Murder on the Lake (19 page)

‘Looks
like it’s home alone, Danny.’

Skelgill
nods.  He leaves the animal – which rises into a sitting position
– and checks about the room.

‘There’s
no food or water – or litter tray.’

‘Maybe
it belongs to someone else in the block – it could be just
visiting.  Or maybe a neighbour’s feeding it.  When did the woman
leave here?’

Skelgill
purses his lips.

‘It
would be about a week ago, Cam.  I think you must be right.’

‘Well
it seems happy enough.’

‘Aye.’ 
Skelgill shrugs and moves across to the French doors, from where he can just glimpse
DS Findlay’s car in the yard below.

‘So
what are we looking for, Danny?’

Skelgill
turns to face his colleague.  He puts his hands on his hips in a
purposeful fashion.

‘Identity’s
the main thing – Ms Jane Smith, if that’s who she is – next of kin,
first and foremost.  Relatives, friends – details of her GP would be
handy.  Also any medicine that’s kicking about.’

‘The
report I received from your boys suggested the case wasn’t suspicious.’

‘Aye,
well –
I’m
suspicious, Cam.’

DS
Findlay nods, his features assuming an even more grim set than is his natural
demeanour.

‘What
about that mail?  It’s usually a good bet.’

Skelgill
has left the contents of the mailbox on the dining table.  They move
across together.  DS Findlay begins sorting through the main heap,
extracting bills and suchlike.  Skelgill, however, examines the brown
foolscap envelope marked for the attention of Bella Mandrake.  The name
and address is written in a flowery, feminine hand, and the contents weigh
heavily in his hands.

‘Cam
– these are Scottish stamps aren’t they?’

Without
his reading glasses DS Findlay has to lean away, but he nods in the
affirmative.

‘Aye,
they are that.’

‘It’s
postmarked London.  I think I know what this is.’

‘Exciting?’

‘Not
exactly – but it’s just given me an idea.’

Skelgill
crosses to the kitchen units and pulls open a drawer.  His first guess is
correct and he finds a small vegetable knife.  Watched by DS Findlay he
slits the package and extracts its contents, a uniform sheaf of A4 papers with
a compliments slip clipped to the front.  He reads the typed message and
then hands the bundle to DS Findlay, who this time reaches inside his jacket
for his spectacles case.  Thus armed, he reads aloud.

‘It’s
from
Romance Publishing
.  “Dear Ms Mandrake, thank you for your
submission of the synopsis and opening three chapters of your romantic thriller,
Head over Heart in Love
.  While it features distinctive characters
and an imaginative plot, unfortunately this is not quite right for our list at
this time.  We wish you good luck in placing it elsewhere.  We are
returning your materials in the SAE you provided.”  It’s a Dear John
letter, Danny.’

‘Aye
– Dear Jane in this case.’

DS
Findlay returns the papers to Skelgill.

‘So
what’s your big idea?’

Skelgill
holds up a palm, evidently wishing to play down DS Findlay’s hyperbole.

‘Not
exactly big – but let’s have a look at that box room.’

They file
out into the hallway and squeeze between the oppressive furniture of the
smaller of the two bedrooms.  The talc-scented ambience grows more
oppressive.  Skelgill opens one of the wardrobes to reveal a rail crammed
with ballgown-like dresses, beneath which are new-looking shoes with stiletto
heels arranged upon little stacks of paperback novels.  There is Daphne du
Maurier, Catherine Cookson and Barbara Cartland, and heaps of Mills & Boon. 
He closes the door and steps over to the bureau – and then with a start
he recoils: the cat has installed itself upon the chair.

‘Think
it’s trying to tell us something, Cam?’

DS
Findlay has opened a drawer of the dresser, but the contents – elaborate
underwear – seem uninteresting and he slides it shut, although only with
some difficulty and the loud screech of wood on wood vexes the cat, which leaps
from the chair and darts out of the room.

‘Maybe
it’s just taken a shine to you, Danny – I’ve heard cats can spot a
fisherman a mile off.’

 ‘Smell
‘em more like.’  Skelgill is nothing if not pragmatic.  He raises an
arm and sniffs the sleeve of his jacket.  ‘I accidentally had this lying
on a landing net in the back of my motor.’

DS
Findlay chuckles and gestures to the bottles and potions that crowd the
dresser.

