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

by Bruce Beckham

  DS Leyton realises that Skelgill has had his fill of the discussion.

  ‘Should I tell you what else Nick Bridgwater told me, Guv?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Skelgill’s suggestion to Nick Bridgwater that the details required by DS Leyton were a mere formality was somewhat disingenuous. His theory – and their plan – had been that once the senior officer was seen to leave the room, their ‘witness’ might let down his guard – believing they have bought his ‘story’ (if indeed it were one) – and something of note might slip out thereafter.

  ‘Right enough, Guv – he was more relaxed once you’d gone.’ (Skelgill does not comment, so DS Leyton continues.) ‘He was in the navy from leaving school until he was 25. When he came out he did freelance crewing work in the Portsmouth area – he met Roger Alcock – he was up to the same lark. That’s when they had the brainchild of starting a business together. They reckoned the market was saturated down there – but by then Roger Alcock was married to Maeve Rees – and with her being from Cumbria he realised there was a big opportunity in the Lakes.’ (Skelgill makes a grumbling sound – he has his own recurring pipe-dream to set up a fishing guiding business – a notion that is just as quickly quashed when he is reminded that it would involve having to be nice to customers.) ‘It turned out the kayaking was easier to get off the ground than sail training – so Roger Alcock ended up with the lion’s share of the outdoor work – but the shop’s been more or less a full-time job for Nick Bridgwater.’

  ‘What about his love life?’

  ‘Reading between the lines, I’d say he’s a bit of a loner –’ DS Leyton suddenly hesitates – realising too late he might cause offence. ‘What I mean, Guv – I reckon he’s good with his own company – what with him being at sea for long spells – know what I’m saying?’ (Skelgill produces another ambiguous grunt.) ‘He says he’s never been married – currently unattached. There was only so much I could ask him – around the questions on the form.’

  Skelgill sinks into pensive silence. He would rather have had DS Jones acting in this capacity – a combination of her sharp mind and the natural advantage a female has over a male – however DS Leyton – disparaged by DI Smart as “not the sharpest knife in the drawer” – has his own methods of detection.

  ‘I asked him about the girl – Serena – he was quick to say she was spoken for.’

  ‘That’s not what she says.’

  In contesting his sergeant’s finding Skelgill perhaps glosses over the point the former tries to make about Nick Bridgwater’s reaction – as if he considers the contradiction the more significant aspect. DS Leyton responds accordingly.

  ‘She wouldn’t necessarily give him a running commentary, Guv.’

  Skelgill shrugs, unseen.

  ‘What about the boat?’

  ‘The name, Guv? He said it was a coincidence – reckons he’s had it for coming up five years – used to keep it down south – Chichester he said – wait a minute – or was it Cirencester? Nah – it can’t be that – that’s in the Cotswolds, ain’t it?’

  ‘River Churn.’

  ‘Come again, Guv?’

  ‘Runs through Cirencester – decent trout stream. Aye – the Cotswolds.’

  ‘Right you are, Guv – but the boat’s name – seems like it was called Serena before he met the girl. Suppose it was a decent chat-up line, eh? Mind you – you’d pick a more common name, wouldn’t you – or leave it blank?’

  Skelgill seems disinterested in such speculation. But he is contemplating the protocols of boat naming – for which there are few if any rules and regulations. Indeed, down the years his own modest craft have been unofficially labelled, ranging from the whimsical Flycatcher to the hopeful Lucius (after the pike, scientific name Esox lucius), to epithets of a variously ironic nature, Victory, Bounty, Bismarck and even The Doghouse (another tale altogether). In the manner of the impetuous tattoo, however, he has eschewed the temptation to name his boat after a member of the fair sex. As far as Nick Bridgwater’s Serena goes – the fact remains that it all takes to change a boat’s name are a couple of pots of acrylic paint, a brush and a steady hand.

  ‘Anyway, Guv – as I say – he used to keep the boat at Chichester harbour – but since he wasn’t getting to sail it, he moved it up to Maryport – that was over two years ago.’

  Skelgill murmurs his affirmation – he had noticed in the marina owners’ register the date that marked the beginning of the period of tenure.

