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

by Bruce Beckham

  While Skelgill is processing this information DS Jones offers an interpretation.

  ‘Looks like he paid a flying visit to the boat, Guv.’

  Skelgill is silent for a while. Another car passes – this one honks – perhaps out of surprise; it certainly could not be recognition.

  ‘We only know he went along the A66. There could be someone in Workington that he’s not mentioned.’

  It is a weak rejoinder, and Skelgill knows it.

  ‘It’s piling up, Guv – what he hasn’t mentioned.’

  The darkness seems to close in around Skelgill; when facts are too good to be true, his inclination is to revert to gut feel. Momentarily bereft of a clear standpoint, he surprises himself (let alone his colleague) with an uncharacteristic compliment.

  ‘Nice work, Jones.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She hesitates for a moment – she understands him well enough. ‘By the way, Guv – I meant fish.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘When I said, any joy?’

  Skelgill grimaces unseen.

  ‘You know me, Jones – it’s the fishing that counts, not the catching.’

  DS Jones knows this to be only half true.

  16. POLICE HQ – Monday morning

  ‘Frankly, Inspector, I stupidly dug a bit of a hole for myself at the outset – after that it seemed to be getting deeper by the minute. It was all done with Roger’s welfare in mind, naturally.’

  Nick Bridgwater faces Skelgill and DS Leyton in the police interview room; he has voluntarily attended. His manner is self-reproachful but not unduly concerned – a sort of casual ‘guilty as charged’ attitude – like that of a person caught committing a minor motoring misdemeanour such as speeding at 35 in a 30 limit, or stopping on a double yellow line to post a letter. Conversely, Skelgill – thus far even handed in his dealings with the man – does not need to utter the words “wasting police time” or, more seriously, “obstructing an inquiry” to communicate his displeasure. It is a condition compounded in that he is sporting some species of hangover.

  ‘Perhaps, sir, you’d better tell us exactly what did happen – starting with your return from Spain via Gibraltar.’

  Nick Bridgwater nods enthusiastically.

  ‘Of course, Inspector. As I said previously I was concerned about the flood and that I hadn’t managed to get in touch with Roger – I felt it was the only course of action – to get home ASAP. I flew back to Manchester – it was getting late in the day – didn’t think there was much I could do that night – plus I was pretty jiggered from cumulative lack of sleep at sea. I checked into one of the airport hotels – intending to drive up first thing on Wednesday morning. That was when I saw the news online about the search for Roger.’

  Skelgill makes a noise as if he is clearing his throat, but he does not speak. After a moment Nick Bridgwater continues.

  ‘The problem was – I suddenly had this crazy notion that Roger had holed himself up at the boat. It was a complete long shot. I was wired – disoriented – couldn’t get the idea out of my head.’

  Now Skelgill produces a terse retort.

  ‘Why didn’t you just phone the police?’

  Nick Bridgwater’s countenance resolves into a pained mask.

  ‘I didn’t want to land Roger in trouble – more trouble than he was in already. I thought if he had done something daft I might be able to talk him out of it – and help him come up with a sensible excuse. It would be typical of Roger not even to consider that he might have been the subject of a great hue and cry.’

  ‘So you drove up.’

  ‘I jumped into the car – the roads were deserted – it barely took me a couple of hours.’ He winces, as if to acknowledge that he probably broke the speed limits (although, ironically, the records show he slowed as required by law through the restricted section of the A66.) ‘Of course – the locks were intact – the boat was empty – like the Mary Celeste.’

  He grins endearingly, but Skelgill is unmoved.

  ‘And what did you do then?’

  The detectives have not detailed their knowledge of the two-hour gap before Nick Bridgwater’s car passed back through the cameras west of Cockermouth. Allowing for about twenty minutes each way, to and from Maryport, there is more than an hour unaccounted for. Of course, on reflection, Nick Bridgwater has had time of his own to consider this.

  ‘I fell asleep.’

  Skelgill does not deign to repeat the phrase. He just waits for an explanation.

