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

by Bruce Beckham

Skelgill, of course, ignores his colleague – who finishes his roll and steps up alongside his superior; he stares with trepidation into the murky water, still and greenish on the marina side, slick brown like liquid milk chocolate on the sea side, rippling slightly as the tide edges gently over the mud.

  ‘Whoa – that gives me the willies – think how deep that must get to cover all that weed, Guv.’

  Skelgill sees that his colleague is gripping the rail tightly, his big hands – almost oversized for his lack of height – white at the knuckles. He refers to the untidy curtain of dark olive bladder wrack that drapes down the quayside, topped by a narrow luminous green band of gutweed.

  ‘Leyton – if you fall in – so long as you hold your breath you’ll come back up.’

  DS Leyton does not appear convinced. He steps away from the rail and instead looks across to their left, to the marina.

  ‘So what is it, Guv – you have to wait until the tide comes up to sail out?’

  Skelgill nods.

  ‘Aye – more or less. You need to know your draft and to keep your eye on the gauge post.’ He indicates with a hand a sign opposite them that warns of the underwater obstruction of the dock gate when lowered. ‘If the tide’s in you can come and go as you please.’

  DS Leyton is silently pondering. He looks a couple of times like he is about to make a suggestion, but then gives up before speaking. His eventual proclamation is something of a disappointment.

  ‘Bit of a blank we’ve drawn with that yacht of his, Guv.’

  The sergeant’s words are those of resignation – but he knows well enough to allow for the hint of question in his intonation – which is just as well, for Skelgill turns to him with fire in his eyes.

  ‘That depends on your definition of blank, Leyton.’

  DS Leyton takes half a step sideways, his features alarmed.

  ‘What are you saying, Guv?’

  Skelgill jerks a thumb over his shoulder in the direction across the mouth of the River Ellen.

  ‘Leyton – I could almost throw a stone to where the body was found. He disappeared for two nights. There’s a perfect bolthole fifty yards that way.’ Now he gestures over the marina.

  ‘But, Guv – it was all tidy and whatnot – that’s what I’m saying about it being a blank. If we know one thing about Roger Alcock – it’s that he would have left it in a proper mess.’

  Skelgill glares at his subordinate.

  ‘Exactly, Leyton.’

  However, he declines to elaborate upon the significance of this inconsistency.

  ‘It was locked, Guv.’

  ‘Come off it, Leyton – how difficult would that be? We know Roger Alcock’s been a regular visitor. There’ll be a hardware shop that cuts keys five minutes from here.’ He makes a face of disapproval. ‘Besides, there’s a much easier way to get in.’

  Again Skelgill does not offer an explanation. The succession of logistical issues is puzzling DS Leyton.

  ‘But the canoe, Guv?’

  ‘Kayak.’

  ‘Flippin’ kayak, Guv – whatever.’ Now DS Leyton sounds a little annoyed. ‘It was miles away where it was washed up.’

  Skelgill’s features strain with impatience; he takes a couple of deep breaths. Then he reaches out and lays a palm on his colleague’s shoulder.

  ‘Leyton – yesterday it took me twenty-five minutes to walk here from Flimby.’ He stares intently at his subordinate. ‘And it wasn’t washed up – it was beached.’

  DS Leyton’s countenance becomes startled.

  ‘What do you mean, beached, Guv?’

  Skelgill removes his hand and instead cradles an imaginary object at chest height.

  ‘Leyton – you know when you drink a pint – you get rings round the glass – like little tidemarks?’ (DS Leyton nods.) ‘And if you fill the same glass back up, they dissolve.’ (More nods.) ‘Roger Alcock’s kayak was at the highest of a progressive sequence of tidemarks.’ For a moment Skelgill looks like he is going to leave his sergeant to do the math – but he deigns to explain. ‘The high tide follows the lunar cycle – that’s why we have spring and neap tides – the high water mark rises for a week, then falls for a week. Same as the pint pot – you only get lines of seaweed when the mark is falling. The last time the high tide reached the level where the kayak was found it was still strapped on a trailer at Walkmill. It was deliberately beached.’

  ‘By Roger Alcock?’

