Murder at the Flood (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 9)

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘I’m investigating the recent death – the body that was washed up just north of here on Wednesday – a man called Roger Alcock from Cockermouth.’

  The man nods warily. Evidently Skelgill does not look like his idea of a detective inspector.

  ‘Aye, I ken – the canoe yin.’

  Skelgill realises the man is not a local.

  ‘You’re a Scot.’

  The janitor frowns, his eyes narrow apprehensively.

  ‘Aye – Wullie Moffatt.’ He raises a hand to indicate the initials WM embroidered upon the left breast of his overall. ‘Ah’m frae Wamphray.’

  He refers to a small parish in the county of Dumfries, just over the border, close to the motorway. Skelgill nods in recognition.

  ‘Decent summer run of sea trout up the Annan.’

  Skelgill’s oblique compliment seems to have a small endearing effect.

  ‘Whit can Ah dae for ye, Inspector?’

  Skelgill wastes no more time in pleasantries.

  ‘I’d like a look at the log of owners.’ He jerks a thumb to indicate he means the boats moored in the harbour.

  Wullie Moffat hesitates for a moment – but then he shrugs resignedly and reaches to extract a lever-arch file from beneath the counter. He opens it and lifts the retaining clip and then parts the contents at a divider; he rotates the file 180 degrees and pushes it across the surface.

  ‘It starts there.’

  Skelgill approaches and begins to run his eye down the list of entries: berth number, boat’s name, boat’s length, owner’s name, address, contact telephone. There are about twenty entries per page. Skelgill’s progress is painfully slow, and the man begins to fidget; he folds his arms and clears his throat to speak again.

  ‘Which boat are ye interested in?’

  Skelgill looks momentarily at a loss – but then a suitable rejoinder comes to him.

  ‘I’m looking for a name – one that might jog my memory.’

  The man is obliged to wait. Skelgill eventually reaches the final page of the section. He exhales – almost a sigh, as if he is unsuccessful – and stands upright and presses his fists into the small of his back. He grimaces, and does not speak. The man is regarding him questioningly.

  ‘Nae guid?’

  Skelgill manufactures a doubtful expression. Then he notices a little pile of printed tide tables – tide books, as they are called – upon the counter.

  ‘I’ll take one of these.’

  ‘They’re a pound each.’

  Skelgill pockets the item and produces a humourless grin.

  ‘Then I’ll need to come back.’

  And with that he abruptly takes his leave. As he exits and rounds the building he immediately sees that the old man is gone; Cleopatra, still tethered, noses a wrapper beneath the seat. Even at a distance it does not test his detective skills to deduce that not only is the man gone, but so is the breakfast. The empty cup has rolled beneath the bench with the remainder of the litter. Cleopatra hears him coming; she looks up, convincingly innocent.

  Skelgill half turns – and then wonders why on earth he is concealing a smile from a dog. He casts about, but the old man and his spaniel have made a comprehensive getaway. On reflection, who did eat all the pies? He reaches down to untie the leash. The day has its compensations; the café is still open; the sun appears to be coming out. And there is something else. He stares once more across the marina – his gaze homes in upon the sight that had prompted his absence. Berthed about halfway along the pontoon that is directly opposite the bench – such serendipity – is a trim-looking 30-footer, partly covered for winter by a protective green tarpaulin – but not covered sufficiently to conceal the name recently repainted upon the prow: Serena.

  And thus, if Danny Boy (“For Sale”) was happenstance – then the law of averages somehow did not allow for Serena to be such – and in this illogical regard Skelgill’s sixth sense was proved right – for in the manager’s log of boats berthed in Maryport marina, against the craft Serena was a name that certainly could be no coincidence – owner: Mr N. Bridgwater.

  14. SERENA – Sunday morning

  Skelgill sits restlessly on the bench overlooking Senhouse Dock when he receives a text message from DS Leyton: “Whatcha gonna be with you in 10.” He frowns, suspecting this is a voice text, and the translation has mangled his sergeant’s Cockney accent. However, the ETA is clear enough. Ten minutes – ample time to buy a bacon roll from the harbour café – but not really to savour it – and certainly not two. That shall have to wait. He clicks on his weather app – but before the data can download the phone rings, a familiar tone. He answers the call on loudspeaker.