  ‘As I said – I was bushed – and being a sailor I’ve always been able to catnap. I lay down on one of the bunks – intending just forty winks – but it must have been an hour later when I woke up. However I felt sufficiently refreshed to get on my way.’

  ‘Did anyone see you?’

  ‘To be honest – I doubt if they did – I didn’t want to attract attention to Roger if he was on the boat – so I’d parked over by the sea defences and walked back round into the marina.’ The man notes Skelgill’s disapproval, and summons again the look of self-reproach. ‘If you know the place it’s easy enough to hop over the guardrail and shin down to the boats. A lot of the owners do it to save time.’

  Skelgill nods grimly.

  ‘What I don’t understand, sir – is why you went all the way back to Manchester.’

  ‘Ah.’ Now there is a gesture of mea culpa. ‘Would you believe it, Inspector – I left my wallet in my hotel bedroom. I knew I couldn’t manage without it the following day – and since I had the room for the night I thought I might as well go back straightaway – luckily I had enough fuel for the round trip.’

  Skelgill glances casually at DS Leyton – who is now looking peeved on behalf of them both. The act of returning to Manchester and checking out ‘as normal’ the next morning had struck them as salient – as the behaviour of someone wishing to cover their tracks. But Nick Bridgwater has conjured an excuse that would be almost impossible to disprove.

  Skelgill is obliged to change tack.

  ‘Why would Mr Alcock have holed himself up at the boat, sir? What made you sufficiently certain to undertake that journey late at night to look for him?’

  Now Nick Bridgwater blinks several times.

  ‘Well – I have alluded to the fact that Roger wasn’t the most stable of personalities – and the information that I passed on to you about his financial affairs –’

  ‘But you found that after you got back to the shop, sir.’

  The man remains unflustered. He opens out his hands in a gesture of appeal. Skelgill can see that the palms are dry.

  ‘One couldn’t work with Roger without getting the impression that he might have money problems – thankfully in the business I had a veto over any major items of expenditure.’

  He shares a knowing look – as if the three of them are all scholars of prudence.

  ‘Would you stand to gain from Mr Alcock’s death, sir?’

  Ostensibly this question comes as something of a bolt from the blue – and for just a split second it does seem to strike home – Nick Bridgwater suppresses a small jolt.

  ‘I take it you refer to the company, Inspector?’

  By way of reply Skelgill shrugs – as if that will do for a start.

  ‘To be honest, Inspector – I’d really need to sit down with our accountants to work out what are the implications – as regards shareholding, liabilities, insurance – that sort of thing. We put in place a range of agreements and policies when we incorporated – but the flood has jammed the proverbial spanner in the works. Depending upon what the loss adjusters come up with – the business could be worth next to nothing – we could be bust.’

  Skelgill is glowering. This sounds like obfuscation – although just as frustrating is that plainly there is a basis of reality in what Nick Bridgwater says.

  ‘I was thinking of Mr Alcock’s text message.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Inspector?’

  ‘When he said, “Consider it sorted” – I think those were his words.
If Mr Alcock had died – wouldn’t that release certain insurance monies that would solve any business problems and perhaps beyond?’

  Nick Bridgwater is looking positively alarmed. His youthful blue eyes are stretched wide like a disbelieving schoolboy who has just seen his chemistry teacher spontaneously combust whilst trying to demonstrate the incendiary properties of the alkali metals.’

  ‘But that would have involved Roger – well, dying – sacrificing himself.’

  ‘Not if he just pretended he was dead, sir.’

  The man looks convincingly bamboozled – that this can only be nonsense. He takes an exaggerated deep breath and exhales before he speaks.

  ‘Inspector – if I recall, when we first met, you touched upon the question of Roger’s disappearance – if there was some reason I knew of behind it – so when I found the file of documents the seed was already sown – the notion that Roger might wish to escape his debts – but I meant it in the temporary sense – a few hours of escapism – it was the way Roger worked – if he was upset about something he’d take off in his kayak – where another man would head for his local hostelry.

  Skelgill’s lips are compressed, his features lined.