  ‘Either him or my Aunt Annie, Leyton. Take your pick.’

  Skelgill now turns back and leans over the guardrail. DS Leyton tentatively joins him.

  ‘But if he were here, Guv – that means someone cleared up after him – covered it up.’ As Skelgill does not reply, his imagination begins to flow. ‘Whacked him on the napper – shoved him overboard.’ There is a wild glint in DS Leyton’s eye as it follows the dock exit and the rapidly filling channel that leads out to sea between the breakwaters – he might almost be envisaging the drifting corpse of Roger Alcock. But then he makes a somewhat contrary statement.

  ‘Still, one thing we know, Guv – it couldn’t have been Nick Bridgwater.’

  Skelgill turns sharply.

  ‘How not?’ He employs the Scottish ‘how’ that means ‘why’ at the same time.

  ‘He was in Spain, wasn’t he, Guv – Gibraltar, whatever – ’till the Wednesday.’

  The tendons in Skelgill’s neck become strained. It is a few moments before he responds.

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Waiting in the marina members’ lounge, Guv.’

  Skelgill makes a strange face – just fleetingly, perhaps a window briefly opening upon some uncertain thoughts.

  ‘Take him back to Cockermouth. Tell him we’ll need a formal statement in due course.’

  The order is decisive, and DS Leyton takes it as a dismissal, too. In any event, it being a Sunday he will be pleased to return to his family. He begins to sidestep in the direction of the offices and car park.

  ‘Leyton.’

  ‘Guv?’

  ‘Last week – Roger Alcock had some kind of row in the Post Office with Levi Armstrong.’

  ‘Really, Guv?’ A curious squirming squeakiness seems to enter DS Leyton’s voice; it is redolent of the sentiment of knowing something unpleasant is coming.

  ‘Drop off Bridgwater – then find out what it was about.’

  *

  ‘Aye – there ye go, Inspector – Mr Bridgwater signed out his spare key last May – the 18th – brought it back the same day.’

  Skelgill squints suspiciously at the handwritten entry indicated by Wullie Moffatt’s stubby index finger; he notices nicotine stains that corroborate the air of staleness that pervades the marina office, unwashed clothing that has been in sustained contact with tobacco smoke.

  ‘Do you remember?’

  ‘Ah wisnae here then – Ah didnae start until August.’

  ‘Who signed it out?’

  The man squints at the upside-down signature.

  ‘That would have been Harry Ramsbottom – Ah took over frae him.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘He’s deid.’ (If Skelgill is not mistaken, there is a small glint of triumph in the Scotsman’s eye.) ‘Heart attack – bad diet – he were twice my weight and three inches shorter.’

  Skelgill resists any temptation to become sidetracked.

  ‘Does your door entry system record who comes and goes?’

  The man shakes his head.

  ‘It’s the same code for every yin.’

  Skelgill has anticipated this – and in any event, a cursory survey of the marina has told him that it would be easy enough to gain access to a boat without entering via the clubhouse. A modest helping of athleticism and a pinch of initiative could circumvent the security measures.

  ‘I didn’t see any CCTV.’

  The man shakes his head.

  ‘The committee’s bin talking about it – expensive business.’

  ‘What time is the offic
e staffed?’

  ‘Daylight hours for the winter – officially eight ’till four. Usually I’m in sharp.’

  There is a suggestion here that he may also leave sharp.

  ‘You obviously work weekends.’

  ‘Ah work every day, ken.’ The man puffs out his chest – but there is also a hint of defiance in his demeanour – as though he wrestles with the implication that he has nothing better to do.

  ‘The boat we’re interested in – Serena – did you see anyone aboard – at any time since last Sunday – afternoon, say?’

  Again the man shakes his head, immediately, as if he has already thought about this matter and reached a conclusion.

  ‘She’s all covered up wi’ a great tarpaulin.’

  Skelgill takes it that he should understand no blame could be attached should Wullie Moffat have failed to notice any activity on the boat.

  ‘What’s the score with the dock gate?’