‘There’s
plenty of perfume if you want something to mask it.’

Skelgill
raises an ironic eyebrow.

‘No
sleeping pills, though?’

DS
Findlay inclines his head towards the door.

‘I’ll
have a look and see if there’s a cabinet in the bathroom.’

Skelgill
nods, then turns and squats down on his haunches and begins to investigate the
drawers of the writing desk.  The lower one contains unused papers and
envelopes.  The second, however, is packed with what appear to be the
draft manuscripts of novels; on top of these on one side is a pink document
folder.  It bears the words
‘Bouquets & Brickbats’
written in
the same extravagant hand as the self-addressed envelope, and is illustrated
with little cartoon drawings of flowers and what might be the occasional piece
of flying masonry.  Skelgill stands up and places it upon the lowered flap
of the bureau.  The file contains some fifty or sixty typewritten
letterheads and compliments slips, all from different senders.  He reads
the first, and then begins to flick through them with just a cursory glance at
each, until he stops abruptly at what is perhaps the tenth document in the
pile.  The stiffening of his demeanour must be plain to the eye, for DS
Findlay, who has stuck his head back around the door to convey some observation
or other, remarks instead upon Skelgill’s reaction.

‘Found
your big idea, Danny?’

Skelgill
is still staring at the page, though his mind’s eye seems focused far
away.  After a moment’s silence he replies.

‘It
could be what I’m looking for.’

‘What would
that be?’

‘In a
word – a
connection
.’

Coincidences
may not be connections in Skelgill’s book, but he must be cognisant of DS
Leyton’s remark that some folk would consider them an omen, as he stands
shivering on the steps beneath Sarah Redmond’s flat: in
Cumberland
Street.  Located on the north side of Edinburgh’s New Town (the latter something
of a misnomer, being, according to DS Findlay with his tour guide hat on, “The
largest intact area of Georgian architecture in the world”), the east-west
thoroughfare is perfectly aligned to channel the icy air that streams unhindered
from the Skagerrak.  Indeed, on reflection, given the prevailing
conditions, simply getting
off
Cumberland Street is probably foremost in
his mind at this moment.

The
Leith address has yielded no further clues of significance – for instance
no medicines beyond over-the-counter cold remedies, corn treatments,
antiemetics, laxatives, and various homeopathic concoctions.  Thus Skelgill
has been dropped off by DS Findlay in order to conduct his scheduled eleven
o’clock interview.  The Scots sergeant, meanwhile, has continued on to police
headquarters at ‘Letsby’ Avenue (Fettes, actually, but it is Skelgill’s little
ongoing joke), to organise the tracing of Bella Mandrake’s next of kin and
medical practitioner, procure a constable to knock-up the residents of the apartment
block, and locate a suitable means for containing a cat in his office. 
Ah, the cat.  Upon leaving the flats and returning to DS Findlay’s car,
the two detectives discovered the creature once more demonstrating its elusive Pimpernel-like
qualities as it apparently awaited them, resting upon the bonnet and perhaps
enjoying what residual heat radiated from the engine beneath.  Urged on by
Skelgill, and despite protests that his ‘dug’ (a grizzled and pugnacious Border
Terrier that rather resembles its master) “fair hates the wee deils”, DS
Findlay has agreed – “temporarily, mind” – to take the feline into
protective custody until background checks can be conducted.  They parted
with the plan that he would return at one p.m. and ferry Skelgill back to his
car.

*

‘I
didn’t realise you knew Ms Mandrake.’

Sarah
Redmond’s electric-blue irises seem to enlarge, but this effect is in fact an
illusion caused by the slight contraction of her pupils.  It is an
involuntary reflex that betrays an otherwise phlegmatic countenance.

‘Inspector,
there is knowing and there is
knowing
.’

Skelgill
tips his head to one side, inviting her to elaborate.  He, too, perhaps is
putting on a front, since his assertion is a shot in the dark.

