Free Murder on the Lake by Bruce Beckham

surprised by his vehemence, and edges back in her seat.
    ‘What
makes you say that, Guv?’
    Skelgill
turns and gazes out over the water, which laps close to the rear lawn of the
hotel.  The weather has indeed improved and, though there is still a swell
rolling up the lake, the sun now glints benevolently off the corrugated surface,
and Tufted Ducks bob contentedly between dives.
    ‘A few
things.’
    ‘Such
as, Guv?’
    Skelgill
appears reluctant to elaborate, as though telling her will force him to abandon
an as yet incomplete edifice in his mind.  But then he looks her in the
eye and begins to count out on his fingers.
    ‘For
one, he had no torch with him – basic piece of kit, especially for a trip
to an island with no electricity.  For two, he knows nothing about knots
– he was nodding away when I said I’d moored with a clove hitch. 
For three – and you’re right, he has been watching the Bond films
– he started talking nonsense about blowing up a propane cylinder.’
    Skelgill
might add that, though Burt Boston had offered to swim for help in his stead,
he had not pressed the point when Skelgill objected on the grounds of his duty
to protect the public.  DS Jones, looking just a hint chastened, raises a
hand in the direction of the lake.
    ‘It’s
not going to be great PR for this writers’ retreats company, Guv – two
people dying on one of their courses.’
    Skelgill
takes a gulp of his coffee and wipes his lips with the back of his hand, which
he then rubs with the heel of the other to disperse the chocolate powder mark.
    ‘Eighty
per cent survival rate – that’s better than climbing Everest.’
    DS
Jones grins obediently at his rather ghoulish joke.
    ‘That’s
including you, Guv.’
    Now
Skelgill blinks self-effacingly.
    ‘My
mental maths doesn’t extend to seven out of nine.’
    ‘I
guess it’s an even less flattering figure, Guv.’
    ‘Anyway,
there were ten of us – I was an honorary member for the night.  Did
I tell you I blitzed them at Scrabble ?’
    ‘You
did mention that, Guv.’
    ‘Aye
– happen I did.’
    There
is a shelving unit beside their seats, containing the usual hotel collection of
forsaken paperback blockbusters and bulk-buy second-hand hardbacks that could
only have been produced without reference to publishers or readers, in a time
when it was fashionable to write with absolute and totally uninformed self
indulgence.  DS Jones is glancing musingly along the top shelf, and she pulls
out what appears to be a detective novel.
    ‘I
can’t help thinking of that Agatha Christie story, Guv – where a
house-party get stranded on an island and one by one they start dying off.’
    Skelgill
appears only vaguely engaged by this allusion.
    ‘Aye
– but this crowd are unconnected.’
    DS
Jones drums her nails on the clothette cover.
    ‘So
they were in that story, Guv.’
    Skelgill
shakes his head dismissively.
    ‘Aye,
well you know me and fiction, Jones.’

5. DR HERDWICK’S REPORT – Monday 2:30 p.m.
     
    ‘Sorry
to keep you, Leyton – got a bit tied up over at Portinscale – what
with sorting out the boat and one thing and another.’
    Skelgill,
finding DS Leyton waiting in his office, is economical with the facts, having
cajoled DS Jones into a pub lunch at a nearby watering hole.  His motives
were a little less than altruistic, as he admitted when supping thirstily on a
pint of strong ale: there had to be some way to shift his limpet-like
hangover.  However, given that the ‘hair of the dog’ has still failed to flush
away all vestiges of discomfort, his politeness is somewhat uncharacteristic. 
DS Leyton, unused to apologies from his superior, looks rather discomfited, and
jumps to attention before sidling out into the corridor, offering to fetch them
teas from the machine.  DS Jones, meanwhile, is consulting with the police
pathologist, Dr Herdwick.
    ‘Here
we go, Guv.’  DS Leyton slides a polystyrene cup carefully across to
Skelgill’s side