Murder in the Mind Page 3

  Skelgill notices a new bat-box nailed upon an oak, one of a dozen or so great corrugated pillars that encircle the glade. Craning his neck and squinting into the background brightness of the sky, he screws up his features – as if he doubts that such a flattened structure can accommodate a daddy longlegs, let alone a community of small mammals with twelve-inch wingspans. He rotates on his heel, examining each tree in turn. There is quite a collection of high-rise real estate up there; the bat conservation trust has been busy since his last visit. And then a movement at ground level catches his eye.

  Standing like a shadow against a grey trunk, resting with one arm behind her back and clad from head to toe in black outdoor gear, is the figure of a woman, slender and of medium height. Thwarted by constricted pupils, Skelgill blinks several times until his eyes adjust. Her hood is drawn close about her face and she has one hand to her lips, for she is smoking. Is this a guest (or perhaps a member of staff) from the old coaching inn a quarter of a mile down the lane – who has sought out this secluded spot for a sneaky cigarette break? Yet she regards him with a knowing mixture of amusement and insouciance. And in his reaction is there a vague sense of recognition? If so, it is transitory, for he affects to remember something, and sets off with a jerk towards his nut-brown shooting brake. However, he realises he cannot pretend that he has not noticed her, and he glances self-consciously in her direction.

  ‘Morning.’

  The woman – in the midst of inhaling – tips her head in a casual gesture of acknowledgement. Skelgill continues purposefully, patting his pockets in a hammed act of searching for his keys.

  ‘Inspector Skelgill?’

  Her voice is confident.

  Skelgill halts and stares with some alarm.

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘I’m Agnetha Walker.’

  A few seconds pass before her identity dawns upon him.

  ‘Doctor Walker?’

  ‘That is correct.’ She discards the cigarette and pushes off from the tree and approaches him. She smiles, revealing even white teeth. ‘But since we are about to spend the weekend together perhaps we ought to move on from Doctor and Inspector?’

  Skelgill has his head cocked just slightly, as if he is listening to her accent. (South of England, perhaps? A trace of Teutonic? Certainly her enunciation seems a little stilted.) Then he suddenly registers that he should complete the informal introduction.

  ‘Aye – it’s er, Dan.’

  The woman extends a hand. Skelgill hesitates – he has only minutes earlier been hooking-up dead baits. He makes as if to wipe his palm on his jacket, but in the nick of time it dawns on him that this would be poor form. In the end he reciprocates, and is distracted for a moment by the surprising warmth of her grip.

  ‘That is a relief.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘They told me you were Daniel – but since Agnetha generally proves too challenging my friends call me Annie.’

  Skelgill is looking puzzled.

  ‘Danny and Annie sounds like the precursor to a rhyme, don’t you think?’

  ‘Aye – I see where you’re coming from.’

  For a second his eyes seem to glaze over. Then he starts and his cheeks colour. It is as if his mind has suddenly leapt of its own accord into limerick mode, and has composed a ditty that would embarrass him – if his companion were clairvoyant, that is. She regards him quizzically, and he turns away and resumes his progress towards his car.

  ‘I’ll just, er...’

  He does not complete his sentence, but ducks beneath the creaking tailgate, and begins to rifle amongst the gear that fills the flatbed. He discards his hat as though it impedes his search. Then rather surreptitiously he locates a small emergency signal mirror that is strung to a rucksack. Still bending out of sight, he checks his appearance; he bares his teeth, and then rakes the fingers of his free hand through his hair; but otherwise there is not much he can do. He is unshaven and unshowered, having risen well before six to “scout out” Bass Lake (in fact to get in a couple of hours fishing before his day became spoiled) – and anticipating his client to be some elderly male police surgeon, he figured he could dispense with time-consuming ablutions. Now he covers his tracks by exclaiming, “Ah!” as he ‘finds’ the item for which he has ostensibly been searching. He backs out of the rear of the estate and ostentatiously pockets a lock knife. The woman is waiting patiently.

  ‘Dan – will I need anything?’

