Murder on the Lake (15 page)

‘Did
anyone try to put you off – from going outdoors?’

Lucy
Hecate is nodding even before Skelgill has finished the question, as if she has
been expecting it.

‘I got
the impression they all thought it was futile.’  She twists a strand of
hair around a finger.  ‘Burt Boston said the same things as you did
– that it would be pretty impossible to get a signal through the storm
– although he was wrong in assuming there would be nobody brave enough to
be out on the lake.’

Skelgill
winces theatrically at what he takes to be a compliment.

‘I
think
crackers
is the word you’re looking for.’

She stares
evenly at him, as though flattery were not on her mind in making the statement.

‘Only
Dr Bond made any effort to stop me – he said there was a danger of a
falling tree – or that I could be washed off the rocks.’

Skelgill
grimaces, perhaps in part to conceal his frustration, since she declines to acknowledge
his wit.

‘It
was blowing a bit – but Derwentwater’s not exactly Cape Wrath.  I’ll
give him the tree, though – there’s always that risk.’

‘I
felt safer in those woods than in the house.’

Skelgill’s
eyes narrow – but perhaps he identifies with her sentiment, for he opts
not to interrogate her meaning.

‘It
was bad luck – just when you have no communications, a healthy person
goes and has a heart attack.’

‘I
searched about to see if there were some other means we could use – like
an abandoned rowing boat – but Grisholm is rocky all around.’

Skelgill
nods; an old beached dinghy, hull uppermost, is not an uncommon sight about the
Lakes – but whether such a craft would be watertight is another matter.

‘I
wondered, Inspector – if your men have searched the island – I lost
a knitted scarf somewhere.’  Skelgill looks a little surprised, and she backpedals,
as if she realises this is asking too much.  ‘Its only value was
sentimental.’

‘I’m
afraid not, Lucy – at the moment we’ve no plans to commit that level of
resources – this is just a routine matter.’  However he appears
sorry to disappoint her.  ‘But you could contact the owners of Grisholm
Hall – or at least their agents – I’ll get one of my sergeants to
send you the details.’

She nods
thoughtfully.

‘Thank
you, Inspector.  Actually, I can probably find the number myself.’

Skelgill
follows her gaze towards her laptop.

‘How was
the technology ban received?’

‘I
think most people felt it was a good idea.  It was a retreat, after all.’

Skelgill
is silent for a moment.

‘You’re
aware we still haven’t managed to trace the organisers?’

Lucy
Hecate nods.

‘I
have forwarded the emails to your officers, Inspector.’

Skelgill
runs the fingers of one hand through his hair, avoiding the side of his head
that bears the wound.

‘Unfortunately
– I’m informed by my HQ – emails to that address are being returned
as undeliverable.’

‘Oh, I
see.’

Skelgill
looks pensive.

‘I
mean no disrespect, Lucy – I can understand how it would be easy to
identify the likes of Sarah Redmond, she’s famous – but how would they
know to email you – and the other unpublished authors?’

Lucy
Hecate appears to take no offence.  Her features remain calm and
composed.  Then she suddenly seems to remember the untouched plate of
Swiss rolls, and leans forward to slide it closer to Skelgill.

‘Inspector?’

‘Don’t
mind if I do, thanks.’

‘Help
yourself – I bought them for you.’

‘Very
kind.’

She
makes a small nod of the head – perhaps in lieu of a “You’re welcome”
– and watches rather expressionlessly as he takes one of the cakes and
bites it in half.  Just when it seems she might be intending to skirt
around the question, she returns to the point.

‘Of
course, it could have been random spam – I receive plenty of emails for
products and services I never use – but I think that is unlikely. 
Most probably they are obtaining lists of people who have shown interest in
writing courses, that kind of thing.’

‘Have
you – shown an interest?’

She
nods.

‘I subscribe
to several e-newsletters – for instance, from writers’ centres that I
have registered with, and online book groups – and second-hand
booksellers probably rent out their lists.’

Skelgill
nods pensively, as though he has not considered this possibility.

‘Was
it costly?’

Lucy
Hecate seems perplexed, as if she understands what he means but wonders why he
is asking her something he already knows.

‘The
retreat – at Grisholm Hall?’

‘Aye. 
It can’t have been cheap.’

‘It
was free, Inspector.’

Now it
is Skelgill’s turn to look confused.  Plainly, this is news to him.

‘But
how does that stack up?  Someone must have paid for the whole shebang.’

Lucy
Hecate looks like she doesn’t entirely agree.

‘It is
not unprecedented, Inspector.’

She
leans over and wakes her laptop with a tap upon the touchpad.  Her fingers
are slender and her nails short, unbitten and unvarnished.  Deftly she
types in a search term, and clicks upon the first result.

‘Look
– here is one in Scotland.’

Skelgill
cranes to see, but the reflected light from the windows and the acute angle
makes it difficult for him to discern the display.  Before he can move, Lucy
Hecate scoops up the laptop and steps nimbly over his outstretched feet. 
She drops lightly beside him.  The matching sofas, in keeping with the
restricted proportions of the apartment, are small, and their hips and elbows
touch.  She points her toes and balances the machine on her knees.  Skelgill
seems rather discomfited by her closeness, and sits rigidly, with his hands
folded upon his lap.

‘This
entire castle is given over year-round to writers.  If your application is
successful you stay for a whole month.  All board and lodging is free of
charge.  It holds six people at a time.  There is a full live-in
staff who cook and clean.’

‘Where
is it?’

‘Near...
Peebles
?’

