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

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘Stone the crows.’

  No additional words are needed in the silent exchange that now occurs. However, it is not too long before the irrepressible DS Leyton finds his tongue.

  ‘You still ain’t given me that lesson in knots, Guv.’

  Skelgill shakes his head – but now surrounding events are beginning to provide a distraction – not to mention that they need to find cover. Skelgill casts about the scene. Two ambulances and a police patrol car have arrived. One team of paramedics is lifting a semi-conscious Albert Bass onto a wheeled stretcher, prior to loading him aboard – a member of the other unit approaches Skelgill and DS Leyton with emergency blankets to wrap around their shoulders, the foil glistening in the lamplight. He sees a female – of course, the voice, the accent – it is Rhiannon Rees – she is in conversation with one of the uniformed officers that has emerged from the patrol car (for she must have telephoned for assistance). And standing alone, leaning on the guardrail, watching proceedings with a certain resentful detachment, is the dark, brooding figure of Levi Armstrong. Skelgill rises unsteadily and crosses the quay. He faces the man at close quarters. Neither seems to know quite what to say, until Levi Armstrong finally breaks the silence.

  ‘Now we’re quits, Skelgill.’

  In an instant Skelgill grasps what many might consider to be the man’s perverse logic. Stern faced he returns the steely gaze – his grey-green eyes versus Levi Armstrong’s that seem almost black. Then he offers a hand. And Levi Armstrong accepts. Skelgill glances briefly in the direction of Rhiannon Rees.

  ‘Tek care of yon lass, eh, marra?’

  Levi Armstrong gives a small nod, his expression unchanging. Perhaps he appreciates that Skelgill has addressed him in their common tongue – but perhaps much more his meaning. The deal is done. He releases Skelgill’s grip. The two men separate – there are many convenient excuses around them. Skelgill joins DS Leyton beside the stretcher, about to be hoisted into the ambulance. Albert Bass seems to be okay – and, while not exactly coherent, he is mumbling something that DS Leyton strains to hear, leaning close. He stands upright when he detects his superior’s presence.

  ‘He’s hallucinating, Guv. He’s rabbiting on about the Royal Family.’

  Skelgill’s reaction is not what DS Leyton anticipates – for he breaks away and stalks to the edge of the quay, to the top of the ladder. He scans the dark water below – and then with sudden urgency he swings himself onto the rungs and slides from sight.

  ‘Guv! What are you doing?’

  But as DS Leyton lumbers across he meets Skelgill coming back up – with a bedraggled dog tucked rather ignominiously under one arm, its leash trailing. Now it is DS Leyton’s turn to dispense a couple of colourful colloquialisms. Skelgill shrugs, as if it is an everyday event.

  ‘They always get themselves out, Leyton – animal survival instinct.’

  He carries the poor creature over to his master. It is uncertain whether Albert Bass is yet in any state properly to register what is going on – but he produces a groan of apparent acknowledgment when Skelgill informs him that his pet has endured its ordeal and is in capable hands. Indeed, Skelgill places the spaniel on the ground, and it gives a vigorous shake as they watch Albert Bass loaded for despatch to the A&E department down the coast, at Whitehaven. When the ambulance pulls away Skelgill realises that some thirty yards behind it a camera crew is filming – evidently they have been restrained from encroaching further by one of the constables from the patrol car. The figures are familiar – and now a slight feminine form that can only be Lucy Dubois breaks away and motions to him with a raised hand. Skelgill transfers custody of the dog to DS Leyton and intercepts the reporter halfway. Her expression becomes alarmed as she registers his condition – his wet hair plastered over his forehead; and that beneath the survival cape he is obviously soaked to the skin. The gusting wind whips her own hair about her face – it suddenly pushes her so that she has to brace with a hand against his shoulder – and in the semi-darkness they stand like estranged lovers unexpectedly reunited upon the listing deck of some great stricken ship.

  ‘Wow – what happened?’ She sounds most concerned.

  Skelgill makes a face that seeks to play down any heroics.

