DS Jones regards Skelgill minutely – as if she is trying to judge what form of words will meet with most approval.
‘Maybe he’s had another ticking off from Rhiannon Rees?’
Predictably, Skelgill’s retort is sharp; he reads some insinuation into her suggestion.
‘Rhiannon Rees is Armstrong’s business partner.’ He glares confrontationally. ‘He’s a minor shareholder in her café in Station Street.’
DS Jones does not press the point. She pulls out her notebook and with some deliberation finds a marked page.
‘Right – well, firstly he said he didn’t associate with Roger Alcock; he seemed keen to make that clear. He said he last set eyes on Roger Alcock on Saturday morning remonstrating with a traffic warden outside the sports shop. On the night of the flood – Sunday – Levi Armstrong was out in his tow truck until the early hours – specifically, recovering vehicles stranded where the Windermere road collapsed.’ She looks up briefly. ‘That ought to be easy enough to verify. Then over the next few days he was working round the clock between the truck and his garage. He lives in a flat above the workshop – he said he slept there on Monday night –’ (and now she snatches a glance at Skelgill) ‘but that he stayed at Rhiannon Rees’s place on Tuesday night.’
Skelgill’s countenance is devoid of emotion, though there is a tensing of the muscles of his jaw. He turns to DS Leyton.
‘What did you reckon, Leyton?’
DS Leyton may be daydreaming – for he gives a little jolt and is plainly surprised to be asked for an opinion. He rubs the top of his already tousled head of dark hair, and glances apprehensively at DS Jones. It may be they have conferred – as subordinates do – over details they would not convey directly to their boss.
‘He looks a proper thug, Guv – but he more or less answered all the questions. It must have been obvious that we were checking up on his movements. Surprised he didn’t take the hump, know what I mean?’
Skelgill folds his arms.
‘Leyton, he’s been collared by the likes of you more times than I’ve had hot dinners.’
DS Leyton seems deflated by this rebuttal – but DS Jones picks up the baton.
‘We asked if he knew of anyone who might have had some kind of grudge. He kind of scoffed at the suggestion – as if to say, how long have you got? But he checked himself and said he was the wrong person to ask – he just repeated that he didn’t have anything to do with Roger Alcock. Considering his connection to Roger Alcock’s sister-in-law he didn’t show a great deal of sympathy.’
Skelgill sits in pensive silence. DS Jones continues.
‘Another interesting point – I asked how he first heard that Roger Alcock was dead. He was less cooperative. He said it was all over the news, wasn’t it? But we didn’t make an official announcement until yesterday, after the formal identification.’
Skelgill perks up a little.
‘Did you remind him he was broadcasting it on Wednesday night?’
DS Jones nods.
‘He claimed he was just giving his opinion.’
‘Rhiannon Rees knew by then – she followed him into the pub.’
DS Jones nods more vigorously. Of course, when she flagged up this very likelihood it went unappreciated by her superior.
‘It was plain he didn’t want to bring her into the conversation.’ DS Jones puts down her notebook and brushes away strands of fair hair that have encroached upon her eyes and cheekbones. Her voice becomes a little tentative, and she speaks without making direct eye contact with Skelgill. ‘I thought rather than provoke him, a more productive angle would be for you to speak with her?’
Skelgill licks his lips as though they are dry, and glances disapprovingly at his empty mug. He shifts uncertainly in his seat. His mobile is on silent, but it is apparent it has been ringing for the last minute or so, for it periodically vibrates against the arm of the chair on which his jacket hangs. Now, however, DS Jones’s phone rings audibly, and she retrieves the handset from a pocket.
‘The station, Guv?’
Skelgill nods and she accepts the call. She exchanges pleasantries – it is evidently one of the constables in her team – and receives a short message. She hangs up and looks inquisitively at Skelgill.
‘That’s Nick Bridgwater been in touch. He says he has some information that might be helpful. Apparently he’s just along at the flat above the shop.’
*
Opaque polythene has been stretched across the gaping front windows of River Nation; inside is a shadowy chaos of racks and plastic bins and piles of sodden clothing; a vague order is being established. As Skelgill leads the way a shapely female mannequin clad in figure-hugging spandex sportswear that has gone unnoticed on his previous visits catches his eye. It is lifelike, with striking auburn hair held back by a band and large brown eyes, and realistic make-up. Then the eyes blink. The mannequin moves.
‘Oh – can I help you?’
She has a mild southern accent, well spoken where DS Leyton would have dropped his aitch. She must be aged about twenty. She takes a couple of paces towards the group. For a reason that DS Jones seems to appreciate, her male colleagues appear momentarily to have lost their tongues – in a single movement she pulls a small wallet from a pocket and flips it open for the girl to see.
‘Cumbria CID – we have an appointment with Mr Bridgwater.’
The girl’s lips part and it is a couple of seconds before she responds.
‘Oh, yes – Nick said to ask you to go upstairs.’ She gestures calmly with one hand. ‘It’s right through the back and the last door on your right before the exit.’
Skelgill flicks his fingers, indicating to his colleagues they should continue past him.
