DS Jones nods. Preliminary test results already support the hypothesis that Roger Alcock did not die until after midday on Tuesday. And the notion that he could have spent two long winter nights – possibly three – aboard a kayak seems inconceivable.
‘He could have gone home, Guv.’
‘Aye – I’d be tempted to think he never went out in the first place – if it weren’t for the sighting in Main Street.’
‘He might have stayed at a friend’s house.’
‘I suggested that to his wife the first time I saw her.’
‘What did she say?’
Skelgill makes a face of dissatisfaction.
‘I never got a clear answer – she was determined he’d gone to the flat.’
‘What about someone who lives beside the Derwent, Guv – further downstream? He must have known people, since he regularly guided parties along the river. That could explain how he got back onto the water, and ended up at sea.’
Skelgill inhales and exhales slowly. DS Jones highlights a pivotal point – it is one thing for Roger Alcock to have taken shelter somewhere, but to start out again rather defies logic.
‘There’s fishing huts at intervals.’
‘Inhabitable?’
‘Aye – all mod cons, some of them. The daft folk that pay four figures a day for a rod expect nothing less.’
‘Would they be in use at this time of year?’
Now Skelgill shakes his head.
‘Salmon season on the Derwent starts in February. Trout not till April.’
‘Think we should get them checked out, Guv?’
Now Skelgill flashes his assistant a reproving glance.
‘Aye – if there’s any that’s not floating about in the Irish Sea.’
DS Jones sucks in a breath between her teeth.
‘Ah – silly me.’ But she quickly regains her stride. ‘What about a hotel – a B&B?’
Skelgill looks unconvinced.
‘You’d think by now there’s been enough publicity for a hotelier to have come forward.’
DS Jones nods pensively; she glances to the right as they pass over the entrance to Peel Wyke – Bass Lake, as Skelgill calls it, looks benign.
‘Guv – I know it’s a wacky idea – this suggestion that he staged a disappearance?’ She pauses, as if to gauge Skelgill’s reaction – but he only waits for her to continue. ‘If it were planned, he would have had somewhere in mind – something ready – even if it were only lightweight camping gear and provisions packed into the kayak.’
‘Happen if it’s the only explanation you’ve got left, wacky doesn’t come into it.’
DS Jones smiles to herself.
‘I think that was Sherlock Holmes’s maxim.’
Skelgill’s response is to accelerate as the car emerges from the wooded bends beside the lake onto an open stretch of the A66, passing the left turn to The Partridge. A few minutes more will find them at the Cockermouth roundabout. After a little silence DS Jones poses a final question.
‘Are you intending to tell Maeve Alcock what we know about Roger Alcock’s death – about it being two days later?’
Skelgill grips the wheel determinedly, staring ahead.
‘Since she took two days to tell us he was missing, I might just pass on that one for now.’
8. MAEVE ALCOCK – Thursday afternoon
Skelgill parks across the recessed entrance outside the gate of Walkmill. The visit is prearranged, and he presses the intercom to announce their imminent arrival. The track is steep and winding, deeply rutted and potholed in places, and certainly unsuitable for a vehicle with only standard clearance; as such, they descend cautiously on foot. The woodland rises beneath a sky that is now heavily overcast, spitting with rain; only an hour of miserable daylight remains. The atmosphere is dank and heavy; black drips seep from straining boughs. A robin regales them with its melancholy winter song, a lament underscored by the relentless ‘pinking’ of blackbirds, a discordant note that spooks DS Jones into an affected shudder.
‘It sounds a bit like the shower scene in Psycho, Guv.’
Skelgill glances at his colleague – he looks bemused. But her words bring to mind his recent visit, when Maeve Alcock had indeed just showered. And now he tries to reappraise what left him feeling discomfited. Was she holding something back – or was her manner simply a product of her distress – or, in fact, was it all on his side – that he was disoriented by familial traits long imprinted upon his subconscious by her elder sibling?
As they approach the property they pass the pair of new Range Rovers without comment, although Skelgill notes that the larger of the two is covered in condensation and appears not to have been used lately. He points out the boatshed and the ten-minus-one kayaks stacked upon the trailer. He has in mind to inspect the elongated hut before it gets dark – but Maeve Alcock is waiting beneath the lean-to porch, and they gravitate towards her. She is again smartly dressed – quite likely she has returned early from work – and with DS Jones at his shoulder Skelgill is vaguely conscious of the woman’s attractive figure; they trail in a faint slipstream of perfume as she leads them along the corridor; she walks tall in high heels that tap sharply on the exposed flagstones. The house is cold, as before, although the kitchen is a little warmer, and a vertical designer radiator is making expansion noises that suggest the heating has just been turned on. She invites them to be seated at the table; tea things are already set out. She re-boils an electric kettle and fills the pot. Formalities completed, she takes the carver chair at the end of the table, at the angle beside Skelgill – when she might have been expected to face the two detectives. She does not make eye contact, but instead stares at her mug, her hands clasped around it, her painted nails intertwined. Skelgill, however, has plainly decided to row back from the informal note on which they ended their previous encounter here.
