Murder on the Lake (9 page)

DS
Leyton grins disarmingly.

‘I
would have been rubbish at advertising, as well.’

Skelgill,
like some malevolent serpent, opens a reptilian eye – it appears he is
tempted to bite, cruelly – perhaps that therein lies the explanation for stasis
at the rank of sergeant; but DS Jones continues before he can intervene.

‘It’s
not something you can force.  It’s like the difference between an ordinary
crossword and a cryptic crossword.  In an ordinary crossword the clue
might say
‘solid fuel’
, four letters.  And you just go,
‘coal’
. 
It’s linear thinking.  But in a cryptic crossword the clue has two or
three parts, so you have to kind of half-solve them individually and then dump
them into the mixer and let your mind churn out the connection in its own
time.  That’s why it’s called
slow thinking
.  You can’t do it to
order.’

DS Leyton
scratches his head and grimaces ruefully.

‘Thing
is, Emma – you see these detectives on the telly – like Sherlock
Holmes and Poirot – and they’ve got brains the size of planets –
and they get the solution, like that.’  He snaps his fingers.  ‘So,
when something gets lost round our house, ‘cause I’m a copper the missus
expects me to be able to deduce where it is!’

DS
Jones is amused and smiles attractively, her full lips parting to reveal her
even white teeth. 
She touches the tip of her
nose with a finger.

‘I’d
say Inspector Morse is closer to the real thing – he’s always charging up
blind alleys – thinking he’s got the right answer.  It’s like that
with cryptic clues – you convince yourself you’re there, but something
still niggles.  And then when you do get it right, the logic of the clue smacks
you between the eyes.’

Skelgill
adjusts his seat into the upright position and stretches his arms above his
head.  He rubs his eyes and yawns.

‘Half
the crimes I’ve solved have only made sense afterwards.’

DS
Leyton suddenly seems perturbed, as though some long-standing belief in a magic
quality possessed by his superior has been dispelled; for a second he has the
demeanour of a child recognising for the first time the fallibility of a parent.

DS
Jones, on the other hand, looks engagingly to her boss.

‘I’ll
send you the slides from the course, Guv – if you like?  The idea
was called
The Eye of the Brainstorm
– he describes how you retreat
into this quiet place in your mind, metaphorically in the eye of the hurricane,
where it’s absolutely still and silent,’ (she raises both hands and makes the
shape of a cylinder in the air) ‘and you’re surrounded by these towering black
walls of cloud, with all this storm debris spinning around – and from this
position your subconscious can identify the pieces that are important, and what
they make when you put them together.’

Skelgill’s
reluctance ever to be told of a better way to do anything is perhaps tempered
by some subliminal sense of recognition in what she says. 
Notwithstanding, he manufactures a rather cynical scowl.

‘I
find it best when I
don’t
put my mind to it.’

But DS
Jones is undeterred.

‘That’s
exactly it, Guv – it’s when you’re
not
trying that the answer
comes – so long as you’ve got all the information you need.  The guy
running the course said he solves crossword clues when he stops thinking and
looks out of the window – and that he has his best advertising ideas when
he’s doing his ironing.’

Skelgill
chortles.

‘That
definitely rules you out, then, Leyton.’

Despite
this blatant case of the pot calling the kettle black, DS Leyton phlegmatically
hunches his shoulders, guilty as charged.

*

‘So where
now?’

‘It’s
two stops on the Northern Line, Guv – jump off at Tottenham Court Road,
then Charlotte Street’s just around the corner.’

As DS
Jones says this she glances back at DS Leyton, who lags a couple of paces
behind herself and Skelgill.  They have succeeded in riding the entire
journey in first class, and so are among the most forward to alight upon the
platform at London’s Euston station, walking with the slightly apprehensive
gait of people who have dismounted from an escalator.  However, the train
has arrived almost an hour behind schedule, and hurrying hordes from second
class begin to pour from their carriages, swarming past them with rumbling trolley
cases and skyscraping rucksacks and protesting children who point out the
fast-food outlet signs with plaintive cries of futile optimism. DS Leyton
scurries to catch up, and calls out to make himself heard.

‘Or we
could just walk, Guv?’

‘I
thought you Cockneys went everywhere sitting down?  Tube, taxi, bus.’

DS
Leyton frowns rather defensively.

‘The
underground might be chaos, Guv – what with the strike.’

Skelgill
watches as part of the crowd veers off for the exits marked Northern and
Victoria Lines.

‘Looks
like it’s running – it’s always a novelty for me.’

DS
Jones seems still to have half an eye on DS Leyton.  Her brow creases and
she turns to Skelgill with sudden vehemence.

‘Actually,
it’s less than a mile, Guv – the fresh air will do us good after all that
time sitting down.’

Skelgill
shrugs and continues straight ahead.  He casts a rather longing glance at
the display counter of a snacks stall, and bumps heavily into an elderly
gentleman, who immediately apologises.

‘Seems
I’m outnumbered – though since when there was fresh air in London, I
don’t know.’

His
colleagues grin obediently.  DS Leyton appears relieved.  As they reach
the street, DS Jones indicates with a hand that they should cross and then head
west along Euston Road.  It is after eight p.m. and the day’s workers are
long gone, so once they have cleared the immediate vicinity of the station they
find the broad pavements largely empty, and they are able to stroll three
abreast.  The traffic, however, offers little reflection of the time of
day, and grumbles past them, honking and choking the six-lane urban highway,
and filling the senses with diesel fumes and the distinctive squeal of taxi
brakes at each set of lights.  The Post Office tower stands sentinel over
the area, providing vertigo-inducing glimpses as they proceed from block to
block.  Skelgill cranes his neck, but overhead the clouded sky is a
nondescript haze of reflected neon and offers no clue as to tomorrow’s outlook.
Right now the weather is substantially milder than that they have left behind
in Cumbria and, though they walk into a light breeze, they have their overcoats
draped on crooked arms.  Presently DS Jones swings left at Tottenham Court
Road, and then right into Grafton Way, which elbows ninety degrees onto Fitzroy
Street, whence their lodgings are some eight hundred yards ahead. 
Skelgill squints at the nameplate, which has a small ‘W1’ in one corner.

