Murder on the Lake (12 page)

‘Was
it not a bit boring, sir?’

Dickie
Lampray shakes his head decisively.  ‘Oh, I always have plenty of work to
do, Inspector.’  He gestures to a neat stack of papers that sits beside the
hearth.  ‘These days agents are exploited as free readers by
publishers.  I had a whole suitcase of manuscripts to work my way through. 
I almost sank that rowing boat single handed.’  He sighs.  ‘Perhaps
one day I shall discover my own Sarah Redmond.’

Skelgill
gazes at the nearest set of bookshelves, although there is no flicker of
recognition in his eyes.

‘Were
there no future best-selling authors on the course?’

Dickie
Lampray, perhaps rather surprisingly, does not appear to dismiss this notion
out of hand.

‘Well,
Inspector, Linda Gray’s cooking was certainly fit for
haute cuisine
,
especially in light of the limitations of the kitchen – but her writing
was rather more
cafeteria
, if I may put it that way – nonetheless she
certainly succeeded in showcasing her talents.’  Then he shakes his head,
perhaps reluctantly.  ‘But there are so many cookery writers these days
– and of course fiction is my bag, in any event.’

‘How
about the others?’

‘Well
– I probably don’t need to tell you about poor Bella Mandrake – may
she rest in peace – her writing was of a juvenile standard,
unfortunately.  Dr Bond wrote stodgily and was such a terrible pedant about
the Lake District – until you arrived to put him in his place – and
the ex-solider chap, a little too facile – although there’s probably more
of a market in what he has to say.’  He pauses, as if he is trying to
remember whom he has omitted from his appraisal.  ‘Oh, yes – young
Lucy Hecate – now she was a bit of a dark horse, somewhat retiring, her
writing rather complex and deep – but an intelligent and knowledgeable
girl – I sense she is destined to be an author, if that is what she wants
– but of course you made rather an impression on her yourself,
Inspector.’

Skelgill
appears not to notice DS Jones’s inquiring glance.  He tips his head to
one side in a casual gesture.

‘I
think that was just the coincidence of her being the person that summoned my
help, sir – it could have been any of you.’

‘Ah,
but there you go, Inspector – just another example of her quiet
determination – she had resolved to venture out and brave the storm, when
all the rest of us had given it up for the night – and she was proved
right – she found you!’

Skelgill
opens his palms, as if to say ‘these things happen’, and takes the cue for his
next question.

‘When
I appeared, sir – obviously you’d had the shock of Mr Buckley’s death
– but I got the impression you were all getting along very well as a
group – considering, as you say, that you’d been thrown together largely as
a bunch of strangers.’

Dickie
Lampray considers for a moment, as if perhaps this generalisation is not
entirely the case.  His reply however strikes a conciliatory chord.

‘Well,
of course, it was a slightly artificial situation, to the extent that the
professionals among us represented channels to publication – Rich, and myself
to a lesser degree – but even rubbing shoulders with Angela and Sarah
perhaps seemed like a harbinger of good fortune – so it was natural for
the novice authors to want to impress us in whatever ways they could.  I
suppose that helped to create a harmonious and cooperative atmosphere.’

‘You
didn’t sense any rivalries?’

Again
there is some hesitation from Dickie Lampray; perhaps even the faintest twinge
of discomfort, as if Skelgill’s question has prodded a raw nerve.  But
quickly he gathers himself.

‘Well,
Inspector – as you witnessed – Bella Mandrake was no shrinking
violet, she had few qualms about insinuating herself into whatever conversation
was in progress.  The others were less pushy as such, though Dr Bond was
somewhat presumptuous – I shouldn’t like to have been one of his patients
– and Burt Boston, frankly a bit of a show-off.  Linda Gray was
rather dowdy – but then she was able to let her food do her talking
– and Lucy Hecate altogether more reticent.

Skelgill’s
attention seems to waver during this answer – perhaps because these
superficial impressions he had already assimilated during his time at Grisholm
Hall.  But he gathers his wits and develops his line of enquiry.