‘Mrs Alcock – we appreciate this is a difficult time – but we have a job to do. The autopsy has confirmed the cause of your husband’s death to be drowning, but it is probable the coroner will order an inquest. We need to find out as best we can what happened to him.’
Maeve Alcock nods without looking up. Her features appear numb, although her eyes are alert – there is something of a person bracing herself for more bad news.
‘I heard on the radio while I was driving home that you are treating the death as unexplained.’
Skelgill is watchful. That this expression has been used in the official media release rather than ‘suspicious’ – which is nearer the mark – is at his behest. All the same, ‘unexplained’ is one notch up from ‘accidental’. That she has noted the distinction might suggest dissatisfaction on her part.
‘He appeared to be fine when he was last seen – a person being evacuated in an inflatable lifeboat was filming on their mobile phone and he crossed in the background – he was caught in the RNLI floodlights. We’ve spoken with Mr Bridgwater – he has suggested that your husband might have tried to gain access from the rear of the shop. But there was nothing to indicate he got into the property. It seems he just vanished into the night. That’s what we need to try and explain.’
‘I understand.’ Her tone is dispassionate.
‘Mrs Alcock – since we talked on Tuesday – has anything come to mind – a comment your husband might have made – or something around the house that’s not quite right?’
‘I don’t really see what that could be, Inspector.’
Skelgill takes a rather delicate sip of his tea.
‘Your husband said that he would go to the flat – but what if he actually went somewhere else? Perhaps there’s a particular item missing that would give a clue?’
But Maeve Alcock only looks baffled.
‘I’m sure he would have told me if he had an alternative plan.’
‘Would you notice if any of his belongings were gone?’
Now she looks up, her voice takes on a forlorn note.
‘I’m not sure. I mean – yes – if he’d
emptied his wardrobe – but, well – I don’t know – his toiletries and razor are in the bathroom – everything seems as usual.’
Skelgill looks a little downcast.
‘I appreciate it’s a bit of a long shot.’
He gestures to DS Jones. She has a manila file. She extracts a photograph of the drysuit and clothing that Roger Alcock was wearing. Skelgill positions it for Maeve Alcock to view.
‘Is this the outfit you last saw him in?’
She rests a shaky index finger on the drysuit.
‘I only saw these waterproofs. I don’t remember what he was wearing earlier.’ Now she points to a nylon base layer shirt emblazoned with a stylised River Nation logo. ‘However that is one of his regular tops.’
‘What did he have on his feet?’
She hesitates.
‘Trainers – I think. But I know he usually kayaked barefoot – he always said there was no point in trying to keep your feet dry.’
Skelgill nods, and ponders for a moment. Then he too indicates the branded shirt.
‘When were you last at the shop – and at the flat?’
‘I called into the shop one lunchtime last week.’ Now she inhales and holds the breath for a moment, her features take on an expression of confusion. ‘The flat – I don’t think I’ve been in the flat for over a year.’
‘It’s nicely kitted out.’
Maeve Alcock starts in response to Skelgill’s observation – on the face of it a rather trivial digression from the central matter. But she gathers her wits and forces a weak smile.
‘Well appointed, as we say in the trade. Roger and Nick had the idea – well, I think it was Roger’s idea, actually – to let it out as holiday accommodation – they had it refurbished – it was in quite a poor state of repair prior to that.’
‘How long ago was that, madam?’
She remains perplexed by his interest, and glances uncertainly at DS Jones before she replies.
‘Oh – it must be coming up for two years.’
‘And has it been a success?’
Now she gives a rather listless shrug.
‘They never got the lettings off the ground – I think they realised they’d lose their extra space – for doing their admin, and break times and so forth – and of course it was so much more pleasant after the refit –’
She leaves this last statement hanging.
‘The marketing would have been something you could have helped them with – given your job.’
‘Yes, I could. We handle quite a few holiday lets.’ Her voice, however, is bereft of any enthusiasm.
Now Skelgill casts about the kitchen – it is a prelude to his next inquiry.
‘We noticed Walkmill is for sale.’
‘That’s right.’
There is a pause; but since she offers no supplementary information, Skelgill inserts a prompt.
‘What was your thinking there?’
She too looks about, rather vacantly, as if she seeks some cue amongst the incomplete workmanship.
‘Oh – it’s such a big place – we were beginning to rattle around.’ She must realise this would ever have been so, and feels obliged to elaborate. ‘It’s a family house, Inspector – but as you can see there are no children.’ She bites her lower lip. ‘Rather a blessing now.’
There is an intensified air of pathos about her; Skelgill makes a face that approximates at an acknowledgement of her predicament. He glances for support to DS Jones – but then a tangential thought strikes him.
‘It’s been ideal for the kayaking business – the boatshed – the river.’
That this is rather a ham-fisted remark – given her husband’s demise – does not deter Maeve Alcock from offering a rejoinder; but she is surely going through the motions.
‘Roger thought he would be able to rent some storage with good access just beyond Gote Bridge.’
Skelgill nods approvingly – a site beside the Derwent would make practical sense, the Cocker being less easily navigable, especially for beginners.
‘But you’ve not had any takers?’
She shakes her head.
‘We only put it on the market in October – it’s the quiet time of year.’