  ‘It’s opened for two hours either side of high tide.’ The man pats down his comb-over hairstyle, but to no great cosmetic gain. ‘In darkness you’d need to be a local fisherman to work off the Maryport navigation lights.’ When Skelgill does not respond he adds a further caveat. ‘Besides – these folk dinnae take their boats out hardly at a’ in winter.’

  Skelgill is looking at the pile of tide books, one fewer since his last visit.

  ‘Did my sergeant pay you for the tide tables?’

  ‘Er – no – he didnae.’

  ‘I’ll remind him.’

  And with this Skelgill departs. He hesitates outside the door, and sniffs the salt air, rather like a fox emerging from its earth and wondering just what is in the offing. Then a movement over towards the little housing estate catches his eye – he realises it is the old man with the spaniel – he is moving away, with surprising alacrity, and Skelgill gets the distinct impression that he was spotted first, and the man is making himself scarce; indeed, he disappears from sight behind a row of houses. Skelgill inhales deeply one more time and allows his senses to reach a conclusion; he sets off in the opposite direction – away from the where the man went, and away from his car – indeed in the direction that includes among other things the harbour café.

  15. WATCHING – Sunday evening

  Occasional raindrops – or at least drips of rain – are falling on Skelgill’s head. He is not uncomfortable as such – for he wears his recently acquired extravagantly priced lightweight black Gore-Tex outfit, and plenty to keep him warm underneath. And he crouches beneath a conifer – a Norway spruce – that provides a largely effective evergreen umbrella. Having parked near the Lamplugh roundabout outside Cockermouth – the café now closed – he picked his way by means of the riverside path and his powerful pocket torch to merge with the shadows within sight of Walkmill. The random droplets that percolate through the foliage he must endure, for to have his hood up would impair his hearing – the prime means of detection in such conditions, and one that is now brought into play – for there comes the faint crunch of footsteps from the steep woodland above; someone is walking down the stony track from the lane. A tawny owl sentinel hoots – and receives an answering ‘tu-wit’ – wary notes, and surely coincidental.

  A few minutes earlier Skelgill had watched – with a small thrill of voyeurism – whilst Maeve Alcock (he presumed) took a shower. Not that he could be accused of being a peeping Tom, since the bathroom – which he knows it to be, both from his first visit when she called to him from its window, and his second when he toured the property with DS Jones – is situated on the top floor of three, and he is stationed at an altitude that would equate to cellar level, at best. Besides, the window was steamed up, and only occasional glimpses were afforded of (he speculated) a naked torso. The ensuite light had been extinguished, and then a softer bulb switched on in what would be the adjoining master bedroom. At this point Skelgill was rewarded with a brief but clear head-and-shoulders view of Maeve Alcock as she drew the curtains – leaving a small gap at the centre; she was wearing a towelling gown.

  It seems unlikely that she was set to retire – it is still early evening – and now the purposeful tread casts further doubt on this notion: a visitor by appointment, one that knows that the track is treacherous by car? Or is it an intruder? Little stealth is needed to approach the property in darkness – it lacks external lighting or security measures, even the electronically controlled gate is no barrier to an interloper on foot. It occurs to Skelgill how vulnerable Maeve Alcock is, at this isolated spot – and yet, as she said herself, it was not unusual for her spouse to spend time away. Taking no chances, Skelgill fumbles about on the ground around him – the carpet of pine needles is surprisingly dry – and shortly he finds what he seeks, and his fingers close around a hefty fallen stick.

  The footsteps near – and then cease. Skelgill strains his ears; there comes the rasping bark of a dog fox – its mating call – probably closer than he might imagine; the light rain dampens sounds. He is concealed just twenty yards from the building – but it may as well be a hundred for all he can see – until the sudden luminosity of a mobile phone – for perhaps ten seconds – marks the visitor’s temporarily static position near the corner of the house. Darkness ensues – and it is only the subsequent opening of the front door – and just a faint glow from behind it – that reveals for a second or two that this can be no intruder – for Skelgill gets a glimpse, imperfect (as he now realises he is badly positioned, with tree trunks impeding his line of sight), of a white-robed Maeve Alcock and a male figure, taller than her, dressed in dark clothing, the deep hood of his jacket raised. In a moment they are gone, the man inside. Only Maeve Alcock’s words endure; they seem to Skelgill to hang in the dank ether.

