Murder in the Mind Read online

  Bruce Beckham

  __________

  Murder in the Mind

  A detective novel

  LUCiUS

  Text copyright 2016 Bruce Beckham

  All rights reserved. Bruce Beckham asserts his right always to be identified as the author of this work. No part may be copied or transmitted without written permission from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events and locales is entirely coincidental.

  Kindle edition first published by Lucius 2016

  Paperback edition first published by Lucius 2016

  For more details and Rights enquiries contact:

  [email protected]

  EDITOR’S NOTE

  Murder in the Mind is a stand-alone crime mystery, the sixth in the series ‘Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates’. It is set primarily in the English Lake District, a National Park of 885 square miles that lies in the rugged northern county of Cumbria, home to England’s highest mountain, Scafell Pike, and its deepest and longest lakes, Wast Water and Windermere.

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  Murder in Adland

  Murder in School

  Murder on the Edge

  Murder on the Lake

  Murder by Magic

  Murder in the Mind

  Murder at the Wake

  (Above: Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates)

  Murder, Mystery Collection

  The Dune

  The Sexopaths

  CONTENTS

  1. Midsummer Madness

  2. Police HQ

  3. Haresfell

  4. Peel Wyke

  5. Brunch

  6. Police HQ

  7. Haresfell

  8. Tebay

  9. Hare’s Beck Foot Inn

  10. Crow Park

  11. Haresfell

  12. Police HQ

  13. Haresfell

  14. The Siren

  15. Escape

  16. Director’s Office

  17. The Yat

  18. The Bivvy

  19. Bass Lake

  20. Central Manchester

  21. Fishing With Alice

  22. Interviews

  23. Briony Boss

  24. The Lune

  25. Sadgill Nook

  26. Earl Grey

  27. The Lune

  1. MIDSUMMER MADNESS

  Fishing. For a person seeking inspiration – whether it be a mathematician pondering the probability of a parallel universe, a writer striving to wrestle a recalcitrant octopus of a plot from the cavernous depths of his subconscious, or indeed a policeman charged with unravelling what he suspects to be a mare’s nest of a mystery laid upon his lap by an impatient superior – then fishing is a good word to begin with. Never one to shy away from ending a sentence with a preposition himself, Skelgill has muttered, “No point staying in,” and this Sunday dawning in early July finds him afloat upon Bassenthwaite Lake with a comparable purpose in mind.

  Why he has contemplated staying in at all – when the love of his life beckons omnipresent just a few short miles from his bed, and when no other commitments compete for his soul – can be deduced from the condition of his boat. Not a man to be influenced by congruency, Skelgill has implemented certain modifications, and at a glance – and viewed from a distance – a Chinese junk springs to mind. A capacious if dilapidated olive green fishing umbrella is unfurled above the stern of the craft, its shaft secured in a sawn-off section of steel pipe bolted to the gunwale, and in the bow, perched upon the forward thwart, is a small tent-like contraption fashioned from a section of stained tarpaulin and a wooden orange crate with two of its three front spars knocked out. Skelgill even has his own verb for this kind of Heath Robinson inspired mischief, to mackle (v.t. to adapt, improvise, rebuild or repair in such a way as to achieve the functional objective at the minimum of cost, with little or no regard for the appearance of the finished job). As such, he carves pike lures from wooden paintbrush handles, suspends fishing rods from his garage ceiling with redundant neckties, and has a replacement aerial for his car radio bent from a wire coat-hanger into the shape of a fish. All prime examples of mackling.

  The deduction that can be made, of course, is that it is raining. Britain is experiencing one of its damper summers. After a promisingly dry and sunny April, May became unseasonably cool; in June the mercury refused to budge much above sixty, and the jet stream resolutely declined to slide northwards. Presently the country is the recipient of a succession of depressions, queued up over the Atlantic, each waiting its turn to make a dash at England’s western seaboard. Cumbria being first in line to greet these unwelcome visitors, and mountainous to boot, it is living up to its damp reputation, and retailers of cheap cagoules are making hay while the sun doesn’t shine.