Skelgill snatches a quick drink of tea.
‘You don’t have a sign up. Wouldn’t that help?’
A semblance of Maeve Alcock’s professional persona now surfaces.
‘It can attract the wrong type of interest. There are a lot of tyre kickers out there – for some people it’s their Sunday afternoon entertainment. I’d rather they came into the branch so we could be sure of their bona fides.’
Skelgill folds his arms.
‘Must be a bit strange – selling your own house.’
‘It would be equally peculiar to place it with one of our competitors.’ She considers each of the detectives in turn. ‘Naturally – the firm’s interest would be declared – and Headley would handle any viewing and negotiations.’
Skelgill looks like he is weighing up this ethical aspect; however, his next question is more prosaic.
‘What will you do now?’
Her reaction is delayed; she lowers her gaze and takes a deep breath.
‘I really haven’t thought about it – it’s too soon after – after Roger –’
She tails off and Skelgill recognises an imminent loss of composure. However, there is no avoiding the difficult questions if they are to make headway.
‘I need to ask you – Maeve –’ (he rather shows his hand with this recourse to the use of her Christian name). ‘Did your husband have any worries – maybe money problems – that might have led him to attempt – or at least consider the idea of taking his own life?’
Maeve Alcock looks genuinely shocked – so much so that she shakes off the mantle of impending grief. She stares at Skelgill, her fine brows knitted.
‘You didn’t know Roger, Inspector – he was the last person to do something like that – he was always full of life.’ She shakes her head. ‘Impetuous, yes – but suicidal – never.’
Skelgill manufactures a supportive frown; but he persists.
‘Sometimes an outgoing personality can hide a troubled interior. I don’t mean to say he went out to kill himself – but did something that courted it.’
Still she shakes her head disbelievingly. But she seems to lack the will to contest the point directly.
‘To answer your question, Inspector – Roger ran a business – it is highly seasonal, like most of the enterprises in this part of the world – so of course there are constant ebbs and flows in the finances. But that is just part and parcel of commerce – what company doesn’t have financial commitments –?’
She trails off. Skelgill somewhat ponderously presses on.
‘In that case, was there anyone he owed money to through the business – that might have been putting a squeeze on – or, come to that, someone with a grudge against him?’
Maeve Alcock is quick to read the implication in Skelgill’s question – at last she is roused and her manner becomes more combative.
‘Surely this is getting far fetched, Inspector? You make it sound like he was murdered.’
Skelgill appears taken aback at her use of the word. His expression becomes rather reflective, and he responds in quiet tones.
‘Like I said earlier, madam – we’re clutching at straws.’
*
‘You decided not to ask her about the two-day delay in contacting us, Guv.’
Skelgill shrugs.
‘It can keep. We’d probably only get the same story as the first time. There’s no crime committed. It doesn’t look too clever now – but if he’d turned up it would have been a non-event.’
DS Jones is pensive. She looks mildly dissatisfied with Skelgill’s response. They are parked at the Cockermouth roundabout, awaiting a lift back to Penrith for DS Jones – DS Leyton will be passing on his return from conducting inquiries at the harbour in Workington. Skelgill has announced his intent
ion to visit his displaced aunt. Prior to leaving Walkmill they had been given a tour of the house by Maeve Alcock – she had seemed keen to demonstrate that Roger Alcock’s possessions were indeed in place, as she had intimated. Then she had shown them into the boatshed – more of a changing room – with its rows of limp wetsuits and lifejackets hanging on coat hooks; lit by an inadequate bulb hanging from the ceiling at its centre, shrouded in cobwebs, it had an abandoned feel, and did not seem to have any tale to tell. Skelgill had paid most attention to a rather untidy assortment of dry-bags stuffed into a large cardboard box. Of various sizes, they were all branded with the River Nation logo. That no keys or mobile phone were found in Roger Alcock’s pockets suggests he took with him a holdall of some sort – and perhaps one of these is what they might hope to find washed up along the coast. But DS Jones has her mind elsewhere.
‘Guv – what she said about them moving house – there being no children.’
‘Aye?’
‘That suggests they’d been trying – unsuccessfully.’
Skelgill looks like he might make a joke – but then thinks the better of it.
‘Happen that’s common enough.’
DS Jones is watching him closely; he does not appear particularly engaged.
‘When she showed us their en-suite bathroom – I noticed something in the waste bin – that you might not have recognised.’
‘Aye?’
‘There was an empty blister pack – you know, a plastic strip that contains tablets that you press out?’
‘I’m no stranger to them after a night on the ale.’
His quip conceals his interest.
‘Maybe not this kind, Guv – she’s on the pill.’
9. DERWENT VIEW HOTEL – Thursday evening
‘Is this what they call speed dating?’
‘Come again?’
‘Can I compete with the sexy young reporter?’
Skelgill’s blank look is not entirely convincing. Rhiannon Rees tosses her head in the direction from which she has just entered the hotel lounge. The beads in her hair make a subtle clacking; her teeth flash white in the subdued light; her body language speaks of no hard feelings. She slides into the sagging sofa beside Skelgill, when other seating options are available.
Murder at the Flood (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 9) Page 10