  ‘Jones – where are you?’

  ‘London.’ DS Jones’s voice is flat; that of a person resigned to an unwished-for fate.

  ‘London!’

  Skelgill’s surprise does not sound entirely convincing. Now DS Jones hesitates, perhaps to adjust her rejoinder.

  ‘That briefing meeting on Friday afternoon – it was a stitch up.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘DI Smart was all ready to leave – it was taken as read that I was going.’

  ‘News to me – you should have called – I’d have knocked it on the head.’

  ‘I tried, Guv – your phone was going through to voicemail.’

  ‘Aye – the battery had died, right enough. Can’t remember when I managed to get it back on charge.’

  ‘I only had a few minutes on my own – DI Smart has driven us down – he waited outside while I packed an overnight bag at home.’

  Skelgill’s countenance becomes disapproving.

  ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘DI Smart has checked into a travel motel near Westminster Bridge.’ Now there is a pause. ‘I’ve managed to get a bed at one of my old girlfriend’s from Uni – I thought it would save on expenses – and suchlike.’

  Her postscript gives Skelgill further cause for concern.

  ‘So what – you been swanning around posh shops in the West End?’

  ‘Yesterday it was dodgy markets in the East End.’

  ‘Huh – we should have sent Leyton – he speaks the lingo.’

  ‘Not Bengali, Guv.’

  Skelgill makes a dismissive grunt.

  ‘Now you mention it, he’s not too hot on fashion, either.’

  On another day DS Jones might have ribbed her boss over this ripe remark, but her tone remains subdued.

  ‘No, Guv.’

  The conversation is plainly rather stilted, and Skelgill continues in this vein.

  ‘You heading back today?’

  ‘DI Smart’s being vague about it – you know what he can be like. Last night he was talking about there being a French connection – and he didn’t mean the store.’

  Now Skelgill emits an exasperated oath.

  ‘We could do with you this morning – I’ll speak to the Chief.’

  DS Jones hesitates – but when she does respond there is a note of optimism in her voice.

  ‘I just logged on – I saw your notes about Nick Bridgwater’s boat. I can’t believe he didn’t mention that.’

  ‘Doesn’t look too clever, does it?’

  ‘What has he said?’

  ‘Leyton’s picked him up this morning – they’re almost here – I wanted to be here first – before we let on we knew about it.’

  ‘And the boat’s name, Guv – Serena – it’s hardly plain old Jane.’

  ‘Aye – we’ll get to the bottom of that.’

  ‘It means calm, Guv.’ (Skelgill does not respond, and after a few moments DS Jones adds a rider.) ‘Unlike working with DI Smart.’

  Skelgill seems momentarily at a loss for what to say. But relief arrives in the shape of his other sergeant’s car, travelling well in excess of the local speed limits.

  ‘That’s Leyton pulling up now.’

  It is apparent he is signing off – and DS Jones makes a final plea, somewhat meekly.

  ‘Anything
you want me to look into, Guv? – I’m twiddling my thumbs a lot of the time – I’d appreciate the excuse to get to a computer in one of the local stations.’

  ‘Just do it. Tell Smart that me and Leyton are on a boat – we can’t manage. Say it’s top priority – Chief’s orders. I’ll get back to you with some ideas.’

  This promise sounds rather hollow – but with it he hangs up the call, and lets out a sigh. He rises and straightens his clothing, and prepares to receive the new arrivals. DS Leyton has lurched to a halt in the marina lot perilously close to his own car and is now lumbering towards him, the lanky figure of Nick Bridgwater alongside, a boyish air of confidence in his manner.

  *

  ‘There you go, Inspector – should be just as I left it in the autumn – mothballed, so to speak.’

