‘Remind me what you found out in Workington.’
Last evening DS Leyton had arrived at their rendezvous a little delayed – and with Skelgill itching to leave they had exchanged just a few words – a broad conclusion that DS Leyton had gleaned nothing of great significance. Now he inclines his head towards Skelgill’s computer.
‘I filed the report when I got back, Guv – it’s on the system.’
Skelgill ignores DS Leyton’s inference and instead takes a drink of his tea. DS Jones flicks through her papers.
‘Here – I’ve printed a copy.’ She leans forward to hand it to her colleague.
‘Nice one, Emma.’ DS Leyton performs a trombone-playing action until the print comes into focus. ‘Like I said, Guv – I met the harbourmaster. On the Sunday night there was a nightwatchman on duty – but they had no ships in dock, so he was sat in his hut. Course – Roger Alcock wasn’t reported missing until Tuesday and the news didn’t get out until afternoon – he could have been long past Workington and over the Irish Sea before anyone thought to look out for him. If he canoed straight there on Sunday night it would have been dark – chances are he wouldn’t have been seen even if there was anyone on watch.’
‘What about the RNLI? They’re based just beyond the gates of the dock?’
‘They’d all been drafted to Carlisle, Guv. Reading between the lines, I reckon the crew leader was mighty relieved they never got a call about a person missing at sea. He said they were crossing their fingers for no marine emergencies during the worst of the flood. For what it’s worth, he said it was like a giant washing machine between the pillars of the rail bridge – and that’s only a short distance from the sea.’
DS Jones is thinking through the scenario.
‘What about the separation of the kayak and the body? They were found over two miles apart.’
DS Leyton taps his report – and appears pleased with himself (but perhaps his colleague has read it and is making him look good).
‘Yeah – I asked the lifeboat geezer about that – he wasn’t surprised – he reckons the kayak would have been blown across the surface – the wind would have carried it ashore more quickly – whereas the body would have drifted further north on the tide.’
Skelgill tuts impatiently – as if this is patently obvious – and hasn’t he already said it half a dozen times? He kicks back his chair, rises and stalks around his desk to stare out of the window beside DS Jones. His eyes seem to wrestle with the perspective – or rather the lack of – with mist and low cloud intermingling, the scene has a spectral quality, the landscape deprived of depth and definition.
‘We’re lost in the fog – we’re going round in circles.’
There is a short silence, until DS Leyton pipes up.
‘How d’you mean, circles, Guvnor?’
Skelgill presses his forehead against the cool pane. He exhales between clenched teeth, causing a patch of condensation to form around his face and obscure his view.
‘We’ve been at it all week and we’ve not made an inch of progress.’
DS Leyton flaps his report.
‘This fits the facts, Guv.’
Skelgill glowers; he sees only opacity before his eyes.
‘It fits some of the facts, Leyton. Aye – he could have whacked his head at Workington harbour bridge and drowned in the sea just beyond – and the kayak and the body were washed up as would be expected.’
‘So what, then, Guv?’
‘At severe risk of boring you – so where was he for two days? And why did he get back on the water?’
DS Jones pursues an alternative line of approach.
‘And there were definitely no vessels in Workington dock?’
DS Leyton shakes his head in confirmation, his brows knitted.
‘What were you thinking, Emma?’
She holds out her hands – but it is a gesture lacking conviction.
‘Oh – just say he’d gone aboard a ship – asked for refuge – and then set off again two days later.’ She shakes her head. ‘It seems too improbable – too random an act. Why would something like that happen?’
Skelgill intervenes.
‘Look – let’s forget what he might have done – it’s time to attack this from the other end.’ With his left index finger he draws a wavy line that might be a river in the little patch of condensation. ‘Someone must have given Roger Alcock shelter or assistance. It’s been all over the news. Why haven’t they come forward?’
It is DS Jones that provides the necessary prompt.
‘Are you doubting the accident theory, Guv?’