  Skelgill’s attitude towards rainfall, however, is no more nor less than ambivalent. While it poses certain challenges from an angling perspective – coloured water, surface disruption, death by lightning – he subscribes to a philosophy borrowed from the long-suffering Scots, that there is no such thing as bad weather, only the wrong clothes. Thus, when this morning the steady drum of raindrops upon his roof had summoned him gently from his slumbers, his determination to brave the elements had been bolstered by the expectation that he would probably have Bass Lake to himself.

  Apart from Cleopatra, that is. She – a middle-aged spinster – snores contentedly from within the mackled kennel clamped in place in the bow. And while he generally prefers to fish alone – not least for reasons of uninterrupted contemplation – an aspect he has discovered as a relatively recent dog owner is that being caught talking aloud to oneself is much more easily covered up when one has a canine in tow.

  This morning, however, he need have no fear of eavesdroppers. As he has predicted, fair-weather sailors and bank anglers have remained in their beds, and he may converse freely without recourse to his piebald pet. The rain is steady though not especially heavy. The surrounding fells are truncated – a couple of hundred feet of shadowy forest disappearing into grey mist – and even the further reaches of the lake are invisible. Of wind there is barely a breath – the main reason that his umbrella rig is feasible – although in lieu of complete silence there is a faint sibilance as precipitation meets meniscus, a soft hiss punctuated by the occasional plaintive birdcall.

  He is fishing in a somewhat sedentary style. The canopy is a constraining factor, militating against regular cast-and-retrieve methods, and so he has settled for laying out a couple of dead baits and lying in wait. That he constantly fiddles with his box of cooking kit suggests that he is only wiling away the time until he can reasonably adjourn to a suitable stretch of shingle for the purposes of breakfast.

  But he does have a conundrum mull over. And while there is a professional aspect (though nothing so auspicious as murder or terrorism or organised crime), curiously it also concerns the topic of angling.

  Cumbria Police have this past week hosted a major national conference showcasing the latest developments in forensic science, which includes such varied disciplines as bloodstain pattern analysis, ballistic fingerprinting, and DNA profiling. It is uncertain why the provincial force was awarded this honour, although cynics among the ordinary ranks have drawn attention to the breath-taking Lake District scenery, comfortable country hotels, and the best gourmet food outside London. Striding briskly about HQ have been glimpsed unfamiliar delegates sporting rarely seen uniform insignia, alongside sundry eccentric academics trailing letters after their names like untidy luggage.

  With attendance restricted to grades well above that of Sk
elgill’s, his connection is entirely indirect. On Saturday evening the event culminated in a sumptuous farewell dinner of local fare and not so local vintages, its climax being a consequently well-oiled charity auction. As a precursor to this grand finale, on Friday afternoon Skelgill – along with several of his peers – had been hauled before the Chief to be confronted with the demand: what could they supply to boost the presently unsatisfactory catalogue of lots? One officer – quick to find favour – had immediately piped up that his sister runs a B&B in Ambleside, and speaking on her behalf donated a free off-peak stay. A second nominated an uncle with an abattoir near Greystoke, and suggested a lamb might be available (dressed, butchered and frozen, naturally). And a third – elbowed unceremoniously by a colleague in the know – was obliged to admit that his better half is the (dubiously) talented artist whose quirky acrylics adorn many Lakeland souvenir shops; thus a suitable landscape would be forthcoming. DI Alec Smart, the sharp-suited and slick-tongued Mancunian – never slow to ingratiate himself with the Chief (and who Skelgill believes had advance notice of this request) – clearly considered that he trumped all with the offer of a scenic tour of the Lakes in his brand new convertible roadster, followed by a candlelit meal in a Michelin-starred restaurant. This prompted one inspector present to quip that DI Smart seemed to have someone in mind; reinforcing Skelgill’s suspicion, Smart had smirked brazenly, though offered no further explanation.

