Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4 Page 4

  ‘First day of spring.’

  The man looks blankly at Skelgill – and in this small action tells Skelgill a good deal about himself – confirming the impression conveyed by his attire and demeanour, and in a broader sense the very fact of his coming to Greenmire Castle – that he is not an outdoorsman of any shape or form – but a metropolitan type (in the majority, it must be said) for whom the countryside is something with which to engage superficially, in the same category as a cinema complex, a shopping mall, or even a holiday to a hot climate where luxury hotels line up along fake beaches of imported bulldozered sand and craned-in palm trees. And, too, that they found him on his laptop in a room he has commandeered as a private office – when Skelgill is certain that in similar circumstances he would be tramping the fells, immersed in the elements, wind tugging at his hair and rain lashing his face, Mother Nature assuaging his agonies. Will Liddell does not answer.

  ‘So – the other couples that are staying, sir – I take it these are your friends celebrating your birthday with you?’ The easing of Will Liddell’s features is replaced by a subtle frown, as if he finds the question intrusive. It prompts Skelgill to qualify his reasoning. ‘Rather than being your wife’s friends – that’s what I mean, sir.’

  There is a pause before the man responds.

  ‘We’re all friends. But if you’re asking for a common denominator, we each have a daughter in S2 at the same school. St Salvator’s Academy.’ He scrutinises them in turn for signs of recognition, his gaze resting longer upon DS Jones. ‘Wester Coates – Edinburgh.’

  Skelgill is nodding comprehendingly.

  ‘So in fact you’re all mutual friends?’

  Still the man seems needlessly reticent.

  ‘On the whole. There are certain other connections.’

  ‘Such as what, sir?’

  His description comes in economical terms.

  ‘Derek Duff, I’ve known since university. Mike Luker is a financial advisor to my holding company. Kevin Makepeace works for one of my subsidiaries.’

  ‘What about your wife, sir – is there anyone in the group that was a particularly close friend of hers?’

  ‘Naturally, she got on well with all of them – she got on well with everyone. But she hadn’t known them as long as I have.’

  ‘When were you married, sir?’

  ‘It would have been two years this coming June.’

  Skelgill inserts a respectful pause.

  ‘I understand her family live mainly in Paris, sir?’

  He glances at DS Jones and she nods in confirmation. However, it is Will Liddell that now interjects.

  ‘They will be flying over tomorrow.’

  His lips twist as if he experiences a bitter taste – it seems he does not want to dwell on this aspect of the tragedy. Skelgill spreads his long palms in a conciliatory gesture.

  ‘We’ll have a trained bereavement counsellor look after them, sir. I appreciate some of these questions are awkward – but we need to be prepared for the sort of queries the family will have. It’s only natural for people to want to understand why something like this has happened.’

  Will Liddell has been sitting still and upright, an almost combative pose with his clenched hands laid on his thighs; now he folds his arms.

  ‘It could not have been prevented.’

  ‘What makes you so certain, sir?’

  ‘It was totally out of the blue – and out of character. How can one anticipate something like that?’

  Skelgill rocks his head slowly from side to side – it is not a normal gesture of his; he might be gingerly testing strained neck muscles.

  ‘Is it possible she was just messing around, sir – that it was some kind of tragic accident?’

  Again it seems that Will Liddell is angered – but closer inspection reveals that in fact he has some enthusiasm for what is surely a long shot. He stares penetratingly at Skelgill.

  ‘For a split second that was what I thought – that she would jump up and cry, “fooled you!” – there had been jokes all day and speculation about who would be murdered.’ But now his expression sours once more and he lowers his gaze despondently. ‘But you couldn’t act that.’

  The three sit in silence for a few moments; until Skelgill clears his throat; his tone is matter of fact.

  ‘How did you meet your wife, sir?’

  Will Liddell looks up – again he seems discomfited by what is an innocuous question.

  ‘She worked in one of my companies.’

  ‘And she worked with you, personally?’

  ‘She was recruited by their export marketing department.’