  ‘And that would apply to his personal life as well, sir?’

  ‘The thing is, Inspector – it was never easy to understand what troubled Roger. Despite his flamboyant exterior, beneath the surface he was a much more complex character than he allowed people to know. I doubt he even understood himself.’

  The man’s answer is inconveniently oblique; it requires Skelgill to be more direct.

  ‘Would you say there were difficulties in his marriage, sir?’

  Nick Bridgwater turns down the corners of his mouth and at the same time furrows his brow. He makes it seem that he has no ready answer to this question.

  ‘I really couldn’t comment – we didn’t socialise together – Maeve would occasionally pop into the shop – since she works just around the corner – but I can’t say I detected anything more than the usual tensions of matrimony – who left the milk out of the fridge – you know what I mean, Inspector?’

  His question seems to discomfit Skelgill, and for a moment the latter is tongue-tied. In the event, he ignores the remark.

  ‘What about Mr Alcock? It seems he had a reputation as a ladies’ man – a bit of a Jack the Lad – you said as much yourself.’

  ‘Oh, I rather suspect that was one-way traffic, Inspector.’

  ‘What do you mean by that, sir?’

  Nick Bridgwater chuckles – somewhat ruefully. He smears a knuckle across the tip of his retroussé nose, an unconscious action, it seems.

  ‘Well – Roger was a good-looking devil – and he liked to show off – to flirt – but I don’t believe it went much further than that.’ He makes a show of racking his brains. ‘Certainly I saw no indications – and Roger wasn’t a man for clever subterfuge – planning just wasn’t his thing – he’d never successfully cover up an affair of the heart – or even a short fling – that’s why your suggestion of him faking his death just wouldn’t hold water – he’d never be able to pull it off.’

  ‘But – by the sound of it – it wouldn’t stop him having the idea, sir.’

  Now Nick Bridgwater shrugs, helplessly exasperated – as if he feels the detectives are likely to take him round in circles on this matter.

  ‘Honestly, Inspector – I think – as you intimate – a few things might have been piling up on Roger – and when the flood struck he acted on impulse – it was a release, the excuse to switch into Action Man mode – and he set off without any real plan at all – it would have been one big adventure to go forth and test himself against the elements.’

  Skelgill nods reluctantly and sighs simultaneously. After a short delay in which he seems to be satisfying himself that he has found out all there is to know, he pushes back his chair and wearily rises to his feet. DS Leyton remains seated, almost unnaturally still; a fly-on-the-wall observer might think this is a prearranged tactic on the detectives’ part. Skelgill looks sternly at Nick Bridgwater.

  ‘That seems to have cleared up the – er, let’s call it a misunderstanding.’ (Nick Bridgwater puts on his most elaborately apologetic face.) ‘Though it would have been helpful if you’d mentioned your idea about the boat in the first place.’ (The man nods enthusiastically.) Skelgill gestures loosely with a hand to DS Leyton. ‘My sergeant will just get a few background details – the formalities we have to go through – save some pen-pusher finding fault and us having to haul you back in.’ He heads over towards the door, and opens it and steps half out. ‘Keep things shipshape, as you might say.’

  *

  ‘How’d it go, Guv?’

  Skelgill shifts in his seat and yawns extravagantly. He is parked with the engine idling on the isthmus between the rivers Cocker and Derwent, the old brewery at his back and the older castle towering behind; a little-known spot for vehicular access. Before him, just a dozen yards off, the rivers merge – they each still race; he notices the broader Derwent has a browner hue, the Cocker more grey – the site thus a Cumbrian equivalent in miniature of the two-tone confluence of the Blue Nile and the White Nile at Khartoum. A pair of brightly marked goosander feed in the slack water just off the point; Skelgill watches appreciatively (if grudgingly) that their dives appear to be productive, in spite of the murky conditions. He clears his throat; the heat inside the car has become stifling and he lowers the window by a couple of inches. While DS Leyton was methodically (very methodically) documenting the ‘formalities’ with Nick Bridgwater, Skelgill sped across to Cockermouth to interview Serena Harenge; he had found her filling out insurance claim forms in the kitchen of the flat above River Nation.

