DS Jones looks impressed by Skelgill’s unexpectedly apposite retort, but before she can fashion a reply there is a knock on the door – it is a junior member of staff, one of her team of probationers. He bears a piece of paper. He glances rather apprehensively at Skelgill, who does not help by continuing to look annoyed – a sentiment that the constable assumes is directed at him.
‘Couple of things have just come in, sir.’
He offers the sheet to Skelgill, but the latter indicates with a twitch of his head that he should deliver it to DS Jones. She is more gracious, and thanks him and sends him off with an errand to facilitate his swift exit. She reads the paper; a frown creases her usually smooth brow. Skelgill is impatient.
‘What is it?’
‘There’s a report of several evacuated properties in Keswick having been looted.’ She looks up to confirm that her colleagues share her disgust. DS Leyton swears an oath of vengeance. ‘And a 32-year-old male reported missing by his wife – from Cockermouth, Guv.’
Now she regards Skelgill with some concern – for she knows he will take this as a personal slight. The remarkable news that everyone was accounted for has been a matter of some celebration, given the extraordinary speed and extent of the disaster. But she sees that – after a momentary reverse – he makes light of the matter.
‘He’s probably still in The Black Swan.’
His subordinates grin obligingly. DS Leyton offers a suggestion.
‘Want me to look into the Keswick business, Guv? I’m due to interview the Santa in that theft case from the supermarket Christmas grotto – the local bobby’s trying to pin it on one of the elves, but I’m not convinced.’
Skelgill seems distracted – though he is processing the logistical implications of DS Leyton’s question. He shakes his head.
‘Leyton – I need to go to Cockermouth. You can give me a lift. My car and trailer are still at Wythop Mill – then you can follow and lend a hand hauling the boat. Jones – you get on to the looting business.’
DS Jones looks a little crestfallen.
*
Skelgill watches from the diagonal across Station Street. The plate glass frontage of The Lonely Cloud Café is steamed up. He can’t make out who is in there. Occasionally a customer enters or leaves; this road – with many essential shops – has reopened to the public, but further down the hill the junction with Main Street is still closed. However, the lagoon has drained, and business owners are to be allowed back this afternoon – a window of an hour to inspect the damage and salvage essential items.
Skelgill is just about to head over to the café when Rhiannon Rees emerges. She does not look around, but ducks into the light rain and strides purposefully to the butcher’s opposite. Skelgill turns away and pretends to be examining particulars in the estate agent’s display beside which he loiters. When she is gone, he frowns, and checks his watch.
Now he too marches away. Up Station Street, he turns left into South Street, and all the way down to its end, and right into Rubbybanks Road. Here some dozen properties front directly onto the narrow thoroughfare, separated from the River Cocker only by a low wall in red sandstone. However, when past deluges have repeatedly left in their wake a scene of domestic devastation – piled high ruined sofas, chairs, tables and sundry other furniture; mud-coated fridges, washing machines, dishwashers; saturated carpets, rugs and curtains – only a thin skim of alluvium covers the tarmac. A new self-raising flood barrier has prevented the worst from happening. The river overflowed further upstream, but the run-off was not sufficient to penetrate the properties. A small victory for the authorities – a great sigh of relief for the householders.
The street peters out for traffic beneath Victoria Bridge – but Skelgill knows the route well. There is a riverside path that stretches about half a mile from the town centre to Harris Park, and beyond that to his destination.
*
Walkmill, a sizeable and secluded property, retains its name from its ancient purpose as a fulling mill – where woollen cloth was cleansed and thickened underfoot by fullers (or walkers) – a task in Roman times undertaken by slaves treading up to their ankles in tubs of urine. By the mediaeval period fuller’s earth was introduced as a replacement, and more latterly, soap – but such wholesome enhancements did not halt the decline and eventual demise of the trade. This particular ‘walk mill’, one of some 500 such premises in Cumbria before the Industrial Revolution, owes its survival to its falling into public ownership between the wars. It became an outward-bound centre for underprivileged children, respite from the satanic mill towns of northern England – before budget cuts obliged the cash-strapped council to mothball it. Empty for over a decade, it was sold ‘for a song’ (as local hearsay has it) at auction five years ago. Now it is a private dwelling.