  Skelgill turns to face her directly. She has given him permission to appraise her. The new-looking outer shell and walking shoes sport expensive brand logos, and are more than a match for the light rain; the gear fits her well, and the jacket is tailored and hints at feminine curves. Her age is rather more difficult to discern. With so little to go on – just the oval of her countenance, pale blue eyes beneath blond brows, and skin that seems unlined – he would be hard pressed to make a better guess than his own thirty-seven years plus or minus five. He senses he has used up his available credit – that he has scrutinised her for long enough – and he begins to chew pensively upon his bottom lip.

  ‘Have you been to the loo?’

  The woman grins shrewdly, though her reply is a little cryptic.

  ‘I gather you fishermen have a means to cross that particular bridge.’

  Her intonation has a peculiar rhythmical inflexion, rising questioningly at intervals, and Skelgill seems unsure of how to interpret her response. He glances rather disconcertedly out to the lake through the three-quarters picture window of the bridge’s plinth and piers. Then he comes up with a suggestion that might explain her lack of urgency.

  ‘Did you walk down from the inn?’

  Her sky blue eyes narrow perceptibly.

  ‘Just nearby, yes.’

  Skelgill hesitates, and then makes a rather wistful retort.

  ‘They do a good breakfast.’

  He shrugs and begins to move towards the water’s edge, tentatively holding out an arm to indicate she should accompany him.

  ‘I imagined we would be catching ours.’

  Now he reacts with a stiffening of his posture, as if she has thrown down a small challenge.

  ‘It’s not out of the question – there’s decent trout in here.’ Then he simpers rather inanely. ‘But I’ve got plenty of back-up.’

  *

  ‘That should do it – I’ll drop anchor and then I can put the brolly up for you.’

  Skelgill ships his oars and hauls them dripping into the boat; they produce clunks from the hollow sound box of the hull as he stows them to starboard, blades pointing into the bow. He raises the steel anchor and carefully lowers it hand over hand, counting under his breath the depth.

  ‘Thirty-six feet – that’s ideal – we’re on the edge of a shelf here.’

  It has taken the best part of ten minutes’ all-out rowing to reach a wooded bay that provides shelter from the north-westerly breeze; a spot where a stream feeds in, bringing interest for hungry fish and in turn the angler. Skelgill has grimaced at each successive stroke, the effort requiring all of his available lung capacity, and a mixture of rain and perspiration streaks his brow. Silent in the stern, Dr Agnetha Walker has trailed a hand in the water, watching him contemplatively, her eyebrows unevenly arched in what might be an innate asymmetry. Now Skelgill reaches past her to erect the fishing umbrella; though she has seemed unperturbed by the light rain, she glances up approvingly as it unfurls.

  ‘Is this the biggest lake in the Lake District?’

  Skelgill lowers himself back into a seated position astride the centre thwart. He can’t conceal the boyish glee that takes hold of his features.

  ‘It’s the only lake in the Lake District.’

  His companion regards him searchingly.

  ‘I suspect you are teasing me.’

  Skelgill begins to untie the rods that are fastened along the port side, their quivering tips protruding over the bow. Unseen by him, a gentle smile plays on the rosy lips of Dr Agnetha Walker. For his par
t, he begins to intone a series of names.

  ‘Buttermere, Grasmere, Windermere – Crummock Water, Ullswater, Wast Water.’

  ‘And this is Bassenthwaite Lake?’

  Skelgill glances up sharply – perhaps irked that she has so quickly shot his fox – but his frustration quickly dissipates. Beneath the protective canopy of the umbrella she has drawn back the hood of her jacket and shaken out her hair. Now a striking mane of wavy blonde completely transforms her appearance. Where a moment earlier sat a decidedly asexual nun-like creature – she now presents him with an altogether different proposition. Unpretentiously she leans to one side, enlisting gravity to gather her tresses into a ponytail and secure it with a band from her wrist. If she is aware of the distraction caused, she does not show it, and continues with the thread of the conversation.

  ‘Buttermere and Grasmere – and Windermere – but these are also villages, are they not? I have visited them.’

  Skelgill shrugs. The local hydronym-toponym duality is a fact he has grown up with and never felt the need to question.

  ‘It’s like cricket – a wicket’s the stumps and a wicket’s the pitch and a wicket’s when you get someone out.’

  She regards him with a degree of consternation – though it may just be the irregularity in her eyebrows that exaggerates any dissatisfaction.