  ‘I’ll fill you in in due course. What about you lot?’

  Lucy Dubois nods eagerly.

  ‘We were waiting beside the houses – at the far side of the first dock – so that we could see the whole area. When we realised something was happening over here we jumped into the van and drove across. A car came screaming towards us from the marina – with no lights on – it almost hit us.’

  Despite his depleted condition, Skelgill feels his pulse respond to a small shot of adrenaline.

  ‘Did you get the plate number?’

  Her eyes glisten animatedly; they reflect the striated light from the emergency vehicle headlamps at Skelgill’s back.

  ‘Did we get the number? We were filming! I even got it on my tablet.’

  He realises she has the device in her hand – for now she raises it and taps the screen.

  ‘I was just reviewing it – look.’

  Skelgill has to huddle beside her – she obliges this, for she holds the tablet close – beneath his cape he slips an arm about her slender waist. But his main preoccupation is with the short film – shadowy and jumpy – but clear enough to read the registration of the car that forced their van to take evasive action – perhaps even, with skilled retouching, to identify the face of the driver. Indeed – Lucy Dubois seems to appreciate this latter point.

  ‘The definition from the main camera will be ten times better.’

  Skelgill nods. He lets his arm drop, and he steps around to face her – it is a self-conscious act, as if he senses the disapproval of onlookers.

  ‘What gave you the idea to come here tonight?’

  Now she plies him with a guileless look.

  ‘Oh – I really can’t think. An educated guess? Female intuition?’

  Skelgill growls in his throat.

  ‘I’ll buy it – others may not.’

  Her countenance brightens.

  ‘Do you know who it is?’

  Contrariwise, Skelgill becomes more reticent.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Does it explain – Roger Alcock’s fate?’

  Skelgill delays his response.

  ‘Happen it will do.’

  She looks a little puzzled.

  ‘We can supply all the footage – right now if it helps.’

  Skelgill seems hesitant. With an indistinct gesture he seems to make reference to his physical condition.

  ‘It’ll keep until the morning.’

  Lucy Dubois nods obediently. She slips the tablet into her overcoat. She draws the collar around her neck, and brushes rather absently at her hair, which is being blown into the corners of her mouth. She regards him with a look of concern. It is plain that he is fighting continual bouts of the shivers.

  ‘Hadn’t you better get into a hot bath?’

  ‘Aye.’ There is little more that he can say to this statement of the obvious.

  ‘Why don’t we give you a lift back to our hotel? We have the car here as well as the van. I could drive you. Just the two of us.’

  Skelgill meets her gaze.

  ‘You’ve already managed to get me to break all my normal rules about dealing with journalists.’

  Now she affects an expression of contrition.

  ‘All of them?’

  Skelgill stares hard at her. Then he glances over his shoulder at the cluster of activity – DS Leyton with the two constables, the remaining ambulance and the squad car, Rhiannon Rees and Levi Armstrong. He notices that Rhiannon Rees is watching them. He takes a half step away from Lucy Dubois. He inhales between gritted teeth, rather in the manner of a reformed smoker who has not lost the habit.

  ‘There’s something I have to do.’

  She does not challenge him. Instead she smiles good-naturedly.

&nb
sp; ‘If you change your mind – you have my number. It’s only twenty-two minutes from here, remember.’

  Skelgill grins sheepishly. He nods and turns to his duties. Lucy Dubois observes him for a moment and then she too returns to the outside broadcast unit.

  Skelgill accosts a constable and asks to borrow a mobile phone. He taps in a number – one of few that he knows by heart – he listens – but evidently it rings out and transfers to voicemail – he takes a short breath as though he is about to leave a message – but then he has second thoughts and terminates the call. He restores the handset to its owner, and moves across to DS Leyton, who is drinking from a steaming cup – the lid of thermos flask – and who still has the dog on the leash beside him. Skelgill holds out a hand – DS Leyton offers his cup – but Skelgill declines it with a flat palm.

  ‘I’ll take the dog – you get a lift back with one of this crowd, eh?’