‘So
this is the West End, is it?’

DS
Jones looks a little puzzled – she knows the district well, her
first-year university hall of residence standing only yards away – but
then she nods.

‘I
suppose so, Guv – but this is called Fitzrovia.’

Skelgill
ponders for a moment.

‘Sounds
made up – like a rogue state in a spy film.’

DS
Leyton does a quickstep to get alongside them.

‘I
believe it is made up, Guv – my old man was a cabbie – he always
reckoned it never existed when he was a nipper.’

‘Gives
them an excuse to charge more for the property, I suppose.’

‘They
don’t need no excuse, Guv – wait till we pass an estate agent’s –
you can’t pay as much for a house in Penrith as what you’d need for a bedsit
here.’

Skelgill
raises his eyebrows.

‘Don’t
you wish you’d kept your place?’

DS Leyton
shakes his head.

‘Wasn’t
an option, Guv.  To start off we lived at my old ma’s gaff – after
that we were just renting – crippling it was – I don’t know how
young ‘uns can afford it.’

DS
Jones is nodding.

‘Most
of my friends who got jobs in London have to live in the suburbs – though
they still seem to spend all their wages on rent, and commute for three hours a
day.’

Skelgill
hunches his shoulders and glances about disparagingly.

‘I’m beginning
to wonder what’s the attraction.’

Though
this is a statement rather than a question, DS Jones evidently feels obliged to
supply an explanation.

‘I
suppose it’s the buzz, Guv – music and media and fashion – and if
you work in the creative industries – advertising, digital and so forth.’

DS Leyton
chips in.

‘Seems
like all the publishers and their cronies are down here, too, Guv.’

Skelgill
ponders for a moment.

‘Sarah
Redmond’s in Edinburgh, mind.’

They
walk on for a while before DS Jones remarks upon this apparent idiosyncrasy.

‘I was
reading how there’s a lot of crime fiction writers based in Scotland – a
murder
they call themselves – like a murder of crows.’

Skelgill
tuts.

‘The raw
material must be better up there.’

DS
Leyton pretends to be offended.

‘I’d
have thought my old manor would win the gold medal for that, Guv – the good
old East End.’

DS
Jones grins.

‘That’s
true crime
– it’s a different genre.’

And
now Skelgill offers a wisecrack.

‘Aye
– there and the City, eh?’

This
raises a chuckle from the two sergeants, and Skelgill joins in, happy to amplify
the response to his own joke.  The atmosphere around them is picking up
and they seem in good spirits, despite their long day.  They are now
passing hostelries and restaurants, and there are more people about, young couples
and small groups, some in casual wear, others still business-suited, though not
yet thinking about heading home.  Skelgill and Leyton find their progress
interrupted by the sound of a football match being shown inside a pub –
the doors are open and a sudden cry of frustration goes up.  The place is
packed with a standing audience, mostly males and many of them wearing England
shirts.  DS Leyton takes a couple of steps closer and rises upon tiptoes. 
Apparently he is unsuccessful; he taps one of the smokers crowding the entrance
on the shoulder and asks him a question.  The answer is curt, and he nods
and returns to his colleagues and they begin to move on.

‘Nil-nil,
Guv – qualifier for the Euros – over at Wembley – I’d
forgotten that was tonight.’

‘Who
are we playing?’

‘It’s
a real banana skin, Guv – Fitzrovia.’

‘Ha-ha,
Leyton.  Who is it really?’

DS
Leyton grins.  ‘Estonia, Guv.’  Then he gazes skywards rather
philosophically.  ‘Think England’ll ever win the World Cup again, Guv?’

Skelgill
puffs out his cheeks, and pulls an anguished face, but before he can answer DS
Jones draws them to a halt.

‘Guv
– I was thinking we could eat here.’  She gestures to an inauspicious-looking
Thai restaurant.  ‘It’s been going for years – it’s good value and
the portions of noodles are legendary.’

‘Music
to my ears.’  Skelgill immediately makes for the entrance, though his
colleagues hang back.

‘Shouldn’t
we check in, Guv?’  DS Jones points with a finger of the hand that holds
her overnight bag.  ‘The hotel’s only five or six doors along.’

Skelgill
frowns and beckons them with a toss of his head.

‘Come
on – my hangover’s gone at last – the drinks are on me.’

Despite
being well acquainted with the fallibility of this figure of speech, obediently
they follow him inside – though they each would perhaps rather freshen up
and divest themselves of their trappings.  Skelgill, however, is on a
mission, and orders three beers before they are even seated.  They are
shown to a round table at the centre of the dining area.  The restaurant
is small and, though basic in its decor, it has a cosy ambiance – and
there is sufficient background chatter overlaid by piped
luk thung
for
them to converse in effective privacy.  DS Jones appears to have near-photographic
recall of the menu, and her male colleagues are content to delegate to her the
task of a communal order – Skelgill’s only request being that she should
select starters that will come quickly; however, a large bowl of spicy rice
crackers soon provides satisfaction in this regard.  DS Leyton munches
thoughtfully; his eyes wander amongst the clientele.  Then he shakes his
head and intones somewhat ruefully.

‘I get
out for more meals with you guys than I do with the missus.’

Skelgill
conjures an expression of masculine wisdom.

‘There’s
some would say that’s no bad thing.’