From his riverbank vantage point amongst mature alders Skelgill is surprised by just how high above the water the building stands, perhaps twenty feet of elevation. But of course – there will be a millrace diverted from a pool upstream to guarantee a steady supply. The original oak waterwheels are still fixed in place on the near wall of the old mill; cracked and brittle, their function is now ornamental. Judging by the tidemark of debris, the property escaped the flood with a couple of fathoms to spare.
Behind the house rises a steep wooded cliff of bare rowan and birch, in effect the side of a gorge, and an unmade track winds down from the nearest road, a quarter of a mile away. Tucked into a niche chiselled out of the hillside, Skelgill is not surprised to see a pair of 4x4s – Range Rovers of the ‘his and hers’ varieties. He notes they have the latest registration.
Roughly on a level with the house is an elongated shed. There is a signboard: “River Nation – The Current Fashion” – and drawn up nearby a multi-trailer stacked with nine brightly coloured touring kayaks that could do with a jet wash to remove streaks of dark green algae. Skelgill approaches and considers the arrangement reflectively – when a voice from overhead calls to him.
‘Can I help you?’
Out of an upper window leans a youngish woman with wet hair and a white towel clasped around her shoulders.
‘Mrs Alcock? DI Skelgill. Cumbria Police.’
Skelgill rather half-heartedly waves his warrant card – knowing she cannot possibly see anything of significance at such a distance.
‘Oh – they said to expect someone this afternoon – sorry – I’m – just out of the shower.’
‘No hurry, madam.’
‘I’ll be two minutes, Inspector.’
While he waits Skelgill casually examines the building. It is a substantial three-storey property, constructed in local sandstone. On the uphill side is extensive though rusting scaffolding – as if some repair to the roof was formerly in progress – and at the rear a half-built extension in reclaimed stone that matches the main house. Rainwater drips from the cast-iron guttering in several places, probably the accumulation of autumn leaves. The Georgian frontage has five long sash windows, four over four; he notes the white paintwork is flaking extravagantly. Where the sixth window would complete the regular grid is an open-sided lean-to porch, something of a Heath Robinson addition. The front door is made of solid wood and offers no view inside – but after more or less the promised time he hears approaching footsteps.
Skelgill’s first impression is one of familiarity. Is this someone else he knows of old? Another blue-eyed blonde. But the feeling is fleeting and becomes subsumed in the kaleidoscopic tumble of stimuli that accompanies a first-time encounter in strange surroundings. Maeve Alcock greets him with a smile that is patently forced, and in her red-rimmed eyes there is a look of apprehension. She moves close to clasp his hand between hers – as if the contact conducts away some of her anxiety – and the faint mustiness of the hallway is displaced by her fragrance. She is quite tall for a woman – maybe five-eight – and he knows from the initial police report that her age is 33. She is pale skinned, though this is a feature of many folk living in Cumbria at this time of ye
ar; her shoulder-length fair hair, still damp, displays streaks of artificial enhancement.
‘Sorry I wasn’t ready – I imagined you would arrive in a police vehicle. There’s an entryphone system on the gate at the end of the drive – I have to open it remotely.’
Skelgill shrugs accommodatingly, to suggest this is of no consequence.
‘I’ve got a boat on a trailer attached to my car – it would be tricky to get it down here – never mind turn it round. It was easy enough to walk from the town centre – gave me a chance to have a look at the state of the river.’
This clunky exchange gets them off on an awkward footing – neither statement quite making sense. The woman could hardly have been any more prepared had he pressed the buzzer. And on his part, given there is a much larger trailer than his own, loaded with canoes, the descent cannot be that difficult – and, anyway, how would he have known?
However, neither of these indiscretions is particularly relevant – and the woman passes over the subject.