  DS Leyton looks anxiously at his boss.

  ‘What about recovery, Guv? The paramedics want to take us in for observation – they’re saying we’ve got stage one hypothermia.’

  Skelgill makes a dismissive scoffing sound in the back of his throat.

  ‘Leyton – I grew up with stage one hypothermia. Besides – I’ll get warm enough in my motor.’

  Rather reluctantly his sergeant consents and hands over the lead. The dog seems to sense some affinity and waddles to heel beside Skelgill, who stoops down to give him a pat.

  ‘Come on, Your Majesty – let’s find your friend, the Queen of Egypt.’

  21. FAST FORWARD – Wednesday morning

  Rather in the way of ‘catch-up TV’, Skelgill watches DS Leyton conduct an interview with Rhiannon Rees. The meeting is still in progress – just along the corridor – but such is modern technology that Skelgill may acquaint himself with earlier proceedings before advancing to real time. He will not, however, be gate-crashing his colleague’s party once he is up to speed.

  Indeed, that Skelgill earlier made himself scarce might be attributed to a potential ‘conflict of interest’ – though he would take severe umbrage at the suggestion; he also has a plausible alibi: Charles III. Albert Bass restored to health and home (being a deceptively robust old sea dog), Skelgill returned at first light with his exiled companion. There was more to his visit, however, than canine conversation (Skelgill learning that a bitch in the lineage was the explanation for Charles III and not IV), and casual admiration of the recently installed television and satellite arrangement. Indeed, Skelgill has in his jacket pocket a signed witness statement that documents Albert Bass’s recall of events of Tuesday night, just over a week ago. Additionally, Skelgill employed his time in Maryport to brief a team of police divers apropos an underwater operation centred upon the marina, and – if necessary – the channel flowing into the outer harbour. Finally, he had considered it appropriate to check that standards were being upheld in the harbour café, now catering for an influx of media types and rubberneckers. All being satisfactory, he has returned to his present circumstances – and now he drags the on-screen slider to a point that he estimates will skip the preliminaries; his aim is true.

  ‘Madam – before I ask you about events going back over the past couple of weeks and beyond – I’d like to know why you were at Maryport last night and what you were doing there.’

  Rhiannon Rees nods. To Skelgill’s eye she seems eager – indeed her body language is wholly positive – and for a moment he wonders if she wields her feminine charms to win some favour. But her response is stunningly candid.

  ‘We didn’t realise the police would be there – I think we had the same idea – that there might be a witness – someone who could corroborate our story. It didn’t occur to us for a minute that Roger’s attacker would try to silence him!’

  DS Leyton folds his arms – his back is to the camera, but Skelgill can imagine that his thick brows are knitted. Knowing his sergeant as he does, a small smile creases Skelgill’s lips. Of course – he is obliged to play the sceptic at this early juncture. However, while DS Leyton is in character in this regard, he cannot resist the temptation immediately to be drawn off-script – for it is simply human nature to ask the obvious question.

  ‘And what exactly is your story, madam?’

  Rhiannon Rees leans further forward.

  ‘I knew Roger would be at the boat on that Tuesday night – or at least I assumed he would still be there.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘He came to my cottage – on the Sunday evening of the flood – in his kayak. He told me he was going to hole up at Nick’s yacht at Maryport.’

  Skelgill can see the tension in his sergeant’s shoulders.

  ‘And when did he leave your property?’

  ‘He arrived at around 6pm. He stayed twenty minutes – half an hour, at most.’

  ‘And what did he say to you – about what he was intending to do?’

  She clasps her hands together on the desk – as though she wants to emphasise that she understands her answer might sound implausible.

  ‘That he was going to fake his death – and disappear – that he would make a whole pile of money out of it – and escape to Australia.’

  ‘Australia?’

  DS Leyton’s response is unimaginative; but it has the desired effect.

  ‘He wanted me to go with him – well – to rendezvous with him there.’

  DS Leyton cocks his head on one side.

  ‘Why, madam?’