  ‘What about the flat – did you manage to ask him about that?’

  ‘I did, Guv – I asked him if they’d had anyone staying in it in the last six moths or so – in case there was some possible connection to Roger Alcock that we ought to consider.’ (Skelgill raises an eyebrow – it is a wily question.) ‘But he says there wasn’t – and they’ve never actually rented it out – since they’ve been in the habit of using it every day as part of the business premises. I said do you ever stay over? He said no – and right enough he only lives five minutes’ walk away – but he said he’s known Roger Alcock to crash out when he’s been working late – like when he’s been entertaining corporate clients and he’s had too many lagers to drive home.’

  Skelgill nods. This corresponds with Maeve Alcock’s assessment. Again he is mute for a while and eventually DS Leyton pipes up.

  ‘What do you reckon, Guv?’

  ‘What do you reckon, Leyton?’

  Skelgill’s retort is sharp, albeit not irascible in tone. DS Leyton – flustered that the ball is immediately returned to his court – after some consideration fashions a reply.

  ‘Well – I was thinking about it, Guv. It’s not like he exactly lied to us – I don’t know if he did tell us an actual porky in the first place – he just missed out a chunk of information – and it’s kind of proved to be something and nothing. It’s a bit like he probably came back and looked in the flat to see if Roger Alcock was there, an’ all – and he wasn’t – so he hasn’t mentioned that either – except we knew about the flat and we’d already investigated – so we’ve not thought anything about the fact that he hasn’t said that.’

  Skelgill is not certain if his sergeant is trying to explain or excuse Nick Bridgwater’s behaviour – or if it is just a rather rambling stream of consciousness of which he now finds himself on the receiving end. But in a sense this assessment – which is both obtuse and opaque – encapsulates his experience of the investigation thus far. While there is not as yet conclusive evidence that Roger Alcock fell victim to foul play, the attitudes and behaviour of those connected to him give Skelgill cause for concern – cause for suspicion. It is not exactly a conspiracy of silence, but he does sense a cumulative (if uncoordinated) lack of cooperation – from the very outset when Maeve Alcock rather inexplicably delayed the notification of her husband’s absence. That is something he must get to the bottom of. But first he has another fish to fry.

  ‘Guv?’

  DS Leyton has been patiently awaiting a response to his theorising.

  ‘Aye?’

  The intonation tells DS Leyton that his superior has gone walkabout.

  ‘I’m still trying to get in touch with Levi Armstrong.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I sent you a text, Guv – on Sunday afternoon. I tried to find him – I went to his flat and his garage – they were all shut up. I tried The Black Swan – I even went round to Rhiannon Rees’s place – she wasn’t in either.’

  ‘So keep trying.’

  Now it is DS Leyton’s turn to procrastinate – he fashions some humming and hawing sounds.

  ‘What is it, Leyton?’

  ‘I just thought, Guv – what with you being over in Cockermouth now – you could – maybe drop in and see him?’

  ‘Leyton – there’s nothing I’d take more pleasure in than dropping in to see him – the trouble is when I pick up a shovel and wrap it round his head and he tries to do the same to me it’s going to be a bit of a conversation killer.’

 
; ‘Oh – I see what you mean, Guv.’ DS Leyton makes more noises, indicative that he is revising his position. ‘We’ve got his mobile number from when DS Jones and me saw him – plus there’ll be a phone at his premises – I’ll give them a try first, shall I?’

  ‘Aye – do that Leyton.’

  ‘Righto, Guv – oh, and by the way – there’s a note here from the lab saying they’ll have the full autopsy report posted on the system before close of play today.’

  He waits for a response, but after a while there is none – although the line sounds as though it is still live.

  ‘Guv – did you get that? Guv, can you hear me?’

  But Skelgill is out of the car, standing a dozen feet away, staring into the rushing confluence of the two rivers.