Skelgill marks a little cross at either end of his river. He does not reply; after a moment he turns around – but he glares past DS Leyton – for standing silently in the open doorway of his office is DI Alec Smart. It is not clear how long he has been there.
‘Alright, cock?’
Skelgill declines to reciprocate the greeting, but DI Smart takes the absence of a rebuttal as an invitation, and he slopes across the threshold – but only a couple of steps, like a wily fox that preserves its escape while it assesses whether it can pluck a plump chicken from under the dog’s nose.
‘Sounds like you’re up the creek without a paddle, Skel.’
Now he grins, baring small pointed canines between mean lips. Skelgill remains alongside DS Jones with his back to the window; he folds his arms.
‘What is it, Smart?’
Now DI Smart affects a minor affront, as if Skelgill’s brusque manner is unwarranted and he is the injured party. He looks down at his suit; it is of the designer variety, likely made to measure for his skinny form – he brushes at the lapels, as if some detritus has been cast his way.
‘No need to shoot the messenger, Skel.’
‘What message are we talking about?’
DI Smart shrugs casually.
‘I’ve just had a review of resources with the Chief.’ He makes it sound as though he has some privileged access. ‘I’ve got a nice little project – counterfeit fashion items coming up from London – flooding the market – hah-ha.’ He grins widely at his own joke, his features now decidedly vulpine. ‘Right up Emma’s street, I’d say – the Chief agrees – since you’re floundering about with your little local difficulty. I’ll let you know the timings – but we’re more or less ready to take to the catwalk.’ He fixes DS Jones with a penetrating stare. ‘We’ll need to head south –more fun than Cock-a-mouth, eh?’ He labours the pronunciation and winks salaciously – a flush comes to DS Jones’s prominent cheekbones – but before anyone can respond he spins on his heel. ‘I’ll love you and leave you.’
As DI Smart’s footsteps diminish Skelgill stalks across and closes his door – though perhaps with more circumspection that might be expected.
‘You pair – shoot over and interview Levi Armstrong – and then see the dealer that’s supplied the Alcocks’ Range Rovers – they’re just beside the Lamplugh roundabout.’
DS Leyton appears nonplussed.
‘What are we asking them, Guv?’
‘Use your initiative, Leyton.’
‘What about what DI Smart said?’
‘I wasn’t listening.’
11. COCKERMOUTH – Friday midday
‘Inspector? Mr Cookham can see you now.’
Skelgill follows the gaunt and seemingly efficient middle-aged woman from the small waiting area along a narrow corridor. There is a powerful masking smell of lavender air freshener. They approach a door marked ‘WC’, but they stop short of this at another, similar, on the left with an engraved brass plate that states, ‘I.L. Cookham, Chartered Accountant.’ Within, a short balding man, also of middle age, rises from behind a desk in a rather fawning manner and gestures expansively for Skelgill to be seated. Formalities dispensed with, it is the accountant that makes the running.
‘Inspector... Skelgill.’ Through half-moon reading glasses he checks a notepad, as if he has not properly paid attention to his visitor’s name. ‘You
wanted to see me about Mr Roger Alcock’s firm?’
‘That’s correct, sir.’
The man places his hands – in fact just his plump manicured fingers – on the edge of his desk, like a bird perching.
‘An unfortunate business.’ He looks up at Skelgill. ‘May I ask, Inspector – how did you know we handled their affairs?’
‘Someone who understands these things found out for me.’
That Skelgill is not being especially affable might seem to be some sort of intimidating tactic – but in fact the man speaks with a Manchester accent that recalls DI Alec Smart (if a more erudite version), and it is Skelgill who is in fact a little disconcerted, being reminded of his fellow inspector’s latest play for DS Jones.
‘Ah, well, Inspector – naturally there are certain statutory returns that are required to be in the public domain.’
If the man is fishing, more subtly now, for Skelgill’s source he is disappointed – for Skelgill moves on.
‘I’d be grateful, sir, if you could give me a run down of the financial position.’
‘Of A&B Enterprises, Inspector?’