‘Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?’
She is well spoken; in her refined accent there is no real clue to her provenance, other than perhaps expensive schooling.
‘Tea would be good, madam.’
He follows her along a dark hallway that jinks around a staircase, windowless on the left and the only natural light coming from rooms on the right. His eye is drawn by the slap on the stone flags of her white slip-ons, of the complimentary variety found in hotel bathrooms; pink stirrup leggings emphasise a girlish figure that was not immediately apparent – the house is cold and she wears perhaps out of necessity a bulky Fair Isle sweater.
Only one room has its door fully open – it is equipped like a teenager’s den – he takes in a cream shag pile carpet, a black leather-effect rocker gaming chair facing the latest curved-screen TV; behind on the wall hang mounted enlargements of sporting medal ceremonies, and there is a shelf of silver trophies.
The kitchen by comparison is incomplete. It is as if they have moved in before the builders were able to finish. While it is lavishly fitted, several of the units are yet to be installed, and stand propped in their flat-packs in a corner. The walls are unpainted and at intervals wires protrude where plug sockets are absent. Beneath a long worktop there are gaps at floor level with plumbing and electrical connections for white goods – dishwasher, washing machine, Skelgill supposes. However, there is sufficient of a functioning area between the sink and cooker for her to boil water and make tea. She has settled Skelgill at a large farmhouse style oak table, and she joins him, sitting at right angles, with two mugs.
‘Much appreciated, madam.’
There is tension apparent in her hunched posture, intertwined fingers hugging her mug. He notices her manicure is in need of restoration. She glances at him sideways, nervously.
‘It’s fine to call me Maeve – if – if it’s not in breach of protocol?’
‘Aye.’
This could be a yes or a no, but Skelgill does not elucidate. In fact he is mulling over her name – there is the option to become diverted and make small talk – it might put her more at ease. But he chooses the direct approach.
‘Perhaps – Maeve – you could tell me why you called the police. I’ve been informed of what you said on the telephone – but start again from scratch.’
She is looking at him while he speaks – but then she lowers her eyes and seems to gather herself, as if the reply requires extra concentration.
‘Well – Roger has disappeared. He went down to the shop in Main Street on Sunday evening – to save what he could. I haven’t seen him since.’
Now she looks up, as if to check the impact of her words upon Skelgill.
‘This is the sports shop?’
She nods.
‘Do you know it?’
He does, though only as a sceptical window-shopper. To his trained eye, while River Nation masquerades as a serious active sports retailer, it is in fact a purveyor of fashion wear, frivolous form that prevails over practical function – “all fur coat and no knickers” in his vernacular. There is an arm of the business that arranges outdoor experiences for the corporate market – largely based around kayaking – and the retail outlet in Main Street doubles as a booking office.
‘Has he phoned – or texted, or whatever?’
She shakes her head. Her expression is blank.
‘He said his mobile was out of charge – it hasn’t responded since. He said he’d call from the flat – the office above the shop. But – I realised that the power was off and he wouldn’t have been able to charge it. There’s a landline in the shop, but not upstairs. And then when I called the police one of your colleagues informed me that the property had been checked and there is no one there.’
‘What time on Sunday did he leave?’
‘Around five-thirty – he received a message from his business partner, Nick – who had read about the floods on Twitter.’
Skelgill is looking doubtful.
‘But your husband couldn’t have got anywhere near Main Street. There was a police cordon in place from late afternoon – never mind it was under eight foot of water.’
Maeve Alcock looks up forlornly.
‘He took a kayak.’
‘Down the Cocker?’
‘He’s an expert – he was in the Commonwealth Games.’ A rising note of anguish infiltrates her voice.
Now Skelgill finds himself torn, between official annoyance at the foolhardy act and the knowledge that he did much the same – and he has no such laurels to fall back on. He pictures the empty tenth berth on the kayak trailer – and there is some other nagging memory that he cannot quite bring to mind. Whatever – he battles the inescapable hypothesis that Roger Alcock has come a cropper. But he realises he must pose the routine investigative questions – if only for the sake of those tenuous hopes to which Maeve Alcock patently clings. He forges an optimistic expression.