Skelgill
nods, though he does not turn his head to look at her.  ‘It’s on the upper
Tweed.’  Much of his knowledge of Scottish geography is based upon his experience
of depriving its waters of their fish.  ‘But if the writers don’t pay, who
does?’

Lucy
Hecate clicks on the ‘About Us’ tab.  Details appear of a long-dead billionaire
philanthropist of popular food brand fame.

‘This
one is supported by a private trust.  Some of them are funded by quangos. 
For those that charge, there are often grants and bursaries.’

‘So
what about Grisholm Hall – what was the process there?’

‘You
just had to respond to the email and state how you would benefit from being on
the retreat and why you would be a good contributing member of the group.’

‘What
did you say?’

Lucy
Hecate pauses for a moment, as though she is considering whether this is a confidential
matter.

‘That
I was no more deserving than a thousand other aspiring writers.’

Now
Skelgill glances at her – but as he does so an alarm sounds in the street
outside and he rises purposefully, as if duty bound to investigate any such
disturbance.  He steps between the coffee table and the other sofa, and
parts the net curtains for a better view.  Below, there is a traffic
warden investigating an illegally parked car, a newly registered sports convertible
with its hood down and hazards flashing.  An expensively dressed young
woman emerges nonchalantly from a boutique and swings a large carrier bag into
the passenger seat and drives away, apparently without a word.  Skelgill
turns to face Lucy Hecate.

‘Maybe
that’s what did the trick – not blowing your own trumpet.’

She
does not react and he moves back over, though now he sits in her former place
on the empty sofa.  He picks up a second Swiss roll and, perhaps prompted
by the little slice of London life he has just witnessed, he employs the cake
as a baton and makes a sweeping gesture about the apartment.

‘Must
be pricey living here – how do you manage – we have you down as a
student?’

She
looks at him evenly.

‘That
is correct – I am enrolled on a creative writing course – but it is
only evening classes.’  Now for perhaps the first time she lowers her
eyes, as if she is slightly embarrassed.  ‘I work in retail – nothing
permanent – but there are plenty of part-time jobs.’

Skelgill
shrugs casually.  He has no reason to decry her efforts as a shop
girl.  Instead he contrives an expression of minor wonderment.

‘Whenever
I come to London, I always think
what
recession?’

Lucy
Hecate nods slowly.

‘There
is a recession of sorts in the literary world, Inspector.  Bookshops are
closing every week.  Publishers are going out of business or being taken
over.  Agents are becoming irrelevant.’  She indicates her e-reader
on the table.  ‘There is the future of the book – if it is not already
the present.’

Skelgill
frowns at the small device, as though he disapproves of its presence.

‘I
can’t imagine my
Wainwrights
on one of those.  What happens when
you're a day’s hike into the fells and your battery goes flat?’

‘But
you use your mobile for navigation, Inspector.’

She
phrases this as a statement rather than a question, even though she cannot be
certain of the answer.  Skelgill shrugs a little sheepishly, to confirm
she is correct.

‘How
about on the retreat – were they all of the old school?’

‘Actually,
no.’  She shakes her head.  ‘We had a number of discussions about
e-books, and I would say just about everyone has embraced them.  Mr
Buckley gave a talk about how certain, more sensitive, genres are especially
compatible with an electronic format.’

Skelgill
scowls, as if there is too much jargon for his comfort in this sentence.

‘What
did you make of him?’

Lucy
Hecate looks a little startled, as though it would be above her station to
offer an opinion on a leading industry figure.

‘I
understand he was a very successful publisher.’

‘How
about on a personal level?’

There
is a discernable tightening of her features, rather like a sea anemone that retracts
its tentacles in response to the clumsy poke of a child’s finger.  Skelgill
polishes off the remainder of the Swiss roll, and then reaches over to retrieve
his mug.  He drinks some tea, though the silent hiatus caused by this
little procedure does not encourage Lucy Hecate to bloom.  Skelgill widens
the scope of the question.

‘What I
mean is, how did he...
interact
with the other members of the group?’

This
seems to be a more acceptable form of words.

‘I
think perhaps the females found him a little intimidating.’

‘Verging
on predatory?’

‘I
could not really comment, Inspector.  Some people welcome advances that
others would find uncomfortable – but I tended to keep to myself in order
to optimise my writing time.’  Again she coils invisible locks around a
crooked index finger.  ‘Dr Bond argued with him on a couple of occasions
– but I imagine you noticed that he was rather opinionated.’

Skelgill
raises his eyebrows, as if to indicate his impatience with the good doctor.

‘I
suppose he’s had a lifetime of being listened to.’

Lucy
Hecate does not reply.  Skelgill continues with the theme.

‘How
did you get on with the others?’

‘Very
well.’

For a
budding writer, Lucy Hecate is singularly economical with words – but
perhaps there is a skill in that.  Skelgill is again obliged to supply a
prompt.

‘Ms
Mandrake seemed to ruffle a few feathers.’

Lucy
Hecate considers this statement for a moment.

‘She
was rather self-obsessed.  It perhaps does not help a group dynamic when
one person seeks all the attention.’

Skelgill
nods.  Clearly, he witnessed for himself this aspect of Bella Mandrake’s
character.

‘Lucy,
you mentioned each person had to outline their contribution – what was hers?’

‘She said
she was an actress, and that she had a unique insight into written dialogue.’

Skelgill
affects a ducking motion, as if to suggest this notion goes over his head.

‘I
suppose that’s quite unusual.’

Again Lucy
Hecate offers no comment.