  The room had turned to Skelgill. Not to be outshone by DI Smart, and under the steely gaze of the Chief, and – it must be admitted – in something of a panic being entirely unable to think of a suitable offering, in a moment of midsummer madness he had blurted out his proposition.

  ‘A thirty-pound pike.’

  When the ironic laughter had died down, and only expectant stares remained, laid upon him like the swords of victors in battle, he had elaborated.

  ‘A weekend’s guided fishing – I’ll guarantee they’ll catch a thirty-pound pike.’

  And thus Skelgill has his paradox this morning. Many times he has eschewed the suggestion that he could make a living doing what he loves most. Why fish only in one’s limited spare time, when you could do it every day of the week? His answer, however, is consistently unequivocal: “I’ll tell you why.” Because, for Skelgill such an occupation would be the ultimate busman’s holiday – or rather the converse of this – for he recognises his passion would become relegated to the level of a chore. Instead of the freedom to roam as he might wish, to go with his whims, to drift with the wind, to talk to himself, to consume outrageous portions of charred sausage; instead of the freedom to not catch fish... there would be all manner of pressures. Never mind that the precious commodity of solitude that angling bestows upon him would dissolve forever: from where would he draw his inspiration?

  And he might not like his clients. Indeed, substitute would for might! Recalcitrant, capricious, truculent and obstinate, and far too self-absorbed ever to make a good servant – this is Skelgill, and, secretly, he knows it! His customers – well they would be cack-handed, scared of fish, afraid of the water, apprehensive of the weather, rude, demanding, expecting to be entertained and – most of all – anticipating a catch with every cast – when the reality is that a blank day is odds on. (Especially with a “bloody amateur thrashing about” in the boat.)

  The thought pains him that, once strangers were admitted aboard, he would be trapped for the day, obliged to humour them, to make conversation, to listen to stories of their uninteresting exploits – when he’d rather tell them about his! Even worse – it could be someone who thinks they know better than him – or, heaven forbid, the impossible-to-contemplate scenario – someone who actually did know better!

  As he ponders variations upon these unpleasant themes, his features draw progressively into an anguished grimace, and it is just as well that his dog is asleep. As the only other person here present, she would wonder what misdemeanour she has committed. But Skelgill is simply regretting that, in the heat of the moment, beneath the Chief’s burning scrutiny, he had reacted to the gauntlet cast down by DI Smart. Why he hadn’t he come up with something that didn’t involve him personally – perhaps a prize of a fishing rod (he has plenty to spare – several hooked free out of the lake – loth as he would be to part with any), a box of hand-tied flies, or some wild trout from his freezer?

  But, no. He had opened his big mouth, the words had come tumbling out, and – it must be said – there was a glint of approval in the Chief’s eyes (as if this were exactly the kind of money-can’t-buy lot she sought, knowing the habits and hobbies of her predominantly upper-middle-class male audience). There was no going back. Indeed, the luminaries’ dinner has been consumed, the auction duly executed – and deemed a financial success – and the Chief’s ultra-efficient PA has already electronically notified Skelgill that the thus far anonymous winner desires to take their prize next weekend.

  So now, rather ironically, he is compelled to allocate a measure of solitude – in order to contemplate and plan – to agonise over, to vicariously prepare for – not a heinous crime or a horrible murder – but the waste of a weekend on the water. For he must deliver – there will be feedback to the Chief. A thirty-pound specimen pike was what the auctioneer sold – and that is what the successful VIP will expect.

  2. POLICE HQ

  ‘I’d forgotten Jones was off.’

  ‘No problem, Guv.’