‘So that’s a strong point in his favour.’
She nods meekly.
‘I pray so, Inspector.’
Skelgill turns his mug experimentally on the table surface.
‘This business partner – who is he?’
‘Nick Bridgwater. He lives in the town.’
‘And did he attempt to go to the shop?’
‘He’s in Marbella. Trade is quiet this time of year – Roger and Nick normally take turns for holidays in January and February. Nick’s not due back in Britain until the weekend.’
‘Okay – so what did Mr Alcock say about coming home?’
Maeve Alcock looks confounded.
‘He didn’t really say anything. It all happened so quickly. The first thing I knew was when he appeared all kitted out.’ She stares at her untouched tea and nervously twists a strand of hair between her index and ring fingers; she wears a plain gold wedding band and an engagement ring set with a chunky solitaire diamond. ‘He just announced that he was going to the shop. And he went.’
‘That was it?’
The muscles of her face are limp.
‘He’s very headstrong – I tried to protest – but he wouldn’t listen.’
Skelgill’s scowl of disapproval is somewhat disingenuous.
‘Could he have sheltered somewhere nearby? He must know plenty of folk in town.’
She seems to wince – as though Skelgill’s probing has touched unintended upon a raw nerve. But she stiffens her resolve and looks him in the eye.
‘It wouldn’t be unusual for him to stay over at the flat – for instance when the shop is really busy in summer and they remain open late – or for stocktaking – or if he was hosting a corporate activity and the clients were lodging in town.’
Skelgill seems unconvinced.
‘It’s one thing when the power’s on and you can duck out for a takeaway – but in the cold and dark and surrounded by water?’
‘I thought he might have got trapped there – perhaps if the kayak floated away while he was inside? The flat is w
ell stocked – and there is a coal fire – it wouldn’t have been so bad. He is accustomed to camping out.’
Skelgill swoops on her closing phrase, and subverts its sentiment for his own purposes.
‘Is he in the habit of not getting in touch?’
Of course, this question is doubled-edged – for its implication is why did it take her the best part of 48 hours (certainly the passing of two nights) before she reported Roger Alcock missing? Perhaps a sudden bout of tact prevents him from being any more direct – although more likely it is a clandestine instinct. Certainly it has to be of interest to him that she has not explained in advance such a blatant omission. To compound the ambiguity, she shakes her head.
‘Under normal circumstances, if he is staying at the flat, I wouldn’t expect him to call – not when he’s less than a mile away – and could be home in a few minutes if necessary.’
Her words are stilted and Skelgill senses some underlying discomfort. He takes a drink of his tea and uses the little hiatus it creates to reset the mood.
‘Can you recall what he was wearing – particularly as regards safety gear?’
She nods – and seems a little relieved to answer a more practical question.
‘Definitely a lifejacket, if that’s what you’re thinking, Inspector.’
‘A floatation vest – or a proper lifejacket?’
‘I believe it’s called a Crewsaver – the harness type that inflates upon contact with water?’
Skelgill nods.
‘How about a wetsuit?’
Now she is less certain.
‘He was wearing waterproof overalls. I don’t know what he had on underneath. It might be possible to tell if there is a wetsuit missing from the boatshed. Would it make much difference?’
Skelgill casts her a meaningful glance.
‘Happen it could make a big difference – as regards buoyancy and retention of body heat.’
Maeve Alcock suddenly lunges and grabs hold of Skelgill’s forearm with both hands. The action causes him to spill some tea, but she appears not to notice. Indeed, she bows her head and he realises she is having a small meltdown. When she looks up, her eyes are filled with tears. Skelgill squirms uneasily in his seat – but after a moment he reaches with his free hand and cups the side of her face. He smears away a tear with his thumb.
Murder at the Flood (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 9) Page 4