  ‘Perfect timing.’

  *

  Skelgill realises his phone is ringing. It has been switched to mute since well before he arrived to ‘stake out’ Walkmill. His act of surveillance was born out of no great intelligence – it was more of an impulse that came to him on returning from the coast – by way of Flimby and Workington. Earlier, upon leaving Maryport, the lonely Sunday afternoon had seemed to stretch before him like the bleak Solway coast – and the sea tackle still rattling in the back of his car had provided a welcome distraction, the opportunity to complete yesterday’s unfinished business. He has not returned empty handed; a brace of codling are wrapped snug in a bass bag.

  Following the admission of the visitor he watched the house with keen interest. Barely two minutes had passed when the light in the master bedroom went out. A further fifteen minutes elapsed before Skelgill concluded he might wait there all night and still not see the man emerge – even then he may not succeed in identifying him. Lacking the wherewithal for a lengthy period of observation – and steadily gaining a growing hunger and a thirst for a pint of winter warmer – he sought the one discovery that was still available to him – whether a car was parked outside the gate of the old mill. But he had climbed the winding track to little avail. Had the man walked – in the dark and the rain, like he does now? Did he come by taxi (that could be easily traceable) – or a lift (it seems unlikely) – or is there a bike concealed somewhere? Skelgill does not know the answer. And now he trudges back along the lane that will eventually reunite him with his car. His phone is relentless in its vibrations.

  ‘Jones.’

  ‘Where are you, Guv?’

  Skelgill smells the fish oil ingrained into his fingers.

  ‘On my way back from Flimby. I stayed over at the coast after we’d finished at the boat.’

  ‘Any joy, Guv?’

  Now Skelgill hesitates. Had he zeroed in on some kind of solution in his exchange with DS Leyton earlier in the day? Certainly it explained aspects that have been pricking at his subconscious. Or had his sergeant’s tendency to simplistically join the dots taken them further from the truth? He experiences a growing urge – a warning almost – to play devil’s advocate – and as such experimentally makes a proclamation – as if to hear j
ust how it sounds to him.

  ‘Looks like Nick Bridgwater’s in the clear.’

  From DS Jones comes a small intake of breath – audible over background noise that might be a combination of music and the rumble of passing traffic.

  ‘I’m not so sure, Guv.’

  ‘Aye?’

  Skelgill’s retort could be dispiriting – sounding to the casual listener like he pays lip service to whatever DS Jones might have to say – and indeed he is in part distracted by thoughts of her whereabouts.

  ‘I got to a computer – logged on securely. I submitted some information requests – the results just came back.’

  ‘Ah –’ Now Skelgill remembers his entreaty that he would provide some guidance. But DS Jones shows no inclination to dwell on the omission.

  ‘Just an idea I had, Guv – thinking about Nick Bridgwater berthing a boat at Maryport.’

  ‘Aye?’ The intonation marks a small improvement in Skelgill’s attention.

  ‘Well – it was a bit of a long shot – but I realised the roads cross-country from Cockermouth to Maryport were closed in several places by the flood – they weren’t clear until Thursday.’

  Skelgill doesn’t say aye again; he just waits.

  ‘The obvious alternative route would have been along the A66 to Workington and then north along the coast road. There are average-speed cameras on the A66.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘I will, Guv – Nick Bridgwater’s car passed through them heading west at 11.15pm on Tuesday – and then back again just over two hours later.’

  Skelgill has stopped walking – he pulls up his hood so that his mobile phone is held inside the cover of his jacket. The lights of a vehicle approach and the driver slows abruptly when they spot the black-clad figure on the verge. Skelgill waves the person on, indicating he does not need assistance.

  ‘Nick Bridgwater was in Spain – Gibraltar, at least.’

  Now DS Jones’s voice comes with more urgency.

  ‘There’s only one direct airline – according to the flight manifest he flew back on Tuesday, not Wednesday. He checked into a hotel near Manchester Airport when he landed – and checked out on Wednesday morning.’