‘I’ll catch you pair up. Mine’s a tea if there’s any going.’
DS Jones flashes a perplexed glance at her superior – but she turns and indicates with a tip of her head to DS Leyton that she knows the way. When they have passed out of earshot into the storeroom Skelgill addresses the girl.
‘And you are?’
Though his words are blunt she seems to respond to his authoritative manner – and perhaps his curt dismissal of his subordinates.
‘Serena – Serena Harenge.’
She stands her ground, on the balls of her feet with her legs a little apart and her hands on her hips, which are thrust forward; it is a taut pose reminiscent of an athlete at a photoshoot for the new national kit, and it may inform Skelgill’s next question.
‘What – are you a model?’
Now she smiles, revealing immaculate white teeth that contrast with her bronzed maquillage. She suppresses a nervous giggle.
‘Oh – I just work here – but, yes – I am in the brochure.’
Skelgill nods. When his eyes wish to wander of their own accord he swivels on one heel and makes a sweeping gesture of the arm.
‘This can’t be what they pay you for.’
In turn she points to a clipboard lying on the shop counter behind her and to one side.
‘It’s all hands on deck, as Nick would say. I’m trying to do an inventory.’
Skelgill casts about. Much of the stock has gone – he noticed a nearly full skip outside – the bare walls are stained and the floor is coated in a film of slime – the place will have to be emptied and pressure-washed before they can even think about stripping off the plaster. The girl’s pristine white trainers are rimmed with mud.
‘How long have you been here?’
‘Oh – two years – two-and-a-half, I suppose – I met Nick at a Cowes Week, and that’s always August. He offered me a job – I was going to take a gap year – but this was a chance to earn some money and see a different part of the country. And I’m still here.’
‘You’re from the South.’
‘Cobham – Surrey.’
Skelgill nods. His knowledge of the stockbroker belt is scant, and frankly outwith his social comfort zone – though the River Mole comes to mind, for its specimen chub a
nd barbel – if he recalls correctly a recent article in Angling Times. He concentrates upon her face – she has taken a good deal of trouble with her make-up.
‘You obviously knew Mr Alcock.’
‘Well – yes, of course.’
She seems a little uncertain – sensing that a degree of melancholy would be appropriate.
‘Did it come as a surprise?’ Skelgill’s question, however, lacks any note of sympathy.
‘Oh – a shock more than a surprise.’
‘So why weren’t you surprised?’
Her brown eyes seem almost black, her pupils dilated in the gloom. She holds Skelgill’s gaze, though she blinks more rapidly.
‘When I heard he’d gone out in the kayak and was missing – it’s the sort of daring thing Roger would do – and with the time that had elapsed it seemed likely there’d been an accident – but it still came as a jolt to hear he was dead – it doesn’t seem real – that he’s not going to charge through the door any minute.’
‘What was he like?’
She seems unfazed by Skelgill’s probing.
‘Do you mean as an employer?’
He raises an eyebrow, noting that she has made a distinction.
‘Aye – employer – whatever.’
Now she wavers – as if she feels some weight of responsibility is being placed on her, and upon her answer.
‘Well – he was – I suppose mainly quite easy going – usually cheerful – although he could get angry over things – but it would never last – he wasn’t the moody type.’
Skelgill compresses his lips. His response is perfunctory.
‘Impetuous, is the word that’s been used.’
She gives a small nod of agreement.
‘He could suddenly give you a task – such as to totally change the window display – and then an hour later demand what the heck you were up to.’
‘Like he’d forgotten?’
‘Well – it was hard to know – you can’t really say to your boss: but you told me to do it!’
Now Skelgill seems to experience a moment of reflection; it is as though he has been exposed to some unintended candour that refers to his own managerial context. It is perhaps the prompt for another forthright question.
‘Were you ever intimidated?’
The girl brushes what must be an imagined strand of hair from her eyes, for in fact her band does its job without omission.
‘I don’t quite understand?’
‘You said he got angry.’
In the semi-darkness it is possible that she flinches – but then a smile, a little resigned, creases the corners of her mouth.
‘Oh, well – it was mainly Nick that dealt with Roger – and he’s very even tempered – I suppose their strengths complemented one another.’
Skelgill seems to be weighing up her response – but then his next question moves the subject on.
‘And how was business – until... this?’ He gestures about, hopelessly on her behalf.
‘Well – actually it has been quiet since autumn – the constant rain has hit tourist numbers. But most of the year’s trade is between Easter and the August bank holiday.’
‘Are you the only employee?’
She nods; she smoothes her hands down over her hips, drawing Skelgill’s gaze.
‘We usually take on some part-time staff during the high season.’
Skelgill nods vacantly; he does not seem greatly interested in her answer.
‘When was the last time you saw Mr Alcock?’
She lowers her eyes while she considers her reply.
‘It would have been last Friday – a week ago today.’
‘What about Saturday – the shop was open?’
‘Oh – it was – I was off.’
Skelgill is watching her more closely now; still she looks away.
‘Did he seem disturbed – was there anything he mentioned or that you sensed might be troubling him?’