‘How
about among the professionals?’

Dickie
Lampray shakes his head.

‘Perhaps
if instead of a publisher, an agent and a critic there had been three
publishers all wooing Sarah Redmond, then it might have been a different matter
– as it was, our sub-group was strictly non-competitive – apart
from when it came to
Scrabble
– at which you of course gave us all
a bit of a lesson in ruthlessness.’

Skelgill
affects modesty; though it is plain he is pleased by this assessment.

‘Put
it down to beginner’s luck, sir.’

‘Oh, I
think it was more than that, Inspector – do you do crosswords, by any
chance?’

Skelgill
appears guarded – until he remembers he has reinforcements at his
side.  He gestures casually at DS Jones.

‘Actually,
my sergeant here is more of a dab hand than me.’

Dickie
Lampray regards DS Jones with interest.

‘I
rather imagined all modern detectives do crosswords – I suppose it comes
from watching too much
Inspector Morse
– these repeats are never
off daytime television.’

DS
Jones nods politely.  The course of the conversation has taken a diversion
– of Dickie Lampray’s making – but Skelgill seems content with this
state of affairs.  He slaps his hands on his knees and rises.

‘Would
you mind, sir – if I just nipped to your bathroom before we go?’  He
gestures to the cafetière, as if to pass some of the responsibility for his predicament
to Dickie Lampray.  ‘I’m not a regular coffee drinker.’

Dickie
Lampray looks momentarily discomfited, but he realises he has little alternative
than to accommodate Skelgill accordingly.

‘Of
course, Inspector – be my guest – it is directly ahead at the top
of the stairs.’

Skelgill
nods politely and leaves the room.  When he reappears a couple of minutes
later, Dickie Lampray has moved to sit beside DS Jones on the leather settee,
and they are both leaning over a folded copy of
The Times
.

‘Ah,
Inspector – your sergeant certainly
is
a dab hand.’  He lifts
the journal and wafts it triumphantly above his head.  ‘She has solved my
final two clues: tanager and pelican – both of them birds – amazing
how obvious they are once one knows the answer!’

Skelgill
looks quizzically at DS Jones, who returns his glance with a slightly helpless
expression, as though the exercise was thrust upon her in his absence.

‘Well,
sir – I’m glad we’ve been of some use to you.’  Skelgill offers a
hand, which Dickie Lampray reciprocates.  ‘We might have some luck
tracking down the retreats company – but in the meantime if you hear from
them please do let us know.’

‘Certainly,
Inspector.’

They shuffle
out into the hallway.  Dickie Lampray moves to head off the Cavalier, but
the small canine seems content to remain nestled in its blanket – perhaps
the run-in with the Morkie and Schnoodle gang has proved a little overwhelming.

‘Well,
thank you for your help, sir – and your hospitality.’  Skelgill
bows, rather ostentatiously.  ‘We shouldn’t need to be troubling you
again, sir.’

They
take their leave, and exit from the diminutive front garden, which is mainly
filled with shrubs such as
Buddleia
and
Cotoneaster
.  As DS
Jones turns to fasten the gate, she glances up to see Dickie Lampray watching
from the bay window of the lounge.  He is cradling his dog and, rather
comically, manipulates one of its paws in a puppet-like farewell.  DS
Jones giggles and acknowledges the gesture.

‘What
is it?’

‘They
were just waving us off, Guv.’

‘They?’ 
Skelgill suddenly sounds alarmed.

‘Him
and the dog, Guv.’

‘Ah.’ 
Skelgill relaxes.

‘What
did you think I meant, Guv?’

Skelgill
purses his lips before replying.

‘Oh
– just that there was someone snoring in one of the bedrooms.’

DS
Jones’s eyes widen.

‘You
didn’t look in, Guv?’

Skelgill
grins.

‘You
must be joking – it sounded like a bloke.’  Then he pulls his mobile
phone from his hip pocket.  ‘I did get this, though.’  He fiddles
with the screen and then holds the display so she can see it.

