Skelgill leans casually on the guardrail. He pretends to be examining the slick mudbanks; surreptitiously he watches. Headley Holmes is wearing a suit and tie – as if he is here on business – but, then, he is an estate agent, after all – why would he not be in the town, just seven miles from his office? But in the port? As Skelgill observes he settles his briefcase upon the bench and produces a small camera. He takes a couple of photos of the marina; there can be little doubt in which direction he points the lens. Abruptly he checks his wristwatch; he packs up and leaves promptly. Skelgill, in turn, moves on. He consults his own timepiece; the video ought to be ready.
*
‘Collared ’em, Guv – the pair of ’em – just like you said. On their best behaviour, they were – never thought I’d see Levi Armstrong act so meek – reckon that there Aussie lady’s got him in his place.’
‘She not an Aussie, Leyton – she just acts like one.’
‘An’ he’s more articulate than you’d think, Guv – bit of a sheep in wolf’s clothing, if you ask me.’
‘I’d stick with wolf in wolf’s clothing, if I were you, Leyton.’ Skelgill sounds discontented by the direction the conversation is taking. ‘So what’s the story?’
‘In a word, Earl Armstrong, Guv.’
In the interests of brevity, Skelgill refrains from inserting the obvious correction.
‘Who is?’
‘One of Levi Armstrong’s cousins, Guv. Got a business at Workington – scrap metal dealer and car breaker. Seems his yard was flooded and Levi Armstrong was over there, dragging wrecks out of the floodwater.’
‘What – until midnight?’ Skelgill’s voice is tinged with incredulity.
‘Says he worked late and had a couple of tins with his cousin – the geezer lives in a caravan on the premises. Reckons he lost track of time.’
‘Have you checked it out?’
‘The cousin’s not answering his phone, Guv – want me to hop over?’
Skelgill growls in his throat.
‘Leyton – the Armstrongs are thick as thieves.’
DS Leyton makes a self-reproachful clicking sound with his tongue.
‘Not much I could do, Guv – even if I’d gone straight there, Levi Armstrong would have phoned his cousin in the time it took.’
Unseen by his colleague, Skelgill is nodding grimly.
‘What about his movements earlier?’
‘He claims he was down at Sellafield doing a job for the nuclear agency – I reckon we can verify that easy enough. Says he went cross-country. That’d explain why he wasn’t caught on the cameras heading west. Then he drove up the coast to Workington.’
Skelgill is patently unhappy.
‘What did Rhiannon Rees have to say?’
‘Reckons she didn’t know much about it, Guv. Says she went to bed early. Heard him moving about, but didn’t know what time it was.’
Skelgill is silent for a few moments.
‘So he did stay at her place?’
‘Seems that way, Guv.’
‘What about this Sunday?’
‘Yeah – she said he was at hers from about six – he agreed with that – reckoned he’d been in The Black Swan until the football finished – then he legged it over ’cause he’d had a few beers.’
Again Skelgill descends into silence. When DS Leyton eventually speaks is it plain he suspects he is being blamed for an outcome that does not suit his superior’s requirements.
‘Anything else I can do, Guv?’
And now DS Leyton is taken by surprise.
‘Aye – about four o’clock I want you to requisition a marked car – flashing lights – go to Headley Holmes’s office and pick up Maeve Alcock. Make sure everyone notices.’
DS Leyton audibly gulps.
‘What? Arrest her, Guv?’
‘No, Leyton.’ Skelgill’s response is terse. ‘Take her in for questioning – a witness statement.’
‘What if she won’t come, Guv?’
‘Use your Cockney charm.’
‘But, Guv – what shall I ask her?’
‘Anything you like – tell her you’re looking for a property and you want some inside information.’
‘You’re not serious, Guv?’
‘Leyton – of course I’m not serious. Use your imagination – get her whole history, schools, jobs, romances – whatever – same for Roger Alcock – anything she can remember – it doesn’t really matter – give her plenty of cups of tea and tell her you’ve got other plates spinning – just keep her there until you hear from me.’