  ‘English is such an infuriating language – especially in the hands of the English.’

  Skelgill is testing the knot that fastens a vicious-looking lure to a wire trace.

  ‘Are you not English?’

  ‘Inspector – you mean to say you have not detected my accent – or deduced my origins?’

  Though her words are reprimanding, her tone is playful. Skelgill, however, is unable to disguise a hint of self-reproach – perhaps he ought to have taken a little more advance interest in his paying guest. Rather belatedly, he makes a stab at catching up.

  ‘I thought you might be German.’

  ‘Bitte lassen sie keine wertvolle artikel in ihren wagen.’

  ‘Come again?’

  She chuckles throatily.

  ‘There is a sign on the gate post at the entrance to the harbour – it warns drivers in multiple languages not to leave valuable items in their vehicles – except the German, which for some reason says the opposite.’

  ‘Aye, well – you know about us and the Germans.’

  Under the circumstances this glib remark might be considered something of a faux pas – but Skelgill has blurted it out before engaging his brain. He is fortunate that she quickly lets him off the hook, the amused smile putting in another appearance.

  ‘Well, I am not German – but Swedish. I grew up in Stockholm and came to London to study as a post-graduate.’

  The revelation of her nationality causes Skelgill to study her furtively – as if he should revise his opinion of her accordingly.

  ‘Then I married and never went home – my husband was English.’

  She narrows her eyes and gazes across the water. Sheltered from the breeze, the surface is an even grey expanse, matt beneath the drizzle. She remains determinedly silent, obliging Skelgill to respond.

  ‘Was?’

  This question, too, might be considered to have overstepped the mark of just-met decorum, but she is unperturbed. Her tone is matter-of-fact.

  ‘He died – he was a good deal older than I.’

  She slides her hands along the tops of her thighs onto her knees. He watches the movement; her nails are quite long and coated in a natural varnish and her fingers ringless.

  ‘If you want to smoke – Annie – feel free.’

  She seems a little alarmed by this offer – and Skelgill appears surprised at himself, too, that he has made it.

  ‘Oh, I don’t really smoke – only when I’m nervous – or excited.’

  She gives him her quizzical look that may mean nothing at all, and then turns back to consider the lake. She holds out an open palm.

  ‘I feel like I could almost walk across there.’

  Her demeanour does not hint at any suicidal tendency, but Skelgill’s response suggests he might prefer to take no chances.

  ‘There’s a life jacket in the compartment behind you.’

  She reaches back with one arm and wraps her fingers around the metal shaft of the umbrella.

  ‘I was told I would be in safe hands.’

  Skelgill can’t help a small involuntary puffing out of his chest. He raises a proficient eyebrow and affects a modest shrug. Then he picks up a rod and fiddles with the reel in an expert sort of way. Secretly he must be itching to know what prior research she has done on him, and with whom.

  ‘I’ve never lost a passenger yet.’ Then he laughs ironically. ‘Can’t say the same for big pike, though – the females can be slippery customers.’

  5. BRUNCH

  ‘We call it a vulkan vattenkokare – literally a volcano water boiler!’

  Skelgill is looking a tad peeved that Dr Agnetha Walker has stolen his thunder as far as his cooking contraptions are concerned. Not only has she pointed out that his Trangia stove is made in Sweden (where she says it is nicknamed the stormkök) but to add insult to injury she recognises his Kelly kettle – it seems that her childhood involved a good deal of wild camping and fishing, and that he does not have exclusive rights to the quirky device. On the plus side, she competently feeds a steady supply of dry kindling into the chimney without burning her fingers, leaving Skelgill – less diligently, it must be said – to fry the Cumberland sausage.

  The weather has driven them ashore for an early lunch. Skelgill has quickly rigged up a simple tarpaulin bivvy with its apex roped to the bough of a bankside alder and its converging sides weighted down by mudstone boulders. The rain casts an opaque veil over the scene; the distant wooded bank is just a pale ghost of an image that merges with the sky at five hundred feet, where cloud billows into the corries and combs of the fell. Closer at hand, a stately mute swan sails by, living up to his name, occasionally dipping his elegant neck like an inverted periscope. Skelgill watches appreciatively, and his eyes dart about as the occasional hatching sedge makes a clumsy break for freedom, wrestling its untried wings from the surface film, or a mysterious stream of bubbles suggests some aquatic action is afoot.