  In arriving first at Maryport, and despatching his subordinate to call on Nick Bridgwater at his Cockermouth residence and inform him of their knowledge of the boat Serena, Skelgill has made sure there was minimal opportunity for interference. But, of course, it is almost impossible to tell if there has been any. Not least since the sight that meets Skelgill’s eyes is unfamiliar to him. Indeed, for a man who spends so much of his life on the water, he has been aboard precious few cruiser yachts. Sailors and anglers might as well exist in parallel universes – they share the same waters, akin to pelagic birds of entirely unrelated species, with no territorial interests or dietary quarrels, that pass one another without recognition or acknowledgement; like ships in the night. And so the crowded but comfy cabin interior holds a strange fascination for him, like a lad gaining access to his father’s hitherto off-limits tool shed, an Aladdin’s Cave of practical devices and space-saving solutions.

  In the subdued green light that filters past the tarpaulin, the dominant impression is of varnished pine: the floorboards, furniture, doors, window frames and various fittings, such as overhead scalloped grab rails; the walls and arched ceiling are finished in a regulation cream laminate. A good-sized collapsible table takes up the port side of the main cabin, a cushioned bench seat at either end – this would appear to convert into a small double bed. In a recess is a row of books held in place by a retaining bar; they include field guides on various subjects – saltwater fishes, coastal birds, wildlife of the seashore – and Skelgill has a pang of wanting to be on board of an evening, snug with a mug of cocoa (perhaps fortified), the gentle lap of water against the hull. To starboard there is an arrangement much like would be found in a caravan: a store cupboard and a small fridge, a fully functioning gas cooker, and a sink with a single nozzle pump-action tap. Fixed to a bulkhead between the work surface and the cooker are four traditional brass marine gauges – barometer, thermometer, hygrometer and chronometer – and there is a rack holding pens, notebooks and charts. Strips of beading cleverly retain a toaster and an electric kettle. Beyond this living-galley is a narrow passage with a door on either side (WC and shower respectively, Skelgill assumes), and then a forward cabin with two narrow bunks, port and starboard, angled into the prow. Lighting is provided by a combination of electric bulkhead units and gas lamps.

  ‘Mind if I come down now, Inspector?’

  Nick Bridgwater – having unlocked the doors – has stepped back upon Skelgill’s request to allow him to enter first. Skelgill has not deigned to provide a satisfactory explanation for this procedure – although it might be assumed it could be in case of unspecified danger – or even some grisly finding. In fact Skelgill has remained stock still for several moments, eyes closed, lips compressed, his breath hissing faintly through his nostrils. Surely not mothballs?

  ‘Aye – in you come.’

  Nick Bridgwater descends in agile fashion. DS Leyton stumbles on the bottom rung of the ladder. He simpers at an annoyed-looking Skelgill.

  ‘Ain’t quite got me sea legs yet, Guv.’

  This would appear to be a reminder of his oft-stated aversion to all things water-related. Skelgill, however, addresses Nick Bridgwater.

  ‘When were you last on board, sir?’

  Nick Bridgwater grins sheepishly.

  ‘At the risk of sounding like I’m going to break into a rendition of “The Ally-Ally-O” – it was the last day of September.’

  Skelgill’s expression is neutral.

  ‘How can you be so sure of that, sir?’

  Nick Bridgwater nods decisively.

  ‘It’s the end of summer berthing. I moved onto winter berthing fees from the 1st of October – after that there was no mains electricity to the boat. That’s when I closed it up for the season.’

  ‘So what – the power’s disconnected?’

  ‘It’s still connected, but you have to buy a card from the marina office.’

  Skelgill regards the man watchfully.

  ‘And you see nothing that indicates anyone has been aboard since then?’

  Nick Bridgwater is already shaking his head as he casts about. He leans past Skelgill and opens the fridge – rather like a salesman demonstrating handy features – it is empty and clean. He runs a finger across the sink to show it is dry. In fact all the surfaces are clean and the bunks are stripped and blankets folded and the accommodation looks entirely shipshape. It has the feel of a small holiday caravan that has been made ready for its next visitors. There is not a lot of room for three grown men to be standing, and Nick Bridgwater slides with easy familiarity into the forward bench seat. Skelgill follows suit and sits opposite – he does not, however, squeeze up sufficiently to allow room for his sergeant. DS Leyton, his complexion wan, hangs grimly on to an overhead grab rail, as the boat rocks gently in response to their movement.