  ‘So what brought you together – if you don’t mind my asking, sir?’

  Will Liddell looks like he does mind – but he must conclude there is no good reason to withhold his response.

  ‘I was investing in a company in Marseilles – our personnel manager identified her as a fluent French speaker – she was co-opted onto the acquisition team based in our corporate unit.’

  Skelgill nods. He realises further probing risks trespassing upon ground that is perhaps too close to home, that might be interpreted as prying for its own sake, rather than pursuit of knowledge that will justifiably help him to do his job. Besides, in this regard there are alternative avenues of approach.

  ‘Coming back to this weekend, sir – was there anything that occurred that on reflection might have had a bearing on your wife’s suicide – even the smallest thing, as it may have seemed at the time?’

  Will Liddell does not answer – he looks blankly at Skelgill and shakes his head. He seems determined that on this point he has no more to add. Skelgill tries again.

  ‘For instance did she get into any argument – or did she see or hear something that might have upset her?’

  Still the man is unforthcoming.

  ‘At risk of sounding repetitive, Inspector – there’s nothing I can tell you. If there were, I was not aware of it. The whole idea of this weekend was for everyone to have a good time, and that was what Scarlett was doing. When last I saw her she was laughing and joking with the other girls.’

  ‘Where was that, sir – what time?’

  ‘After we’d arrived back from Greystoke – it must have been about five o’clock. We had afternoon tea in the drawing room. She was still there when I went up to my room.’

  Skelgill looks puzzled.

  ‘You didn’t have any contact with her after that, sir?’

  ‘I took a bath. Then I lay on my bed to deal with some emails.’ He makes a small hand gesture towards his laptop. ‘I fell asleep – we’d already had a couple of late nights. When I woke up it was seven o’clock – that was when we were due downstairs. I dressed in about a minute flat.’

  The account appears to end here. Skelgill presses for more detail.

  ‘Did you not think to check on your wife, sir – to see that she was ready?’

  Will Liddell’s features seem to be frozen; only his small mouth moves, like a ventriloquist’s dummy.

  ‘I did check on her.’

  ‘How did you go about that?’

  ‘I went through her dressing room. The bedroom was empty – silent. I called her name in case she was in the bathroom. The door was ajar – but there was no answer.’

  ‘But you didn’t look, sir?’

  ‘I assumed she’d gone down – or was getting ready in one of the other girls’ rooms – they’d been discussing their outfits and hair and make-up – I wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d got together to apply the finishing touches.’

  Now Will Liddell looks to DS Jones – as though seeking confirmation that his suggestion is plausible. However, she returns his gaze implacably. Skelgill watches the silent exchange.

  ‘So the interconnecting doors – they were unlocked, sir.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘But the stair door of your wife’s room – you didn’t try that?’

  ‘I had no reason to, Inspector – it
didn’t cross my mind. I don’t think anyone has been locking their doors – why would we? Besides, I was cutting it fine and my watch and cufflinks were in my room. I went back that way and directly down to the library.’

  Skelgill is silent for a few moments. When he speaks, it is more ponderously than is usual.

  ‘So if I’m reading this right sir – unless we get any contrary information from your fellow guests – sadly, it seems likely your wife had already taken her own life when you called her at 7pm or thereabouts.’

  A shadow clouds Will Liddell’s features – a trace of concern? – that he perceives responsibility is being heaped on his shoulders. His eyes flick questioningly from one detective to the other.

  ‘She could have been somewhere else. It was twenty minutes later that we found her.’

  ‘Were you not surprised when she wasn’t in the library?’

  ‘Yes, possibly – except no one was there – other than Kevin Makepeace – and Tom, the butler chap, serving the cocktails. Kevin buttonholed me about some project he’s running – there’s been a problem and he obviously wanted to let me know he’s got it taped. Then the others started to appear and I was distracted – but as time went on I realised only Scarlett was missing.’

  ‘That was when you were speaking with Mrs –’

  ‘Suzy Duff.’