  This exchange takes place in Skelgill’s office – DS Leyton has brought the teas for the regular Monday morning catch-up meeting, a task normally entrusted to his ever-willing female colleague. As is also customary Skelgill overlooks a thank you, and hence DS Leyton’s subtly sarcastic response – not that Skelgill seems to notice. He takes a gulp from his steaming mug and scowls disapprovingly – though it cannot be that DS Leyton has made a lesser job of it, for the canteen has a consistent output of the scalding beverage. DS Leyton, with a groan, lowers himself into his usual seat opposite his boss, while Skelgill squints at a map of the British Isles pinned upon the wall above his sergeant’s head.

  ‘Can’t think why she’s gone to Norfolk – flat as a pancake – little strip of scenery and a whacking great empty sky.’ He takes another swig of tea. ‘You might as well be at sea.’

  DS Leyton is blowing at the surface of his mug, trying to cool down its contents. Without looking up he twitches his broad shoulders.

  ‘Flat’s the reason, Guv – her Ma’s not so good and her old Dad’s in a wheelchair – so’s they can get out and about.’

  Skelgill turns a sceptical eye to his window. Rain streaks the glass; there has been no indication of a break in the weather, and the early-morning forecast on the radio for the week ahead had only words of pessimism.

  ‘What’s wrong with the prom at Blackpool? That’s dead level – and it would save the journey – there’s no proper roads lead to Norfolk – it’s the back of beyond.’

  DS Leyton calls a temporary truce with his tea and lifts the mug up onto the cabinet beside him. He stretches and yawns.

  ‘Suppose there’s some good views, Guv?’

  ‘Views? You can see five countries from the top of Skiddaw – that’s a view.’

  DS Leyton does not appear convinced by this statement – it smacks of the hyperbole that he suspects often infects such proclamations. Skelgill detects his subordinate’s dissent. He makes a tally on his fingers.

  ‘Scotland, Wales, Northern Ireland, Isle of Man... England.’

  DS Leyton frowns and his thick eyebrows meet above a deep furrow.

  ‘I didn’t realise you were counting the Isle of Man, Guv – nor England. Thought you might have meant France.’

  ‘France! Leyton, it’s a good view – but not that good.’

  DS Leyton cranes around to gaze at the map – in the very bottom right-hand corner a ghostly sliver of apparently unimportant territory contains Boulogne and Dieppe. He gives a shake of his head and looks suitably chastised. And if he is tempted to highlight
the difficulties attendant in pushing a wheelchair up Skiddaw, he refrains – which is perhaps just as well, for Skelgill’s stock reply would be to refer to the great Alfred Wainwright, who notes that the popular tourist path has been derided as being “for grandmothers and babies”. Instead, DS Leyton takes what he must consider is a more endearing tack.

  ‘I hear that bigwigs’ auction was a success, Guv – according to George there was a bit of a ding-dong over your fishing jaunt.’

  Skelgill casts a doubting glance at his subordinate.

  ‘How come George knows – I thought it was all hush-hush?’

  DS Leyton shrugs casually.

  ‘He’s got a niece works in the bar at the hotel – she was serving after-dinner drinks.’

  ‘So – who bought it?’

  Now DS Leyton shakes his head, his jowls following with a marginal delay.

  ‘She don’t know – they had bidding cards with numbers on – but it seems you got the best price of the night.’

  Skelgill’s features remain stern, but he can’t hide the glint of triumph that lights his eyes.

  ‘So I beat Smart.’

  ‘Sounds like it, Guv – George reckons the Chief’s cock-a-hoop.’ DS Leyton rubs the fingers of one hand against his thumb. ‘Maybe it’s a good time to ask for a pay rise, Guv.’

  Skelgill dismisses this suggestion with a scoffing retort.

  ‘Leyton – it’s not over until the fat lady bites.’

  DS Leyton stares rather blankly at Skelgill, wondering what this confused idiom might mean. Skelgill duly enlightens him.

  ‘All big pike are female, Leyton – anything over about eighteen pound.’

  DS Leyton takes this information on board with a rather philosophical tilt of his head.