  ‘Inspector – I take it that it’s Roger you have in mind?’

  Skelgill looks a little irked that Nick Bridgwater has made this suggestion.

  ‘We have to consider that possibility. Did he have a key?’

  The man shakes his head.

  ‘No, he didn’t.’

  ‘What about a spare?’

  ‘They hold back-up keys in a safe at the marina office – they have to be signed out with identification – or a letter of authority from the owner.’

  ‘I take it Mr Alcock has been on the boat at some time previously?’

  ‘Oh, yes – we had regular business meetings here during the summer – it’s what, seven miles across country from the shop? It gets you away from the distractions of the coal face – helps you to see more clearly what you ought to be planning to do, you know?’

  Skelgill, of course, does not need any enlightening on the merits of escaping to the country – despite his proclivity to replace one coal face with another. He nods, rather grudgingly.

  ‘What about for pleasure purposes – has he sailed – with you?’

  On this point Nick Bridgwater is again quick to shake his head.

  ‘As I alluded to previously, Inspector – Roger was a freshwater man, you might say – and not one to wait for time and tide – he’d always prefer the instant gratification of his kayak.’

  Skelgill must additionally concur – if you want to fish you know that Bass Lake, give or take a foot or two, will be pretty reliable – rare storms excepted. It is with a somewhat distant tone of voice that he makes what sounds like a throwaway observation.

  ‘I’m a bit surprised you never mentioned the boat to us, sir.’

  Nick Bridgwater is either unperturbed or has been anticipating this question. He contrives to look a little surprised.

  ‘You were asking me about Roger – his behaviour, state of mind – there must be dozens of things about myself that I never told you.’

  ‘Such as what, sir?’

  ‘Well – such as where I’m from – my previous career – how I met Roger – that kind of thing.’

  These and others are obviously points of interest – but Nick Bridgwater is right in what he says – and Skelgill has only interviewed him informally in relation to Roger Alcock’s disappearance. Nick Bridgwater is barely an official witness, let alone some kind o
f suspect – and yet Skelgill contrives to persist with the line of questioning that might just make him feel he is in the latter category.

  ‘As the crow flies, sir – or maybe I should say seagull – Mr Alcock’s body was found just 400 yards from here – surely that sounded a little warning bell?’

  But Nick Bridgwater is having none of it. He remains unruffled, serene, even.

  ‘But Inspector – the news had it that Roger met with an accident on the river – it wouldn’t be the first time a tragedy on the Derwent has seen the body carried out to sea and drift many miles north – in fact well north of here. Besides – his kayak was washed up at Flimby – that’s a good two miles south – how could Roger have put in at Maryport? It’s not logical.’

  Skelgill nods reluctantly.

  *

  ‘The geezer’s right, Guv – don’t you reckon? It don’t make sense – not unless Roger Alcock was a Commonwealth Games swimmer as well as a canoeist.’

  Skelgill munches pensively on his bacon roll. He has his back to his colleague as he leans on a railing. He overlooks the dock gates that retain sufficient water in the marina to keep the boats afloat at low tide – the gauge post is suggesting 3.5 metres – and his scowl may be disapproving of such impractical metric dimensions.

  ‘Leyton – he wasn’t in the Commonwealth Games.’

  ‘What do you mean, Guv?’

  ‘I had someone check it out – he made it up – probably like a lot of other things in his life.’

  ‘Cor blimey – reckon that’s why he came a cropper?’

  ‘Nah – I reckon he knew what he was doing – he could paddle well enough – and he knew plenty enough to talk a good game.’ Skelgill makes a scoffing sound. ‘Maybe I ought to start saying I fished for England.’

  ‘Can you do that, Guv? I’ve never heard of an England fishing team.’

  ‘Course you can – match fishing – you sit in a row flicking out two-ounce roach on a forty-foot pole.’

  Skelgill’s tone is disparaging; however DS Leyton perks up.

  ‘Maybe that’s one World Cup we could win, Guv?’