Murder on the Lake by Bruce Beckham Page A

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.’
    DS
Leyton is not convinced, and does not respond to Skelgill’s attempt at humour.
    ‘I
ought to make the effort – but it’s difficult, what with the kids, and
trying to find babysitters and whatnot.’
    DS
Jones looks at him sympathetically.
    ‘I
could sit for you sometime – you should just ask me – if I’m not on
a late shift it’s no problem.’
    DS
Leyton appears surprised, and holds up his palms as though he is
backtracking.  ‘It’s kind of you to offer – you might regret it
though, couple of little terrors, they are.’  He frowns resignedly. 
‘Last babysitter we had phoned us after twenty minutes ‘cause they’d locked
themselves in the bathroom and overflowed the bath – there was water
pouring through the ceiling and the electrics exploded.  By the time we
got back there was a fire engine outside and a crowd of spectators in the
street.’  As his colleagues look increasingly amused, he shakes his head
at the memory.  ‘Funnily enough – that was a Thai meal we were
supposed to have.’
    Skelgill
points at his sergeant with the neck of his beer bottle.
    ‘Sounds
to me like you should stick to takeaways, Leyton.’
    ‘I reckon
you’re right, Guv – though it’s her birthday coming up – I’ll have
to think of something.’  However, he shrugs off the awkward prospect and
reaches for one of the fast-disappearing crackers.  ‘So this was a regular
haunt of yours, Emma – back in the student days?’
    ‘Not
so much when I was a student – we couldn’t often afford to eat
out.’  She appears a little guarded, as though she is reluctant to
elaborate.  ‘After I graduated I used to come down to London – to
visit...’
    A
plate of sticky chicken and ribs floats between them, its aromas punctuating DS
Jones’s sentence and causing a momentarily distraction.  Skelgill swoops
as it lands, though DS Leyton offers the dish to his female colleague before he
avails himself.
    ‘You still
in touch with them, Emma?’
    Skelgill
is hunched over, already preoccupied with a pork rib, his teeth bared –
though he flashes a glance at DS Jones as she replies.
    ‘Not lately.’
    She seems
unsure of what to say next, and instead takes a hurried bite of chicken and has
to lift up her napkin to wipe sauce from her chin.  Ostentatiously, she
raises her eyebrows at her clumsiness.  DS Leyton, who looks like he was
expecting a more comprehensive response, nods pensively.  Then he
re-starts the conversation from a slightly different angle.
    ‘I
never came out West very often – I’m an outsider here in town as much as
the next man.’  He points with a thumb over his shoulder, in what is in
fact an easterly direction.  ‘Course, we’ve got all our relatives –
that still brings us down – though half of them have emigrated to Essex
these days.’
    Skelgill
looks up from his plate and raises a stripped bone in a pontificating