She glances up, her sclerae flashing white – she seems positively alarmed that Skelgill could be suggesting something having been amiss. She inhales and exhales, distinctly, when her breathing to date has been undetectable.
‘I think – I think his personal life was maybe – a little bit chaotic.’
Her inflexion, questioning, injects a note of doubt into the statement. Skelgill requests some qualification.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Oh – well – he was on his mobile phone quite lot – arguing.’
‘Who with?’
‘Well – I couldn’t really say – different people, I think.’
‘About what kind of thing?’
‘I don’t know – when he was on a call he would go out the back – down towards the river.’ Once again she brushes at an invisible stray hair; it must be a nervous habit. ‘But I shouldn’t say recently there was anything different – it was ongoing.’
‘And what was your relationship with him?’
Skelgill casually looks away, as though it is of no great importance, and the ruined fixtures hold more interest.
‘I’m not sure what you mean?’
Skelgill shrugs.
‘He was an attractive man – by all accounts.’
She affects a hint of offence – but she is too green to tell Skelgill to mind his own business. She seeks recourse in a cliché.
‘A married man, Inspector.’
Her gaze drifts to Skelgill’s side as he digs both hands into his trouser pockets and then rocks back on his heels.
‘How about you?’
She smiles, as if she believes he must be joking.
‘I’m not twenty until April.’
‘Boyfriend, then?’
Now she seems more obviously irked that he persists.
‘Not at the moment.’
Skelgill looks like he might fall prey to some juvenile remark – but if so he is saved from such fate by the timely arrival of a text message. He checks his phone – it is from DS Jones: “Come up, Guv.”
*
‘Blimey, what do you reckon to it all, Guv?’
Skelgill makes one of his rodentine faces; contorted lips frame front teeth, a sign of inner turmoil.
‘I’m still trying to work it out.’
That DS Leyton refers to the assortment of water-damaged papers spread on the table before them, and Skelgill does not, is not apparent to his subordinates (at least, not to DS Leyton). The trio have retired to the relative anonymity of the edge-of-town café to consider their next move. DS Leyton seems keen to press his point.
‘Looks to me like he was hiding it from his missus, Guv.’
DS Jones is silently watching Skelgill – it is a few moments before he replies.
‘Leyton – ask his missus.’
‘What – now, Guv?’
But Skelgill grimaces. ‘Forget it.’
‘But –’
DS Leyton looks with exasperation to DS Jones – while Skelgill snatches up one of the water-stained, crinkled letters – a ‘Final Reminder’ stapled to a copy of a long-overdue invoice for building work undertaken at Walkmill. The other correspondence is of a similar nature – local contractors looking for their money, likewise providers of credit and various domestic services, electricity, insurance, satellite TV, council tax; threats of imminent legal action. The mail is addressed to Roger Alcock at his home address – but the salvaged plastic wallet file in which it was contained, according to Nick Bridgwater was lodged at the back of the safe at River Nation. Skelgill cursorily glances at the other items. At a rough estimate – and these papers may just be the tip of the iceberg – Roger Alcock was in debt to the tune of what is a couple of years’ salary for most ordinary people. DS Jones senses that her boss is in a quandary.
‘Are you thinking the Reggie Perrin idea isn’t as ridiculous as it sounds, Guv?’
Skelgill rolls his eyes – but it is in frustration and not a slight aimed at his female sergeant.
‘The Chief’s not
going to swallow it for a minute.’
DS Jones leans forward, reaching out with both hands as if to embrace the incriminating documentation.
‘Guv – everything we’ve heard so far about Roger Alcock suggests he might have attempted something as improbable as that. Doesn’t the fact that Nick Bridgwater has produced all this material suggest that he believes it’s possible?’
Skelgill continues to scowl.
‘When he said it crossed his mind that Roger Alcock was trying to escape his debts I reckon he meant by playing Russian roulette on the river – not some elaborate scam.’
DS Jones’s normally smooth brow becomes furrowed.
‘But would it have needed to be elaborate?’
Skelgill folds his arms; he sits stiffly, straight backed.
‘You’d need a plan. You’d need an accomplice.’
‘His wife took two days to tell us he was gone.’
Skelgill shrugs but has no rejoinder. DS Leyton – perhaps irked at having been somewhat steamrollered – resurrects his theory.
‘What about that geezer from Kent who faked his own death in a road accident in South America – bribed the local police and coroner to get a death certificate? He claimed his life insurance in his wife’s name – she thought he was a goner – never knew a thing about it. He’d have got away scot-free if he hadn’t turned up in his local boozer.’
Skelgill’s glowering countenance offers little encouragement. ‘Leyton – what you’re talking about would be far too organised for Roger Alcock.’ He casts a hand over the papers. ‘Look at this lot – that’s how organised he was.’
Now DS Jones has another try.
‘Guv – I think someone with an impulsive personality like Roger Alcock – wouldn’t he be more likely to act first and plan later? All he had to do was disappear and hide – and then call on someone to assist him. The fact is, when Maeve Alcock contacted us, he was almost certainly still alive. Surely something went wrong afterwards?’
Murder at the Flood (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 9) Page 13