‘River Nation.’
‘Ah – Inspector – A&B Enterprises Limited is the name of the registered company – I assume it is short for Alcock & Bridgwater. River Nation is what is known as a trading style.’
‘I see.’
Iain L. Cookham, ACA, begins to make small piano playing movements with the fingers of both hands. Given that he received advance notice of Skelgill’s coming – and that it was in connection with the late Roger Alcock – he might have extracted any relevant documentation from his firm’s archives. However, his desk appears bereft of all but the usual accoutrements. He peers rather guardedly over his spectacles.
‘I’m not sure I can help you, Inspector.’
‘Why is that, sir?’
Now the man leans back in his sprung chair and folds his hands over his padded midriff; the intertwined fingers keep up their little sonata.
‘Well, firstly, Inspector – from a practical standpoint – we are not the bookkeepers for A&B Enterprises. They do their own double entry.’ He lets slip a little glance skywards that seems to hint at disapproval. ‘As regards day-to-day finances, I am unaware of their circumstances.’
‘So what exactly do you do, sir?’
‘Our function is to complete the annual accounts. These must be submitted to Companies House nine months after the firm’s accounting reference date. Of course, many small enterprises let this deadline slip – and risk the penalties – and I have to say the last statutory accounts we have been able to prepare for A&B Enterprises relates to a trading period that ended over two years ago. Such information – scant as it is in any event – may be of little assistance to you.’
Skelgill’s expression is progressively darkening; he senses obfuscation by jargon. After a few moments he speaks.
‘You said firstly, sir?’
Iain L. Cookham looks a little disconcerted that Skelgill has picked up on this nuance – perhaps hoping that his initial salvo of objections would quell the detective’s curiosity. He returns his hands to the edge of the desk and the sonata quickens.
‘Ah, well – you see, Inspector – there is the matter of professional ethics.’
Rather pointedly he glances about – the walls are adorned with certificates that vouch for his qualifications.
‘How does that come into it, sir?’
The man blinks somewhat ingenuously.
‘Naturally, Inspector – if you were here to inform me that the death of Mr Alcock is suspicious – and in which case I’m sure you would have all the necessary court orders to obtain whatever information you need from whomsoever may possesses it – then without hesitation I could turn over our files for examination.’
Skelgill is skating on thin ice and he knows it. So does the accountant, who further tests Skelgill’s resolve by departing at something of a tangent. He breaks off from his piano playing and reaches to place a reverential hand on a glossy journal – The Accountant – the trade bible, which occupies a neatly aligned position at one corner of his desk.
‘Only recently a member of my profession inadvertently caused some financial data to fall into the hands of their client’s landlord – simply a misaddressed letter. But the landlord foreclosed on the tenant and put them out of business. The firm of accountants was found liable in a six-figure sum in compensation.’
Skelgill’s features are grim. He gets the gist.
‘What would you suggest, sir? In fact what would your guess be?’
But Skelgill’s optimism is misguided.
‘Oh, Inspector, in my line we don’t like to deal in speculation – stick to the hard facts, I say.’ He resumes his silent musical piece. ‘You could try their lenders in Main Street – if they’re back in business yet after the flood. I rather suspect they may have been forced to set up a temporary branch elsewhere. But I have to say I imagine you would get the same response, Inspector. Surely your best bet is to have a discussion with the surviving partner, Mr Bridgwater? I think you’ll find he was the more organised of the pair.’
Skelgill nods reluctantly. He has not foreseen such a point-blank refusal – albeit delivered in perfectly civil terms – and as such is rather stumped for what to say. That the accountant has given him a small lesson in protocol has further dented his usual bluff manner. He begins to rise.
‘Aye – happen I’ll do that, sir.’
Iain L. Cookham, with a final flourish of the fingers concludes his muted performance and snatches up his telephone.
‘Miss Stickler – show the Inspector out.’