  Skelgill nods. The man’s account has now turned full circle. His own manner becomes more casual, his tone less probing.

  ‘Have you discussed with your friends, sir – why it might have happened?’

  It is a moment before Will Liddell provides an answer.

  ‘They have tried to console me, naturally. But they could probably see I was best left to my own devices.’ It takes just a subtle change around his eyes and mouth for his expression to convey displeasure. ‘Besides – they are probably in shock – it’s not an ideal time to have a rational discussion.’

  Skelgill seems prepared to take the hint.

  ‘I quite understand, sir.’

  He turns to DS Jones – seamlessly she picks up the dialogue.

  ‘Mr Liddell – it might be helpful if we could examine your wife’s mobile phone.’

  ‘How would that help?’

  ‘We have to satisfy ourselves that there were no suspicious circumstances – it’s our legal obligation, as Inspector Skelgill has explained. If there is no indication of a problem on her social media accounts, then that will go a long way to closing the case. Alternatively – it might provide an explanation for what she did. Which surely you would want to understand, sir?’

  Though Will Liddell’s eyes remain cold, there is something in his manner that relents. He stares for several seconds at DS Jones.

  ‘It is in my room – inside my briefcase. I picked it up from her bedside last night – took it in the ambulance. You’re welcome to it, Sergeant. The screen is cracked.’

  DS Jones crosses her wrists casually over her thighs, and bends at the waist. Her voice is calm and unthreatening.

  ‘What made you take it with you, sir?’

  He continues to gaze at her but does not immediately reply. Then he too leans forward but as he does so he drops an elbow onto the arm of his chair and bows his head, and shields his eyes with his palm.

  ‘I thought she’d want it – when she recovered.’

  5. SOUTHWAITE

  Sunday, 5.30pm

  If Skelgill were a man actively to seek coincidences (which he is not; connections are his bag), it would strike him that there is a modest one in the river that he overlooks while he kills time waiting for his colleagues. The Petteril – a relatively anonymous but productive trout stream – has its source up near Penruddock, and its waters wander for a day or so about Cumbria, ultimately to supplement the mighty Eden above Carlisle. However, though he has covered not dissimilar ground, this is not the coincidence he might mull over. Instead, it is that the river’s erratic course takes it through both his present location, beside the hamlet of Southwaite and – earlier in its journey – through Greystoke, a quiet backwater that has been mentioned more than once today. But such multifarious coincidences dog a man whose job it is to detect. Another: below is a trout stream; the season opens tomorrow. Another: he is starving; the motorway service station is two minutes’ drive. Or is that a connection?

  *

  ‘Sorry for the delay, Guv – I had to wait twenty minutes for that Tom geezer to show up – turns out he was down at the lake doing something to a rowing boat.’

  Skelgill does not rise as DS Leyton pulls out a chair, but he does admit the courtesy of lifting onto an adjoining table his tray with its scoured plate and loosely discarded alloy cutlery and drained stainless steel teapot, extensively littered with torn packets of salt and sauce and sugar. He makes no discernable sign of acknowledgement towards his sergeant, but remains tilted to see around his stocky frame. He squints across the refectory.

  ‘DS Jones is getting us some fancy coffees – she won’t be a mo.’ (Skelgill nods once.) ‘She’s filled me in on the drive up. How’d you get on, Guvnor? Reckon we’ve got a wrong ’un?’

  Now Skelgill pushes back against his plastic seat and folds his arms; for the first time he looks properly at his colleague; his features contort into a shrewish expression, showing his top front teeth.

  ‘I’ll keep my powder dry – while I hear what you pair have got to say.’

  DS Leyton shrugs patiently and settles himself at the table. He neither expects nor receives any commendation for interrupting his family Sunday lunch, and postponing until some indeterminate time partaking of his wife’s homemade rhubarb crumble. He obeyed with stoicism the summons from Skelgill to take over from him at Greenmire Castle while his superior acted upon a call from Carlisle – from the hospital – to be precise, from the resident pathologist.