  17. THE CAFÉ – Monday midday

  Skelgill watches casually through a small porthole in the condensation that coats the window of The Lonely Cloud – it seems to be a perpetual feature of the café; in a strange town, always a good sign, steamed-up glass, he thinks – the locals voting with their stomachs – although in fact it probably has more to do with the weather and a peculiarly English aversion to air conditioning. There can be no doubting the popularity of this particular outlet; Rhiannon Rees has struck a canny balance between quality and quantity, and an innovative menu to boot – one that finds a sceptical Skelgill trialling a “spicy bean burger”, a bumper fusion of pods and pulses and red-hot chilli pepper that has a kick like a mule – on the house if he finishes it! But Rhiannon Rees will not be witnessing the climax of their wager – for at this very moment Skelgill sees her emerge from Headley Holmes Estate Agency, in tandem with her sister Maeve Alcock, with whom she links arms and whom she draws away down Station Street, casting a brief glance back over her shoulder in his direction.

  With a sigh Skelgill contemplates the outstanding quarter of his feast – still a small meal in its own right. Do his shoulders sag? It is not in his DNA to concede comestible defeat, never mind that there is the added incentive of the bet. He swigs down his last mouthful of tea; a sure sign that he has finished. But then he takes up the plate and carries it to the counter, attracting the wary eye of one of the ‘girls’ – a stout middle-aged local woman.

  ‘Hey up, love – stick that in the bottom oven for us, will you? I’ll be back for it after.’

  The lady glowers – but she reaches with plump arms around her ample bosom to comply – and when Skelgill produces a crumpled sterling banknote and stuffs it in the tips box her ruddy countenance brightens. He winks and turns to leave; now he puffs out his cheeks and runs the fingers of both hands through his hair to discover his tingling crown is soaked. Outside, the cooling rain is welcome, and he crosses the street unhurriedly.

  He enters the estate agency to be confronted by a vacant front office. The electronic buzzer above the door, however, presently brings the young woman referred to as Janice; she hastens from the rear of the premises smoothing her skirt and blouse as though he has summoned her prematurely from the ladies’ powder room. She stops well short of Skelgill and renders a lop-sided smile, and he cannot escape the mental image of a ‘to let’ sign dangling above her head. She does not appear to recognise him. He decides to exhibit his warrant card.

  ‘Mrs Alcock is expecting me.’

  Janice frowns.

  ‘B-but – she only this minute went out for lunch.’

  Skelgill glances towards the connecting door from which she has just emerged.

  ‘Not to worry, lass – Mr Holmes can probably help me.’

  A small wave of panic seems to grip the girl; she takes a sideways step as if to cut off Skelgill’s signalled advance.

  ‘Oh – but he’s – he’s on an important phone call – he said he’d be free in a couple of minutes.’

  Skelgill gives her a look that suggests he doubts her explanation – but then to her evident relief he turns and strolls across to the windows, where the columns of particulars are displayed double-sided, for viewing from within as well as without. The girl adjusts her position to block his line should it be a feint and he make a dart for the interconnecting door.

  ‘Any interest in Mrs Alcock’s property?’

  A glimmer of trust infuses Janice’s hitherto cautious countenance. Like a timid dog that detects a concealed treat, she inches a little closer to Skelgill as he bends to scrutinise the prospectus.

  ‘Yes.’ There might even be a faint tremor of excitement in her voice.

  ‘Aye?’

  Skelgill continues with his perusal.

  ‘It was first thing this morning – I was the only one here – I have keys to open up. There’s no cash on the premises, you see?’ She seems to feel it necessary to add this caveat. She continues, beginning to sound a little breathless. ‘They were a young foreign couple – the woman was French – her English was excellent. She said the man – her fiancé – was Polish – apparently he’s a pop star in Poland – a drummer – his band was in the Eurovision Song Contest – she’s also his promoter – and they’re looking for a big country place where they can set up a recording studio. I told her Walkmill would be ideal – there’s plenty of space and it’s very secluded.’

  Skelgill makes an obscure humming sound, as if a tune has sprung to mind. The girl, however, is now looking distinctly star-struck, shifting her weight from one foot to the other; he consents to her enthusiasm and faces her inquiringly.

  ‘What did they look like – maybe I’d recognise him? I never miss Eurovision.’