‘When will that be, Guv?’
‘Early evening.’
DS Leyton swallows, with more circumspection this time – but he senses one of his superior’s infamous euphemisms.
‘Righto, Guv. Early evening it is.’
‘Is Jones back yet?’
Now there are conveyed more unspoken tremors of trepidation – for DS Leyton knows his answer will displease Skelgill.
‘Oh, yeah – she dialled in, Guv – she’s not coming back until tomorrow morning. Seems like DI Smart’s got some plan to stay down longer. I got the feeling DS Jones has put her foot down about something. She’s arranged a ride north with a driver from the Met who’s going up early doors to Manchester Airport – he’s collecting some foreign bigwig and taking him on a tour, finishing in London. Meantime one of our boys is working overnight in the Manchester area – he’s going to meet them and bring DS Jones the rest of the way – back about 10am she reckons.’
Skelgill is glowering; his gaze drifts beyond the café windows to the far horizon. Since he provides no response, DS Leyton makes a polite inquiry.
‘What about you, Guv – what are you up to? I mean – if the Chief should ask.’
‘Tell her I’ve gone fishing, Leyton. The bass are running.’
20. HERMIONE – Tuesday night
The old man stands with his spaniel at the edge of Maryport quay. There is no guardrail at this point, and despite the darkness he is close enough to see that the tide has turned; below him, and to his left small indistinct items of pale flotsam are beginning to drift out of the mouth of what he will always think of as Senhouse Dock. He has on a woolly hat, and a knee-length oilskin that feels constraining on top of his bulky sweater. It is the weather forecast that caused him to take these precautions; and in small part the forecast that has brought him out. (Though of course Charles III needs his ‘exercise’ – he’s not as young as he was, and can’t last through a long winter night.) As for the forecast – aye, well, he’s never shed the habit of listening to the midnight shipping report on the wireless, though a decade has passed since he retired from his boat. Once a fisherman, always a fisherman. And the words that conjure a familiar triptych in his mind’s eye – “Lundy, Fastnet, Irish Sea” – still send a little thrill of anticipation down his spine.
There was something different tonight, however – “Hermione”. It’s this new-fangled business of naming some – but not all – of the Atlantic weather systems. In his book it’s a gimmick – and a cynical one at that. Only those storms they hope will wreak havoc merit a name – and that’s just so’s the media can stir up more of a fuss about it. They’d film a storm in a teacup if it saved them getting off their backsides to find some proper news – lazy like most folks these days, so they are. Expect everything served up to them on a plate. Just like his layabout grandson – never done a proper day’s work in his life – and what is he now – mid-twenties? And he gets up to no good – idle hands, and all that. Then again, he did bring his old granddad the widescreen TV – “clearance stock” he called it – sounded convincing – but he had a sly look in his eye when he accepted the fifty quid – and another fifty for the satellite dish and receiver – “just to cover his expenses”, he’d said. Couldn’t do without it now: all those extra channels. Aye – the TV – it’s the other reason he’s come out here tonight – out to this spot – where he was a week ago, same time, more or less. That bonny yo
ung lass on the satellite news has presented him with a dilemma. An appeal for witnesses – the missing kayaker. Filmed it here, they did – he recognised his own back yard easy enough. But if he puts himself in the firing line, the police will come to interview him – won’t they? They’ll see his television. Next it’ll be: how can a pensioner afford a thousand-pound set like this? And you’ve got a satellite subscription? That’s not by any chance one of those pirate dishes on your roof, sir? No. Better keep quiet. Just to be on the safe side. It’s not like he actually saw anything – it was pitch dark – just a few sounds and voices, that’s all. No – best just keep quiet.
He sniffs the air. He doubts that so-called Hermione will bring the problems that were associated with Geronimo, a week or so back. Not that Geronimo was particularly ferocious – just poured with rain. He’d never seen the Ellen so high. No – he can feel in his bones – the pressure’s not drastically low – though the wind’s picking up – gusting at a good 30 knots already – a moderate gale – and it’s forecast to reach 50 knots before daybreak, Storm Force 10. Wouldn’t want to be out there tonight. He stares towards the mouth of the harbour, and tugs down his hat over his ears.