‘It’s
one of the photographs he had on the wall, Guv.’

‘Correct
– but who’s in it?’

DS
Jones takes the handset and looks more closely.

‘Well
– it’s Dickie Lampray – and several others – I don’t
recognise them.’

Skelgill’s
expression hardens.

‘See
the tall one, on Lampray’s left?’

‘Aha?’

‘Pound
to a penny that’s Rich Buckley.’

‘Yes
– that is Mr Buckley.’

The
woman nods, her jaw pushed forward with some determination.  She is wiry
and angular, and of medium height and late middle age.  Her dark eyes are
watchful, blinking evenly behind horn-rimmed spectacles that perch upon a beaked
nose.  Her sleek auburn hair is coiffed in a chignon style and her clothes
– a grey twinset and toning tweed skirt – add to the impression of
a PA from the old school.  (Indeed she has a refined accent to match.) 
She is called Miss Constance Belgrave, and she is – unexpectedly –
the sole employee of Rich Buckley Publishing Limited.  The detectives have
travelled back across town by London Underground, passing more or less beneath
their night’s lodgings, first to emerge blinking in the bright sunshine at
Holborn (DS Jones schooling Skelgill in the pronunciation
“Hoe-bern”
and
pointing out Staple Inn, an old Holborn landmark made famous by the eponymous
tobacco), thence to continue on foot into the fringe of the up-and-coming
Clerkenwell district.  Here the firm has its offices on the third floor of
what was once a lithographic printer’s.  The superficially renovated premises
retain an industrial character, having exposed pipes, ducts, and vents, large
steel-framed windows, and high ceilings with fluorescent lighting.  The
publisher’s quarters appear to comprise a single large room at the corner of
the building, divided into a series of semi-open-plan spaces by tubular shelving
units of about six feet in height.  They are now seated in what is an
improvised reception area, where two minimalistic Bauhaus-style settees face
one another across a chrome and glass coffee table.  In scheduling their appointment,
a detective constable reporting to DS Jones has outlined the purpose of their
visit – primarily to acquire some background details on Rich Buckley
– and Skelgill has begun by showing Miss Belgrave the awards ceremony
photograph he clandestinely obtained en route to Dickie Lampray’s loo.

‘Naturally,
madam, we appreciate this must be an upsetting time for you.’

The woman
redirects her birdlike stare from the photograph to Skelgill.

‘Why,
Inspector – I am not upset in the least – Mr Buckley was a
thoroughly unpleasant man.’

Skelgill
is not easily knocked off his stride, though he is more accustomed to dealing
with rough-and-ready country-folk than polished metropolitan sorts.  He
perhaps plays for time by taking a bite of the chocolate digestive with which
he has been furnished.  The opportunity, however, is too good to be passed
over, and after a moment he has composed a response that ought to serve his
purpose.

‘I did
rather get that impression from some of the ladies I met at the writers’
retreat.’

This appears
to be an astute tactic – despite lacking substance – for it allies
the woman with notional kindred spirits, and there is a distinct release of
strain in her taut frame.

‘I am
not surprised to hear that, Inspector.’

Skelgill
tilts his head to one side.

‘You’re
– you were – his secretary, madam?’

The
woman appears to flinch at this suggestion.

‘I was
ostensibly recruited as
PA to the Managing Director
.’  She
emphasises the job title in a contemptuous tone.  ‘At exactly this time
last year – but it has turned out that my role is almost entirely devoted
to selling.’

‘How
does that work, madam?’  Again the woman shows a flicker of disapproval
– or at least some impatience, as if Skelgill’s question is improbably
naïve – and he quickly adds a caveat.  ‘You’ll have to bear with me,
I’m afraid – I’m a complete duffer when it comes to the book world
– but ask me anything you like about sheepdog trials.’

The
woman seems to soften a little at this admission, and – having cleared
the hurdle of her admission to labouring in what she evidently considers a
menial capacity – she elaborates with good grace.

