exactly as I have described. Will immediately looked into the bathroom – he cried out – and I ran for help.’

  Skelgill again takes a few moments to compose his rejoinder.

  ‘You just took longer to get there in the first place.’

  ‘There’s no crime in that – surely, Inspector?’

  Still her tone is matter of fact, when he might expect it to be pleading.

  ‘It can be a crime to withhold evidence – to hinder a police officer in their line of duty.’ He inhales and lets out the breath more slowly. ‘But there’s no rule I can think of that says you had to take one minute or two minutes or three minutes or more to reach Scarlett Liddell’s bedroom.’

  ‘If we’d had any inkling that Scarlett had been in trouble – of course we would have raced to her assistance.’

  ‘And that goes for Mr Liddell?’

  ‘Undoubtedly, Inspector. He worshipped the ground she stood upon.’

  ‘He had a funny way of showing it.’

  Now there is another pause – and she does not contend the assertion, but merely sighs.

  ‘Nothing is quite what it seems with Will.’

  ‘Evidently.’

  Skelgill is thinking that if Will Liddell had taken a witness to the ‘discovery’ of Scarlett Liddell, having killed her earlier, it would have required an extraordinary degree of callousness to dally with Suzy Duff for the best part of four minutes. But now her voice interrupts his reverie.

  ‘I don’t for a moment believe he killed her.’

  Skelgill regards the woman intently.

  ‘Would Scarlett Liddell have known about his – what are they calling it – his peccadilloes?’

  But now she surprises him with a small act of resistance.

  ‘Is anything proven, Inspector?’

  Skelgill’s features become severe.

  ‘I’m told another four alleged victims got in touch overnight. We’re approaching double figures.’

  Suzy Duff’s gaze falls away.

  ‘I can’t speak for Scarlett, Inspector. But she hadn’t known him all that long. In the scale of things they were virtually a new couple.’

  ‘That didn’t appear to be a deterrent on his part.’ His gaze seeks out Catriona Brodie. ‘We know of at least one reported incident in the last twelve months.’

  Suzy Duff looks downcast. She nods slowly.

  ‘Maybe not.’

  ‘What about the first wife – Muriel Liddell – we’re talking what – fifteen years together? She must have been aware of something.’

  ‘You’d have to ask her, Inspector.’

  Skelgill senses that a measure of reticence has entered Suzy Duff’s manner.

  ‘I thought wives knew everything about their husbands? And then confided in their friends.’

  ‘I suppose you can choose not to know certain things. And there are degrees of friendship.’

  Skelgill nods contemplatively.

  ‘Then what about Belinda Luker and Felicity Belvedere – what would they say if I asked them about Will Liddell – now the lid’s been lifted?’

  Suzy Duff’s eyes dart about, as though she is measuring the distances between the white lines on the playing surface.

  ‘I don’t think it’s fair to ask me these questions, Ins
pector – I mean – we’ve not done anything wrong – not against the law. Have we?’

  Skelgill appears momentarily perplexed by her response; that it is in the plural. But he proceeds with his intended question.

  ‘Suzy – why did you go upstairs with him?’ He looks at her and gestures with a restrained sweep of his arm towards her. ‘You’ve got nothing to prove.’ He might wish to add more – but he is already alarmed that he has used her first name, and one further step could constitute uninvited attention.

  Nonetheless, Suzy Duff blushes. She shifts on her feet. When her response comes, it is curiously oblique, her tone one of resignation.

  ‘Derek is still living the dream – he still thinks he’s a professional footballer – a local celebrity – that all he has to do is to turn up in some potential client’s office and they will hand him a blank cheque. But that was all two decades ago, near enough. The young people in marketing – they’ve never heard of him – and winning ways don’t get you very far in today’s cutthroat business world.’

  Skelgill is nodding – but he is thinking of DS Jones’s deduction – that Will Liddell’s businesses were almost certainly the sole source of Derek Duff’s income. And now the corollary of that circumstance stands all around him – the hockey pitches, the floodlights, the pavilion, the manicured grounds, the beautifully maintained buildings, the happy pupils and motivated staff. Suzy Duff already has one child at this establishment – and three more knocking on the great oak doors. What sort of household income is required to send a brood of four to private school? But what mother, having sent the first, could deny the others?

  Skelgill wonders if the picture is becoming clearer – or more confused. One speculative line of his sergeants has been that Scarlett Liddell may have threatened to come between Will Liddell and the livelihood of one of the males who depend upon him. But which is the most dangerous animal in the jungle – of course, a tigress with her cubs.