  ‘Well – he had a lot of black hair and a bushy beard.’ She pauses now, as if realising she does not have a clear image in her mind. What little remains seems to dawn on her, and she looks suddenly disappointed. ‘He was quite scruffy, actually – smelled of cigarettes – but they’re often like that, these celebrities, aren’t they? Except the lady was very smart – and good looking – beautiful, really.’

  Skelgill swings back to the window display before she sees the wry smile that turns up the corners of his mouth. He appears to be checking some minute detail.

  ‘What kind of thing did they want to know?’

  Again it takes Janice a moment to retrieve the details from her memory. She wrings her hands and gazes at her feet; she wears flat pumps, for she is quite tall and gangly.

  ‘The lady said she imagined it was a good recommendation – that Walkmill was owned by Mrs Alcock, and that she works here – and then she was asking whereabouts Mr Holmes lived – since that’s always a good indication of the desirable areas – where the estate agents live. I’d never thought about it before – but I said, that’s exactly right – he’s got a big detached bungalow along the Lamplugh Road – he bought the land and had it built – a bungalow because his wife’s an invalid, you see – and, yes, that is a very good area – and it’s not so very far from the entrance to Wa–’

  ‘That will be all for now, Janice.’

  Skelgill shows no reaction to the unheralded intervention of Headley Holmes; indeed, he edges sideways, hands in pockets, and continues to scrutinise properties for sale. There is a rather stilted silence, until Headley Holmes trots out a supplementary order.

  ‘Janice – if you could see that the last of those circulars are neatly folded before they go off to the Gazette.’

  He puts a curious emphasis upon the word circulars – Skelgill could almost imagine it is some coded euphemism. The girl obeys dutifully – and to Skelgill’s eye she flashes at her boss a crooked smirk as she passes him and disappears through to the back of the premises.

  ‘Inspector – thinking of moving to Cockermouth?’

  Perhaps illustratively, Skelgill digs his hands deeper into his pockets.

  ‘Bit out of my price bracket, I’m afraid, sir.’

  Headley Holmes frowns; it surely cannot be true, and therefore he must wonder what game the detective plays. Distractedly he glances down to examine the toes of his polished black brogues, tipping them up. Then he brushes at some invisible speck on his smart
ly pressed pinstripe trousers.

  ‘For the shrewd investor there will be many a bargain to be had in the flood area.’

  Skelgill screws up his features; plainly he begs to differ.

  ‘I don’t know how folk live with the constant worry, sir.’

  The man seems to gain confidence in meeting what must be a common objection.

  ‘Oh, come, Inspector – people all over the world live with Mother Nature at their shoulder – three million Neapolitans reside on the slopes of Vesuvius – and ten times as many Californians along the San Andreas fault – it makes eight inches of water that quickly recedes seem like small beer indeed.’

  Skelgill, images of the flood still fresh in his mind – eight feet of water, cold and rushing and deadly – does not recognise the benign description. Is this the estate agent’s practised spiel – being worked on him from force of habit?

  ‘I believe you live along the Lamplugh Road – you’re well away from any flood danger there, sir.’

  Headley Holmes carefully sweeps the palm of one hand over the top of his head, not quite touching, as if he is checking that his neat hairdo is still in place. His beady brown eyes are fixed upon Skelgill.

  ‘Well – yes, of course – but so is the majority of the town – less than ten per cent of properties are inside the most pessimistic at-risk zone.’

  Skelgill regards him evenly.

  ‘So you’d be quite close to Mrs Alcock’s place?’ He glances deliberately at the window display, as if to indicate he is aware of the advertisement. ‘Walkmill.’

  Headley Holmes clears his throat; it is an affected cough.

  ‘Well – yes – reasonably close – it’s the same side of town – the outskirts and beyond.’

  ‘You didn’t happen to see Mrs Alcock last night, sir? Between six and eight, let’s say.’

  Skelgill now surprises himself – that he has not been more circumspect in his approach. In equal if opposite measure Headley Holmes is ruffled by the question.

  ‘Last night? Why should I have done – it was a Sunday?’