  ‘And now – kokning!’

  With this exclamation of triumph Dr Agnetha Walker lifts the bubbling kettle from its fire base. Skelgill is somewhat hamstrung – he sits on the ground with the stove between his ankles – but it appears she requires no assistance, and with practised aplomb she deftly fills the two enamel mugs he has charged with teabags and milk. Indeed, he can have no complaints; she has taken to roughing it, and is uncomplaining though the shelter is choked with the pungent vapours of wood smoke, methylated spirits and burning fat – an eye-watering concoction that generally has Skelgill as high as honey badger in a beehive.

  He has rolls ready buttered on tin plates and he crams them with a couple of juicy lengths of sausage. Then from his rucksack he produces a bottle of ketchup and raises a small cry of approval. With the sole of his boot he pushes the various items of scalding equipment out of harm’s way, and the pair settle to enjoy their meal. Skelgill is content upon the shingle, but he has pressed Dr Agnetha Walker to use his jacket as a picnic rug. Now she makes herself comfortable, resting easily with her legs beneath her in side-saddle fashion. She takes a mouthful and nods favourably, and after a moment she swallows and holds up the roll.

  ‘What do you call these?’

  ‘Sausage butties?’

  She is already bending for another bite, and now she shakes her head. She covers her lips with a polite hand in order to speak.

  ‘Just the bread part, I mean. When I worked in Leicestershire they were cobs. Now I live in Cheshire they call them baps. At the hospital in Manchester a lot of the staff refer to them as barm cakes.’

  Skelgill chews pensively, as though this is another linguistic conundrum that has not hitherto particularly troubled him.
After a few moments he shrugs.

  ‘Come to think of it, my old Ma calls them teacakes. But I reckon they’re just rolls in the police canteen.’

  Nomenclature aside, Skelgill is making short work of his sandwich, and it would be a surprise if he were to stop at one. There is spare sausage in the pan, which he has been ogling covetously. However, as he and his companion munch steadily and gaze across the lake, they both appear to sink into a kind of reverie. And perhaps this hiatus prompts Skelgill to reflect upon their morning thus far. Certainly, his eyes gradually narrow, and his brow becomes increasingly knitted.

  From an angling perspective, his hunting instinct has somewhat overridden his chivalrous obligation: that being, for his guest to catch the fish. While she has proved herself adequately capable in the cast-and-retrieve technique required for plugging – fishing with a lure – both of the two bites to date have come to the dead baits. The method here is to cast out and leave the rod resting, keeping a sharp eye on the line and tip for signs of a nibble. In such circumstances, Skelgill is rather like a dog with a rabbit. When the rabbit breaks cover, to expect the dog to remain at heel is patently absurd – and thus it is when a ‘take’ occurs under Skelgill’s nose. Before he can utter the words, “Look, Annie – we’ve got a bite – pick up the rod and strike when I say,” he has picked up the rod, struck, and hooked the fish. Then, rather sheepishly, he has retrospectively offered her the chance to play it – which she has politely declined on the grounds that he who hooks the fish is the true ‘owner’, and she really ought to catch her own. Predictably, this happening once did not prevent it from occurring again (much to the clandestine entertainment of Dr Agnetha Walker).

  In between inadvertently monopolising the action, Skelgill has likewise dominated the conversation. Indeed he has regaled her with his full repertoire of Lake District anecdotes, and conveniently related personal details. These include pointing out that Skiddaw, looming over them but not presently visible, is England’s fourth-highest mountain (and that as a youth he set the under-18s fell-running record for a particular route of ascent); and that as a member of the local mountain rescue team, he is also called upon to attend waterborne emergencies, and is four times winner of the Borrowdale Triathlon, which involves swimming the length of Derwentwater (note: not Lake Derwentwater) and thus she should have no fear of falling overboard, as she was informed. For good measure he added the peculiar detail that, while Bassenthwaite Lake might not be Lakeland’s largest (with reference to her earlier inquiry), it could nevertheless accommodate the entire population of China.