They
do not face one another, but sit just a little apart upon a large and
accommodating sofa, of the kind that would be referred to as a
Davenport
stateside.  Sarah Redmond’s New Town flat – its sought-after
location reflecting her writing success – is tastefully furnished, with
magnificent Turkish rugs spread about the stripped and varnished floorboards, original
artworks – a superb
Bellany
, for instance, a buoyant and bruising puce
fishing boat that momentarily halted Skelgill’s progress – and original
oak shutters folded back beside each of the long sash windows.  Flames
lick eagerly amidst a recently set fire of smokeless briquettes, drawn by the
brisk easterly that skims the rooftops – but the centrally heated
apartment is already comfortably warm.  Indeed Sarah Redmond wears only a
pair of faded blue figure-hugging stretch denim jeggings and a flimsy white
vest top; her copious fiery locks cascade onto her bare nape and shoulders as
she tosses her head with a degree of indifference.

‘I usually
run one of the writers’ workshops at the festival,’ (she refers to the
Edinburgh International Book Festival, which occupies Charlotte Square each August)
‘she was a regular – and prominent – attendee.’

‘Were you
aware she lived in Edinburgh?’

‘Not
until we met at the retreat – there are hundreds of bibliophiles who come
back to the festival every year – it’s the largest literary event in the
world, you know?’

‘Seems
like you have more than your fair share of world number ones – my Scottish
colleague was instructing me on the history of your New Town.’

‘I’m
not an Edinburgher myself, Inspector – and the New Town is rather
austere, don’t you feel?’

‘A
good setting for your crime stories, then?’

She
shrugs languidly.

‘I
suspect they have run their course – I’m searching for something a little
more original.’

She
stares at him, unblinking, the glint of a challenge in her eye.  Skelgill,
at the age of thirty-seven, is three years her senior, but inside him lurks the
spirit of
Peter Pan
, that will be forever seventeen.  Perhaps Sarah
Redmond’s novelist’s intuition detects this chink in his regulation policeman’s
armour, for she seems ready to confront him with the same blend of confidence
and mischief that she was quick to employ at their previous encounter. 
Skelgill, however, responds to her probing thrust with a somewhat oblique
parry.

‘So
Dickie Lampray was correct – when he accused you of researching your next
novel?’

She
glances away, for a moment giving the impression that this question bores her.

‘I
shouldn’t say that exactly, Inspector – the scenario was rather like
Lord
of the Flies
, don’t you think?’

Skelgill
creases his brow.

‘Wasn’t
that something to do with pigs?’

Now
she smiles benevolently.

‘I understand
where you are coming from, Inspector.’

Skelgill
shakes his head.

‘It’s
just – coincidences and all – Grisholm means
Isle of Pigs
. 
It’s an Old Norse name.’

‘Ah
– now you are teaching me, Inspector.’

She
settles back and crosses her legs; the tip of a blue-and-white plimsoll hovers within
touching distance of Skelgill’s nearest knee.  He adjusts his position, so
that he can look at her more easily.

‘It’s
questions
I need to ask you.’

She opens
her palms and surveys him coyly.

‘Ask
away – I am at your service.’

It is
noticeable that Skelgill has thus far avoided his habitual use of the stock title
‘madam’ – normally a safe fall-back, albeit rather formal – but
neither has he trespassed upon the intimacy of her first name.

‘You’ll
be aware from contacts with my colleagues – we’ve not managed to get in
touch with the retreat organisers – but, that aside, what made you decide
to attend?’

‘Overwhelmingly
the change of scene, Inspector – I’m between novels – at a loose
end, even – and, you know, I’d never been to the Lake District until last
week.’

‘What
did you think of it?’

Skelgill’s
tone suggests he anticipates a glowing review.  There is an
impressionistic watercolour above the hearth, suggestive of a windswept
Hebridean seascape.  Sarah Redmond gazes searchingly at what might be glaucous
swathes of swaying marram, foreground to a turbulent oceanic sky.

‘There
isn’t the sense of wilderness one finds in Scotland,’ (she glances at Skelgill,
and it must be evident he is a little crestfallen, for she elaborates with
additional emphasis) ‘but there is a special kind of – how can I put it
– handsome cragginess.  Let’s call it designer stubble to Scotland’s
unkempt full beard.’

Skelgill
looks suitably mollified.  Subconsciously his hand wanders to his chin,
with its two-day-old growth of the non-designer kind.

‘Can’t
say I’ve ever heard it described like that – I know what you’re getting
at – but don’t be fooled – it can be as dangerous a place as
anywhere when the weather decides to take a turn – you saw the storm on
Sunday.’

She
nods, and – as if she realises how easily she has led him to digress
– grins contritely and steers the dialogue back around to his own
question.