The door of the office seems to open more quickly than she could possibly have arrived from the shop-front reception area, and Skelgill just has time to nod to the accountant, who again renders the practised obsequious smile. A fly on the wall, however, would observe that immediately the door is closed the smile dissolves and the man again reaches for the telephone, this time to dial an external number.
*
‘Any joy, Guv?’
Skelgill’s expression shifts from reflective to brooding – as his attention is diverted from his plate of pie and chips to his prior failure. At Skelgill’s behest they have rendezvoused in the Derwent View Hotel – in the public bar, where a basic menu is served.
‘You pair having some dinner?’
Keeping on their coats DS Leyton, followed by DS Jones rather gingerly take seats opposite Skelgill. DS Leyton assumes responsibility for any offence they are about to cause.
‘We just got a sarnie on the hoof, Guv. You know me – I’m not a big eater lunchtimes.’
Skelgill, however, nods dismissively and continues to munch. After a mouthful washed down by a slurp of tea, he speaks.
‘They’re behind with their accounts – that’s all he’d say. Tight-lipped.’
DS Leyton grins (for his superior adds a noun of Anglo-Saxon provenance).
‘That just goes to show, Guv – I bet they didn’t owe him any money.’
Now Skelgill looks up.
‘What are you saying?’
‘The car dealer – Mackling Motors – he was falling over himself to tell us they’re up Queer Street.’
‘Who – the Alcocks?’
DS Leyton shakes his head.
‘Not exactly, Guv – those two Range Rovers are on finance through the company – some kind of fancy lease purchase deal.’ He is beginning to feel the heat of the coal fire that blazes not far away, and unzips his winter jacket. Skelgill is staring at him impatiently. ‘Except they’re six months behind with their payments – the Mackling geezer’s been threatening to repossess the motors.’
Skelgill finishes his final forkful of pie.
‘Roger Alcock isn’t going to be needing his.’
DS Leyton simpers obligingly.
‘Bit of a blow for the lady though, eh, Guv?’
Skelgill is inclined to be disparaging – neither a lender nor a
borrower be, would be his motto (although DS Leyton might have a decent case against him in the Small Claims Court) – but instinct tells him not to disregard this straw in the wind. After all if A&B Enterprises’ finances were hunky-dory would not their accountant have rejoiced in telling him so?
‘You said it was both cars.’
‘But if she didn’t know what Roger Alcock was up to, Guv – sounds like he was a bit of a loose cannon.’
Skelgill nods pensively – on this point the evidence mounts. It is plausible that Maeve Alcock was unaware of the arrangement. He drops his cutlery with a clatter and leans to propel his empty plate onto the adjoining table. He lifts his mug and wipes away a scattering of salt with his sleeve. Then he addresses DS Jones.
‘What about Armstrong?’
‘I’d say we found him on a good day, Guv.’
‘Aye – because I weren’t there.’
DS Jones contrives a wry grin.
‘I got the impression it’s because business is booming. His yard was like a car park – crammed with flooded vehicles that he’s towed in for repair. He can probably name his price.’
Skelgill shakes his head grimly.
‘I wouldn’t let him within a mile of any motor of mine.’
DS Jones responds evenly.
‘I guess it was a case of beggars can’t be choosers – he said there are still dozens of abandoned cars waiting to be recovered.’
Skelgill at least accepts this point.
‘Right enough – you don’t want to be starting up an engine that’s full of water – blow your cylinder head off.’
DS Jones bows politely to acknowledge such expertise.
‘I was expecting him to be uncooperative – given the other night – but he was reasonably forthcoming.’
‘Never trust an Armstrong.’
Skelgill’s sergeants exchange glances – it is a case of treading on eggshells when it comes to their superior’s capricious dogmas. What they would not appreciate is that he quotes his aunt, Annie Graham; last evening in conversation they touched upon the disreputable clan of smiths – with whom feuds have smouldered and occasionally erupted down the centuries. Of course, the Armstrongs, with some justification, would have their own take on the matter, roughly along the lines of “Never trust a Graham”.
Murder at the Flood (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 9) Page 12