And thus the hat and the wind conspire to prevent him from detecting the approaching footsteps. But not so Charles III. His hearing – like his sense of smell – has not deserted him. Only his eyesight is failing. And so – while his master gazes obliviously out to sea, humming a shanty, he perceives the advance; it is the scent of a person that he has smelled before. Moreover, as the figure closes in, in what meagre light emanates from the replica lanterns stationed at intervals around the harbour perimeter, he gets an indistinct glimpse. But it’s only a glimpse – for in the last second the person dips their shoulder – and with sudden deadly force barges his master over the edge of the quay. And – unfortunately – for want of nothing better to grab hold of to save himself – his master keeps a firm grip of the lead. It is a kind of grasping at straws. And so Charles III is snatched through the void, towards the dark waters that swell below.
Albert Bass – for that is the old fisherman’s name – has fallen into the Irish Sea before (albeit not for a good many years – and never before been pushed). But such experience – his little trawler several times down the ages being rolled by a rogue wave – has never left him – and this means that he does not panic. Where most folk would hit the water, submerge, and gasp in shock at the bone-chilling cold – and thus draw in a fatal lungful of salt water – Albert Bass instinctively holds his breath until he bobs back up. Only then does he attempt to breathe. But the cold is intense. It cramps the muscles of his ribs and diaphragm. Having “bin badly” with a chest infection he can barely inhale – and even then he ships some water. Immediately he is hawking and retching. And the sharp outline of the harbour wall – it’s already twenty feet away – he’s drifting out on the ebb tide reinforced by the current of the Ellen. He tries to tread water – but feels himself sinking. His sodden clothing is bulky – it restricts any movement of his limbs. More frantically he paddles – but it is exhausting. His eyes are burning with the salt water. The flickering light on the quay is like a star in heaven – rays shoot from its burning core. But it is fading. And in front of it he sees a figure appear. He’s looking his way – straining into the darkness. His assailant? Making sure the job is done? Except the figure dives in.
Albert Bass wonders if he’s losing consciousness – if he’s losing the connection with his body – for now he seems to be witnessing the scene from a perspective that floats just above. Across the silvery surface comes the swimmer – a series of powerful strokes – head down, not breathing. He reaches him, and grabs hold beneath his armpits (he feels the strong grip). And now he recognises his would-be rescuer – it is the strange fellow with that mean-looking dog – the fellow who brought the pies. He wastes no breath on instructions. Instead he pulls him onto his back, and adopts the life-saving tow. One arm holds his head above water – the other paddles – his legs are kicking. But he’s blowing – he’s spitting water – he must be feeling the cold – already the strokes begin to lack their original strength – they’re not making progress – at best they’re holding their position – it’s hard to tell – but he senses desperation in the man’s movements. Does this go on for a minute – or is it much longer?
And then comes a shout, carried on the wind that’s also their enemy.
‘Guv! I’m on a rope! I’m coming in!’
This prompts a reaction in the rescuer – albeit not to renew his efforts to fight the tide – instead he fills his lungs with air and raises his head higher out of the water. He screams back a reply.
‘Don’t be a fool, Leyton! Stay there – that’s an order!’
But the “Leighton” fellow disobeys the order. There is a great splash. And then more splashing, uncoordinated, gasping, whimpers and whines of fear and panic. But these noises get closer – and finally reach them – aye, there is someone else in the water. And no one can speak – but this second fellow must be on a line, for the first rescuer reaches past him and spins it about his wrist. There is a jolt. For the first time he can feel the current flowing past – the rope is holding fast. They are no longer being dragged out to sea.
But the rescuer is at full stretch – one arm along the rope and the other around him. And his friend is now struggling badly – it is the best he can do to keep his head above water. He’s coughing and choking. All three of them are shivering in the icy sea. How long will it be before the first of them goes under, dragging the rest down? Amidst his barely conscious haze he gets the odd breath – the cold has enveloped him with a numbness now – his body doesn’t seem to be able to move – and the others must be the same – for they are becoming moribund – hanging on for grim death.