‘So it
felt rather like going off on a singles holiday – not knowing whom I
should meet or how it would all work out.  Rather exciting, really.’

She
bats her eyelashes in an exaggeratedly naïve manner.

‘You
didn’t know Rich Buckley would be there?’

She is
quick to shake her head.  It is a denial that appears convincing.

‘I had
no idea, Inspector.’

Skelgill
considers her reply for a moment or two, and then, intoning rather mechanically,
reveals a snippet of information gleaned during his inquiries.

‘It
has been mentioned that you’re thinking of changing publisher.’

She raises
her palms in affected shock.

‘I
really don’t imagine my readers would feel comfortable to find my books in the
Buckley stable.’  Then she breaks out into an improvised and lascivious smile. 
‘Unless, of course, there was my racy new Cumbrian detective.’

Skelgill’s
cheekbones colour, and for a moment he appears to flounder about in search of a
response.  Sarah Redmond, still grinning, fills the little silence.

‘I
take it that was from Dickie Lampray?’

‘I
think it was – aye.’

‘Don’t
worry, Inspector – nothing gets past old Dickie, fact or fiction –
he’s the gossip queen of the literary court.’

Skelgill
nods sheepishly, evidently relieved that his indiscretion is excused.

‘He
seems to have quite a reputation.’

Now
she flashes him an old-fashioned look.

‘That
depends what you mean, Inspector – but, certainly, if you’re struggling
to become published, he’s your man.’

‘So
why wouldn’t everyone flock to him?  He sounded hard pressed for work.’

‘Because,
Inspector, a contract arranged by Dickie is known in the trade as the next
nearest thing to vanity publishing.’

Skelgill
looks somewhat blank.

‘You’ll
have to explain that one to me.’

‘In
short, the author pays.  The agent gets his cut.  The publisher is
quids in.’

‘I
see.’  Skelgill ponders for a moment.  ‘That seems to defeat the
object of writing a book.’

Sarah
Redmond considers his response.  Then she shrugs in a resigned manner.

‘I
know this from my workshops, Inspector – there are so many people out
there who are just desperate to get their book published – I should say
finance is a secondary consideration.’

Skelgill
nods, his eyes thoughtful.

‘So
how does this all work then?  Agents and publishers – who would I go
to if I’d written a novel?’

‘You
could approach either, Inspector.  An agent is more likely to look at your
work – and a publisher will generally listen to an agent – they
both know not to waste one another’s time.  Many publishers these days
don’t accept unsolicited manuscripts – and those that do oblige the
author to wait months for the rejection letter.’

‘You
make that sound like it’s a foregone conclusion – being rejected.’ 
Skelgill’s tone suggests this apparent inevitability offends his sense of
fairness.  ‘Surely if you keep trying, eventually you’ll get accepted.’

She regards
him with some sympathy, as though she admires his spirit but pities his
naivety.

‘Not
if you can’t write, Inspector.’

For
the first time, there is just the hint of self-importance in her choice of words,
though not in her tone.  Skelgill looks as though he identifies with those
who can’t write.

‘What
about Bella Mandrake?’

Sarah
Redmond seems to detect his inner discord.  Her features soften, and she
shakes her head gently.

‘Sadly,
Inspector, no.’

Now
Skelgill looks perplexed.

‘Shouldn’t
someone have told her that?’  He folds his arms purposefully.  ‘I
mean – if I’ve got a junior officer who’s obviously not up to scratch
– I don’t keep stringing them along – they get the boot.  It’s
only fair to everyone – them included.’

She
smiles again, more broadly, as though his practical ruthlessness appeals to
her.

‘The
publishing business, though cut-throat in its own way, is nothing if not polite
– even the most incomprehensible of manuscripts will receive a positive-sounding
rejection letter.’

Skelgill
responds to this with a blank stare.  It is perhaps evident to Sarah
Redmond that he is distracted in thought, and so she provides a postscript.

‘And
you never know, Inspector – why cause offence when you can't see into the
future?’

Skelgill
breaks from his reverie and nods as if he knows what she means.  His next
question perhaps confirms his understanding of this insight.

‘Have
you had books rejected, yourself?’

‘Inspector
– my first three novels are still gathering dust.’  She flicks up
her hair with the fingers of both hands, and rolls her eyes to the
ceiling.  ‘And they are probably exactly where they deserve to be.’