Read Online Murder on the Lake by Bruce Beckham - Free Book Online Page B

circumstances are unusual, on
the face of it they appear to be the product of a string of coincidences. 
Certainly Skelgill’s involvement can be nothing other, while the concurrence of
two accidental or even natural deaths is perfectly feasible.  For
sergeants Leyton and Jones, arriving ‘cold’ to the scene (with Skelgill’s
safety their overwhelming preoccupation at the time), the facts are such that undue
suspicion need not be aroused.  Skelgill, however, has undergone a more
qualitative experience, and his intuition is informed accordingly.  He
consults his wristwatch; the time is approaching ten o’clock.
     ‘I’d
better call the Chief.’  He holds out a hand to DS Leyton.  ‘If you
could lend me your mobile.’
    DS
Leyton obliges.
    ‘What do
you reckon, Guv – gut-feel-wise?’
    Skelgill
screws up his face in an unbecoming rodent-like manner.
    ‘Not a
lot we can do without something to go on from Herdwick.’  He drains his
mug and takes care to place it quietly upon the table top.  ‘Better have a
quick word with everyone – get their details in case they decide to
scarper.’
    DS
Jones is nodding.
    ‘From
what I can gather, Guv – that appears to be the general consensus.’
    ‘Last
night, they were all for seeing it through to the end of the week.’  Skelgill
purses his lips.  ‘Except Bella Mandrake.’
     
    *
     
    ‘How’s
the head now, Guv?’
    Skelgill
is checking that his mobile phone is none the worse for its ordeal
afloat.  Given that he has gained access to a fishing website, it seems
all is well.  Without looking up, he grips his temples between the thumb
and fourth finger of his right hand.
    ‘As my
old ma says, there’s not a lot in there to damage.’
    DS
Jones chuckles.  She scoops a spoonful of froth from her cappuccino and
snaps her full lips over it, rather in the manner of a frog devouring a
fly.  Then slowly she pulls out the spoon and dips it back into the
coffee.
    ‘I get
the impression it was a bit of a wild night.’
    ‘I was
first to bed – can’t think why I had the worst hangover.’
    DS
Jones watches him for a moment, but there is apparently little to glean from
his concentrated features.  She drops a hand to her side and taps her
attaché case.
    ‘I’ve
got plenty more paracetamol if you want some, Guv?’
    Skelgill
shakes his head, though somewhat gingerly.
    ‘Just
shoot me next time I pick up a glass of red wine.’
    ‘I’ll
make a mental note, Guv.’
    Skelgill
puts down his handset and glances suspiciously about the lobby.  They are
seated in comfy armchairs in a medium-sized hotel at Portinscale, beside the
northerly tip of Derwentwater, and close by the spot where his boat was recovered. 
He has negotiated temporary mooring facilities, and has retrieved his belongings. 
He has yet to recover his car and trailer from the public slipway at Keswick
– and indeed is still to engineer a change of clothes from those in which
he set out to fish yesterday morning.  DS Jones has volunteered to
chauffeur him for the present, while DS Leyton has returned to police HQ, assigned
to coordinate the contacting of next of kin, and as bearer of the bad tidings
to Wordsworth Writers’ Retreats.
    ‘What
did you make of them, Jones?’
    ‘On
the island, Guv?’
    ‘Aye.’
    DS
Jones places her elbows on the arms of the chair and interlocks her slender
fingers.  Her nails are neatly manicured and Skelgill, looking at them, self-consciously
folds his own weather-beaten hands into his armpits.
    ‘I
can’t say I’ve met any writers before, Guv.  They all seemed well educated
– law-abiding.’  She unwinds her fingers and inspects her
nails.  ‘Though definitely idiosyncratic – take the James Bond
character.  Smooth talker.  Suave.  Very self-confident.’
    She
refers to Burt Boston, rather than the eponymous doctor.  Skelgill is
instantly disapproving of her assessment.
    ‘If
he’s ex-SAS I’m a monkey’s uncle.’
    DS
Jones seems