And then comes another cry, melodic. A woman’s voice. Or is it an angel? Or is it an Australian? Strange things you think of when your time has come.
‘Danny! Danny! Hold on! Hold on – for God’s sake!’
There is a sudden movement – a surge. A pull on the rope! And then another! And another! Albert Bass finds the energy to crane his neck – over his shoulder he sees – up on the quayside – silhouetted in the light – two figures – a woman, yes, leaning anxiously over the guardrail – but also a man – a hulking figure with an unkempt mop of black hair that glistens as he bends his back – he’s at the very edge of the quay – he’s like a stevedore of old – for with one foot braced against an ancient capstan, with great strong arms he is hauling them in! He knows what he is doing and he has the power to do it! They are going to be saved. He is going to be saved. He finally yields and slips into unconsciousness, wondering vaguely about Charles III.
*
DS Leyton, whose left hand is stretched nearest to the harbour wall (his right grips one shoulder of Albert Bass’s oilskin) lets go of the rope and makes a desperate lunge for the dock ladder. But it is slimy with algae and his first attempt sees his grip slip off and he disappears beneath the water. He surfaces, spluttering and wheezing but uses the momentum of his buoyancy to try again – and indeed is successful in grasping the next rung – it is freer of weed, being above the mean high water mark. Skelgill sees that they are now anchored and he too releases his grip on the rope and kicks for the ladder. He makes it first time, and both rescuers are attached, one either side, the lifeless Albert Bass held between them. And now the man at the top comes down the ladder – and with a synchronised effort those in the water lift their charge sufficiently for the man above to get a grip of the collar – and with seemingly superhuman strength he raises the casualty up the sheer dockside (supported by some shoving from below as the torso and legs rise) and heaves him from sight. He reappears – but DS Leyton is inching up under his own steam and Skelgill behind him, so he returns to the prone figure and begins checking his vital signs.
Indeed, as Skelgill hauls himself onto the dock on all fours he sees this sight – and, perhaps for the first time,
it sinks in just who was the source of their salvation. For a moment he freezes – his features are so agonised it is difficult to read his reaction – but it could almost be rage. But then he hears his colleague, close by – he is on his knees, his torso bent over onto his elbows, the top of his head on the ground – he makes a moaning wail, his body judders. Skelgill becomes conscious of the wind that is slinging rain at the diagonal like handfuls of icy shingle – he is shuddering himself, his teeth involuntarily chattering. He glances again at the old man – he can see that he is moving his hands – and beyond out of the darkness comes the reassuring blue flashing light of an ambulance – sirens, too – though they seem to belong to some other distant place. Skelgill crawls across to his colleague and takes hold of his head between his two hands.
‘Come on, Leyton – we need to get inside a car – get some heat into you.’
To Skelgill’s astonishment his sergeant springs up – though still on his knees – and a smile breaks out across his face.
‘We did it, Guv – we saved him! We saved a drowning man!’
Skelgill regards DS Leyton with a look that approaches fury.
‘You idiot, Leyton. You could have got yourself killed. You’re terrified of water and you swim like a badger. And you’ve got a bairn on the way.’
Of course, this is a much-abridged version of what Skelgill actually says, since he invests a good percentage of his Anglo-Saxon lexicon in the reprimand – just to make sure the correct sentiments strike home. DS Leyton grins approvingly.
‘I had the rope, Guv – you were the one who risked your life.’
DS Leyton gestures to the line that is still looped about his ample midriff. It had lain coiled on the wharf, one end permanently anchored to a cast iron mooring ring. Yet Skelgill glares with unconcealed alarm at the knot tied about his colleague’s waist. He reaches out and takes hold of the nearest portion of the rope (that section known as the ‘standing part’ in climbing parlance). Then he gives it a sharp tug. The ‘knot’ simply pulls free.
Murder at the Flood (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 9) Page 24