‘You
could euphemistically call it publicity, Inspector – or marketing, come
to that.  For each book that we publish we need to gain trade support and
media exposure.  If it is not prominent upon the booksellers’ shelves and
display tables, and there is no public awareness of its merits, a book will
simply wither and die.  And then it is returned to us for a fate known as
pulping.’  She inhales, and for a second appears perturbed – but then
she reaches into the handbag that rests beside her and brings out an electronic
cigarette.  ‘Do you mind, Inspector... Sergeant?’  Skelgill shakes
his head.  DS Jones looks a little alarmed, but does not comment. 
They might wonder if this is the mouse beginning to let down its hair now that the
cat has perished.  They watch with some interest as she ‘vapes’ –
Skelgill seems fascinated by the little puff of steam that disappears into the
ether.  There is a brief flutter of her eyelids – a glimpse of
pleasure – and then she resumes her explanation.  ‘A publisher has only
a short window of time for each book to establish itself.  These days,
unless the author is famous – or infamous – it can be nigh-on
impossible to achieve the level of coverage that will deliver profitability.’

‘A bit
of a thankless task, then, madam?’

‘And a
thankless taskmaster to boot, Inspector.’

Skelgill
again resists any temptation he might feel to home in on the unpopularity of the
late Rich Buckley.  Instead, he picks up on the theme she has outlined.

‘In
terms of publicity, madam, there was a woman on the retreat – quite a
well-known book critic, I’m led to believe – Angela Cutting.’  He
pauses to watch another puff of steam.  ‘Would she be someone you dealt
with?’

For a
moment Constance Belgrave looks distinctly peeved.

‘Inspector,
there were certain associates – perhaps those considered to be of a more
senior level, or perhaps of a longer standing – that Mr Buckley kept to
himself.  I believe Angela Cutting fell into that category.’

‘So
they did know one another?’

‘I am
sure they did, yes.’

‘Do
you know the extent to which they were in contact?’

She
shakes her head and sucks in another shot of vaporised nicotine.

‘I was
not privy to Mr Buckley’s diary – if indeed he kept one.’  She frowns
censoriously.  ‘But certainly he was no stranger to the extended lunch
hour – several times some weeks.’

Skelgill
raises his eyebrows, mirroring her disapproval.

‘There
was some mention that Mr Buckley was interested in signing up the author Sarah
Redmond?’

Skelgill
leaves the question hanging.

‘
Xara
Redmond, Inspector.’

‘Aye
– of course – the pen name.’

Now Constance
Belgrave folds her arms, holding the cigarette against her left shoulder.

‘I
should have thought that was very unlikely, Inspector.’

‘Why
is that, madam?’

‘The scale
of advances an author such as Xara Redmond could command would be beyond the
resources of Rich Buckley Publishing – especially under the current
circumstances.’

Skelgill
plays dumb.

‘The
current circumstances, madam?’

The
woman now seems to ride a little roller coaster of emotions – perhaps a
surge of glee, followed by a braking realisation of disappointment.

‘Mr
Buckley was in the midst of some very taxing divorce negotiations, Inspector
– the financial implications, I understand, were putting considerable
strains on the resources of the business.’

‘Did
Mr Buckley tell you this?’

For
moment she seems a little ashamed – as though she has betrayed a
confidence that she ought not even to know.  But then she is perhaps
reminded that one can neither slander nor be rebuked by the dead, and she casts
a hand in the general direction of what must have been Rich Buckley’s
workstation.

‘When
one person is talking loudly on the telephone, Inspector, the rest of us can overhear
everything that passes.’

Skelgill
nods – but rather than explore her revelation about finances, he picks up
on what appears to be a little idiosyncrasy in her reasoning.

‘Madam,
when you say “the rest of us” – I thought it was just yourself that
worked here?’

‘Presently,
that is correct, Inspector.’  Constance Belgrave creases her lips as if
there is a bitter taste in her mouth.  ‘But we chew up and spit out a constant
stream of attractive young female interns.’