  ‘DS Jones spoke to the ladies – I saw the blokes. Quite a posh crowd, eh, Guvnor? Must cost a pretty penny – hiring that place. Imagine – people once lived like that.’

  ‘Some still do, Leyton.’

  Now DS Jones appears at DS Leyton’s side bearing a tray, and he applies Skelgill’s supposition.

  ‘Nice one, Emma – I could get used to being waited on. All I’ve got waiting is a sink full of dishes.’

  Skelgill eyes the tray – he looks like he might still be hungry.

  ‘You should eat out more often, Leyton – saves on the washing up. It’s cheap enough if you know where to go.’

  Now DS Leyton grins. On their travels about the county, if it is not a river or pond that Skelgill is pointing out, it is an obscure eatery, backstreet café, mobile burger bar – or hotel kitchen, where one of his many dubious relations is employed, trained to dispense leftovers from the tradesman’s entrance. On reflection, it is probably not a bad strategy from a budgetary perspective – and it cannot be as unhealthy as Big Brother would have it – for despite his appetite his superior carries barely an ounce of fat on his wiry frame. Now, as he shifts aside to enable DS Jones to deposit the tray of promised coffees, he sees Skelgill’s lupine eyes fasten upon a plate of cookies.

  ‘Aye – well I shan’t keep you, Leyton.’

  Skelgill possibly nods his thanks as DS Jones lifts one of the mugs across and pushes the plate closest to his reach. He selects a biscuit, snaps it in two, and promptly dunks a sharpened end into the chocolatey froth of his drink.

  ‘Top line – anything?’

  DS Jones glances a little apprehensively at her fellow sergeant. Though she is undoubtedly enjoying a much steeper career trajectory than he (indeed, his might be said to have stalled – probably to his contentment), by dint of service he is the more senior officer. However, it is she that has been coordinating matters – and he gestures willingly that she should speak for both of them. She folds her arms onto the edge of the table, and looks up at Skelgill with a furrowed brow.

  ‘Nothing concrete, Guv – but – well, maybe enough to keep an open mind at this stage.’

  Skelgill is eyeing
her suspiciously – she seems to be hedging her bets.

  ‘We went through a series of questions with each of them – to cover their movements, what you might call ‘state of mind’ issues, and then past history. Necessarily it was a little superficial, given the time constraints. And they were all keen to leave – understandably, they want to get back to their kids.’

  Skelgill is now nibbling distractedly at the remaining fragment of cookie. He does not appear to identify with the sentiment. After a moment he nods for her to continue.

  ‘Probably the most significant point is that no one saw Scarlett Liddell after she left the drawing room at about 5.20pm.’

  She turns briefly to DS Leyton for confirmation – he nods supportively. She goes on.

  ‘The four women all left together and went to their individual rooms. There’s a route through the central hallway to the foot of the tower – both towers, actually. Technically, Felicity Belvedere – that’s Kevin Makepeace’s ex-wife – was the last person to see her alive, because she was on the floor below. She says Scarlett Liddell continued on up the staircase. The last thing she heard was the slam of the door – and nothing thereafter.

  ‘As for reconvening in the library, Felicity Belvedere says she knocked on Belinda Luker’s door – she thinks about 7.10pm – and they continued together. They knocked on Suzy Duff’s door in passing, but there was no answer. She had gone down a few minutes before and was talking to Will Liddell when they arrived. Suzy Duff said she brought it to Will Liddell’s attention that hadn’t his wife better come soon – and that was when he went to chivvy her along. Up to a point their accounts correspond – that he came back down saying the door was locked and there was no answer – so she volunteered to go up with him in case Scarlett Liddell was indisposed – she said with women’s trouble – to which he agreed.’

  Skelgill is frowning over the rim of his mug. He has his head tipped back in an effort to avoid the froth. It is not an easy manoeuvre for a man endowed with his physiognomy – he lowers the mug to reveal only limited success. He smears the sleeve of his jacket across the tip of his nose.