  Now Rhiannon Rees fights back an ironic smile – she bows her head coyly to avoid causing offence.

  ‘He wanted to marry me.’

  ‘But he was already married – to your sister.’

  Now she meets DS Leyton’s gaze with her clear blue eyes.

  ‘Sergeant – this is Roger we’re talking about. If he could say something – he believed he could do it.’

  DS Leyton’s shoulders become a little more hunched.

  ‘But he must have had reason to think you might consider the proposal?’

  Rhiannon Rees slides back and sits more upright. She acknowledges the perspicacity of the question with a look of self-reproach.

  ‘I mentioned to Danny – er, sorry – to Inspector Skelgill –’ (she glances up at the camera – obviously aware of its presence and comprehending that Skelgill will at some point be watching) ‘I lodged with Maeve and Roger for about ten weeks when I came back from Freemantle.’ She gazes appealingly at DS Leyton – as though she hopes he will join up the dots. DS Leyton is nodding.

  ‘You had a relationship with Mr Alcock?’

  She nods.

  ‘I can make my excuses about how it happened – but I have to take some responsibility.’

  ‘How long did it go on for?’

  She looks suddenly shocked.

  ‘Oh – it was just one night. And two bottles of bourbon.’

  ‘But Mr Alcock considered it more significant than that?’

  ‘Evidently he did. But I avoided any further advances.’ She turns up her palms appealingly. ‘My sister – you understand?’

  DS Leyton nods slowly. He glances up and down his notes – but he can’t seem to find an apposite point at which to resume. He ruffles his mop of dark hair, as though he seeks to dislodge some inspiration from beneath.

  ‘So how did all this lead to you going to the boat?’

  ‘Levi noticed the bruises on my wrists.’

  Again the reply is forthright – and somewhat out of left field – and DS Leyton visibly starts. Rhiannon Rees presents her wrists, as though she submits to being handcuffed. DS Leyton leans forward to inspect them – but there can only be faint marks, for he shrugs as if in disappointment. Skelgill, watching avidly, can testify to their existence. He is intrigued that their provenance was not what he had assumed.

  ‘When Roger came to my cottage – I told him he was being ridiculous – I refused to get involved, obviously. But he wouldn’t take no for an answer. And he was behaving as though we were lover
s – I thought he was going to force himself on me.’ Her features become suddenly anxious – as though the experience was indeed traumatic, and now the memory catches her unawares. ‘Let’s say I managed to convince him it would be a bad idea. But it meant he left before I could talk him out of his crazy plan.’

  DS Leyton inhales and exhales slowly. There is a lot coming downstream.

  ‘And you say Mr Armstrong noticed the bruises?’

  ‘I hadn’t known what to do. Because of my sister – you see? I knew that if I spoke about Roger calling round – then the whole thing between us would come out – and it really was nothing – just one night that I can’t even remember – not even a night – a few minutes on the settee...’ She trails off – but then picks up her thread before DS Leyton can interject. ‘But Levi noticed the marks – and I told him what had happened – and to be honest, it was a relief.’

  ‘So – what then?’

  ‘Levi went mad – he wanted to kill Roger –’ Abruptly she raises her hands, a placating gesture. ‘I don’t mean literally – you know? Although I think if he’d have come in and found Roger trying to have his way with me he would have given him a hiding – but what I mean is, on the Tuesday when he saw the bruises, and I told him – he wanted to go to the boat and have it out with Roger – there was a further complication, you see?’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I’d made a loan to Roger – from the café deposit account. And of course Levi is a shareholder – he took it personally – Roger owed him, too, as far as he was concerned. So he wasn’t well disposed towards Roger – never mind any other opinion he’d formed about him in the first place. But the fact that I’d lent Roger money to help him out with a commercial debt – as far as I was concerned it was solely for Maeve’s sake.’

  ‘So what did you decide?’

  ‘That Levi would drive me to the boat late that night – we’d approach as surreptitiously as we could – so as not to give away Roger before I could reason with him – because by then there was a hue and cry going on in the media.’