She rounds
off this statement with a disapproving glance at DS Jones, who is diligently
taking notes, and does not see that she has been unjustly targeted, simply for
the crime of being an attractive young female – an impression perhaps
compounded by her short skirt and low sitting position.  Skelgill watches
as Constance Belgrave draws rather more urgently upon the cigarette, and he
reaches for his tea as if to create a lull in which the dust may settle.

‘If I
understand you correctly, madam – are you saying that Mr Buckley was the
cause of the, shall we say, high staff turnover?’

The
woman regards him sharply, as if trying to discern whether he harbours predatory
tendencies of a similar nature.

‘Certainly,
Inspector.’

‘Do
you have staff records of these, er... young ladies?’

‘We do
not, Inspector.’  There is an angry edge now to her voice.  ‘Since
they were unpaid, there was little formal recruitment – just an ad placed
on a local student jobs website – and a brief audition with Mr Buckley on
the casting couch.’  She indicates the settee upon which Skelgill and DS
Jones sit.  ‘I think three months is the longest any individual has lasted
during my tenure.’

Skelgill
nods, and then frowns inquiringly.

‘Just
to be specific, madam – what would you say were their main reasons for
leaving?’

The
woman is quick to reply, as if she has had the words stacked ready to topple
from her tongue.

‘Primarily
sexual harassment, Inspector.’  She stares indignantly at Skelgill, but
then she looks away rather fretfully, as if – paradoxically – there
is an element of her outrage that she herself never suffered such a fate. 
But the distraction is short lived, and she gathers her wits.  ‘To that
you can add Mr Buckley’s traits of arrogance, intolerance, miserliness,
rudeness and a wholesale lack of empathy as far as other human beings were
concerned.’

‘It
must have been difficult for yourself, madam – were you not tempted to do
something about it?’

She chooses
to interpret the question in pragmatic terms.

‘It is
not easy for a woman of my age to gain employment in a prestigious sector of
the economy, Inspector.’  And with these words she seems to shrink, her
shoulders to droop and the defiant façade to show cracks of vulnerability. 
She even allows a small sigh to escape from her compressed lips.  ‘And I
do love books.’

Skelgill
nods several times, furrowing his brow in an intelligent way, as if he empathises
in particular with her latter point.

‘I
realise it’s early days, madam – but what do you anticipate will happen
to the company?’

But
now a flicker of surprise crosses her features.

‘Oh, I
should imagine we shall be sold as a going concern – if nothing else the
RBP brand has a strong identity.’  She indicates beyond the settee on
which the detectives sit.  Behind them, against the window, stands a
cardboard unit that holds a stack of new paperbacks, all identical – there
is a backboard with an enlarged photograph of the book, and it appears to be a
prototype for a store display.  ‘As well as our popular non-fiction list,
we are outright market leaders in gay and lesbian fiction – and erotica.’

Skelgill
cranes his neck, and squints into the bright sunny backdrop as though he is struggling
to read the title – although it might be the somewhat lurid cover image
that clamours for his attention.  Just when it could be considered rather
indecent to gaze any longer, he swivels back to face Constance Belgrave. 
He affects a vacant shake of the head.

‘I
thought that kind of thing was all online these days, madam.’

She flashes
him an old fashioned look – as though she suspects his naivety to be
ingenuous.

‘The rehabilitation
of the call girl and the social acceptability of sexual fantasies has led over
the past decade to something of a mini boom in explicit belle lettres and bondage
adventures, Inspector.  We receive approximately three submissions per
week in which a carnally repressed college student cavorts with an over-sexed American
billionaire.  The agents have given up on it, but hopeful authors keep
them coming.’  Now she gestures to a stack of unopened foolscap envelopes
and A4-sized packages that rests with other items of mail and magazines upon a
small table near the entrance.  ‘There you see this week’s unsolicited
manuscripts, and it is only Tuesday.’

Skelgill
gazes at the pile for a moment.

‘What
do you do with them?’