  ‘Inconclusive.’

  ‘Really, Guv?’ DS Leyton manages to inject a note of interest into his response – if Skelgill is in a glass-half-empty mood, then there might in fact be a small cause for optimism.

  ‘And that’s let the cat out of the bag – that we’re suspicious.’

  ‘Shouldn’t worry, Guv – he knows we’re gonna check up on his story – since he never gave us the full details in the first place.’

  Skelgill makes a throaty grunt that might approximate to an acknowledgement of this point.

  ‘She was off sick from the Saturday before the flood. She said Nick Bridgwater contacted her the following Thursday and she offered to help with the clear up.’

  ‘You’d think she’d have gone in before that, Guv – if only to have a butcher’s.’

  ‘She lives in a flat at the Gote – on the north bank of the Derwent. The property’s on a rise, so it wasn’t flooded – but they were cut off from the town until Gote Bridge was given the all clear on Thursday. She reckons she had the ’flu – stayed indoors – didn’t see a soul.’

  ‘There’s a right old stinker doing the rounds – my lot have all been down with it.’

  ‘It’s too neat for my liking.’

  Under his breath, DS Leyton gives a sigh of frustration – this is The Great Paradox Of Skelgill – his capacity to ignore with equal disdain evidence that is either “too neat” (as he now puts it) or conversely when it bristles with blinding warning lights and blazing sirens; it is some deep determination not to be gulled. Rather out of character, DS Leyton is provoked into the role of agitator.

  ‘What if she went to Spain with the Bridgwater cove – she was a bit of a yachtie when she first met him?’

  ‘Aye.’

  It is to his sergeant’s surprise that Skelgill apparently replies in the affirmative. He has of course considered this possibility, among others, in the half hour he has stared at the mesmeric rippling confluence of the two rivers. If Serena Harenge is romantically involved with Nick Bridgwater – but for some reason they were keeping the relationship under wraps (to avoid the jealous ire of Roger Alcock, perhaps?) – then perhaps she had secretly taken a break with the former. This ought to be easy enough to verify – unless their precautions extended to
separate travel arrangements – there are regular flights to the south of Spain from the thick end of thirty British airports. However, this is extravagant speculation – and Skelgill makes a face of grotesque doubt. When he does not elaborate, DS Leyton offers a tentative prompt.

  ‘You don’t reckon so, Guv?’

  ‘She might have.’ Skelgill groans as he changes position and his recalcitrant back gives him a sharp reminder of a chronic ailment. His tone is that of a man entirely unconvinced. As if to emphasise the sentiment he outlines an equally ill-founded and diametrically opposed scenario. ‘She might have had Roger Alcock taking her temperature for a couple of days.’

  DS Leyton gives a little gasp.

  ‘Cor blimey, Guv – what makes you say that?’

  Skelgill now makes a dismissive scoffing noise – as if he doesn’t for a second believe what he has just said.

  ‘Her flat’s close to the river – in the flood he could have rowed right up to it – jumped out and sent the kayak on its merry way.’

  DS Leyton is nonplussed – his superior’s underlying scepticism is plain to the ear – and yet his very utterance lends a veneer of veracity to the idea.

  ‘But what about him being found dead – drowned – at Maryport, Guv?’

  ‘That could be another story, couldn’t it? If he’d wanted to go to the boat – she could have given him a lift – they could have picked a route across country from the north side of the Derwent.’

  DS Leyton is silent for a few moments.

  ‘What if Roger Alcock pressurised her, Guv – and she shoved him off the boat while he was looking the other way?’

  Now Skelgill is mute – he seethes with grim annoyance that he has let himself be drawn into this fanciful speculation.

  ‘Leyton – she was sick on her couch with a hot water bottle, living off frozen pizza and paracetamol. She didn’t waver. And we keep talking about Roger Alcock being on the boat when we haven’t got a scrap of evidence that he even set foot on board.’