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

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘Given that Nick Bridgwater is refusing to cooperate, we have at the moment only Maeve Alcock’s statement in this regard. She claims that Nick Bridgwater said nothing to her about having any contact with her husband, other than his original text sent from Spain – and Roger Alcock’s coded reply. There’s no evidence to suggest she colluded with Nick Bridgwater. As regards the relationships, Maeve Alcock has stated that she felt chronically unappreciated by her husband, and that she was no longer in love with him. She admits that her apparent concern over his disappearance was exaggerated, but insists that she was genuinely upset and remorseful following his death. She is plainly now distancing herself from Nick Bridgwater, whom she has described as scheming and manipulative; yet it would appear that she found a certain comfort in his controlling nature – perhaps in contrast to the self-absorbed attitude of Roger Alcock; he was more like a wayward child than the dominant husband she probably needed. The idea of this submissive trait is also reflected in her relationship with her boss, Headley Holmes. However, there is no evidence of an extra-marital relationship between them; quite the contrary – it appears that Headley Holmes is involved in a liaison with his office junior – and has been cavorting with her during working hours – at various properties that he owns, when they have been vacant either between lets, or simply when temporarily unoccupied – this would include the flat above River Nation at times when the shop was closed.’

  She pauses again and takes a breath – she simulates a gesture of flicking perspiration from her brow, and grins at her colleagues. Skelgill responds with the hint of a smile, and nods for her to continue. However, DS Leyton has a tongue-in-cheek observation.

  ‘You’re quite the psychologist, girl – I can see there’s no pulling the wool over your eyes!’

  DS Jones flashes him a knowing look.

  ‘There’s nothing like a few days working with DI Smart to sharpen the senses.’

  There is a certain cryptic irony in her tone – and it leaves Skelgill in particular regarding her quizzically. However, she resumes the narrative without further digression.

  ‘Returning to events surrounding the death of Roger Alcock – we have congruent witness statements from Rhiannon Rees, Levi Armstrong and Albert Bass – to the effect that Roger Alcock was alive on the night in question. The forensic evidence points to a blow being administered that rendered him unconscious; he subsequently drowned – his lifejacket having apparently been deflated and re-packed, something he is unlikely to have done himself – surely he would simply have discarded it, once it had fired and was no longer viable? The autopsy results correspond to a time of death that we now believe occurred at a quarter past midnight – factors that include the degree of skin maceration, the histology tests showing chemical decomposition, and the progression of digestion of his stomach contents. On the latter point there is the evidence that he ate beans on toast shortly before his murder – providing further confirmation that he had recently been on the boat.’

  She glances up at Skelgill – he is expressionless, but DS Leyton has something to say on this point.

  ‘Yeah, Guv – how did you get onto that?’

  Skelgill shrugs.

  ‘When I first went aboard Serena – when you drove Nick Bridgwater up on the Sunday. There was something odd – I didn’t think a lot about it – except it niggled in the back of my mind – it didn’t tally with what Nick Bridgwater said about the boat being mothballed since September.’

  ‘What was it, Guv?’

  ‘The smell of burnt toast, Leyton.’

  ‘Crumbs, Guv – how did you notice that?’

  Skelgill raises suspicious eyebrow – but his sergeant is watching in earnest for his reply.

  ‘I smell it most days at home, Leyton.’ (Now his subordinates chuckle obligingly) ‘It lingers – but not for four months. Then later you mentioned the autopsy – his last meal being beans on toast – you even said he’d burnt the toast. So I went back to the boat. Of course – it was as clean as a whistle – Nick Bridgwater had made sure of that after he’d disposed of Roger Alcock – removed every trace that he’d been staying there – during the hour he told us he was having a catnap. But he forgot to check the grill pan – everyone forgets the grill pan.’ (This suggestion of domestic competence causes a small ripple of suppressed amusement, the absurdity of which even Skelgill is forced to acknowledge.) ‘Roger Alcock couldn’t use the toaster because there was no electricity supply to the yacht – only gas from the cylinder. So he made toast under the grill. And – yes, Leyton – crumbs. Recent crumbs.’

  DS Leyton shakes his head in wonderment.

  ‘Cor blimey – would you credit it, Guv.’

  Skelgill grimaces.

  ‘The pieces started to fall into place. When the janitor at the marina let it slip that a ‘detective’ had been inquiring about witnesses – I knew then that mischief was afoot – and that we needed to get one step ahead. The Scotsman made a comment – he said no one would come out to the marina late at night, unless they had to. Think about it – what kind of person has to go out – without fail – whatever the weather?’

  For a moment DS Leyton assumes Skelgill’s question is rhetorical, and he continues to gaze in anticipation at his superior. But as a silence extends he realises he should make a suggestion – he looks slightly panicky and runs the fingers of one hand through his hair.

  ‘Phew – I dunno, Guv – Count Dracula?’

  Skelgill makes a scoffing noise.

  ‘A dog owner, you donnat – Albert Bass in this instance.’

  DS Leyton begins huffing and puffing – he grins sheepishly at DS Jones; Skelgill however is unconcerned.

  ‘And on Albert Bass’s tail was Nick Bridgwater. Until we stole a march on him.’

  DS Leyton is undaunted by the rebuff, and is quick to recover his wits.

  ‘In the nick of time, you might say, Guv.’

  Again Skelgill growls disparagingly – but his manner is amenable. He looks across at DS Jones.

  ‘I don’t think we’ll be putting that in the report, Leyton – the Chief’s not known for her sense of humour. She’s got a bee in her bonnet about a mole that’s tipping off the TV crew – and she’s not exactly turning cartwheels over our Maryport operation.’

  Now DS Leyton looks like he is ready to protest on his superior’s behalf. He forms a fist and thumps the air to emphasise his point.

  ‘But, Guv – it was a right old do, fair enough – but how were we supposed to know Nick Bridgwater would try a stunt like that? Besides – with him caught red-handed trying to bump off Albert Bass – we’ve got him well and truly bang to rights. Belt an’ braces, Guv.’

  Skelgill nods – though he is secretly counting his blessings – for he knows his superior will have seen through his protestations of happenstance – and regarding Albert Bass, after all, he had watched the man and his dog the night before, as they trod their regular route to the corner of the quay beyond the marina. Now DS Jones – who has been sidelined for the last few minutes – is holding up her pen to indicate she wishes to speak.

  ‘Some more news in this morning – about Nick Bridgwater. I ordered a check to be run at the service stations along the M6 – during the time when he claims he returned to Manchester because he’d left his wallet. There’s a crystal clear CCTV sequence of him paying for petrol at Tebay southbound with a credit card, taken out of a wallet – the time was just after 2.15am on the Wednesday morning.’

  DS Leyton interjects.

  ‘Nice one, Emma.’

  Skelgill regards her thoughtfully – though she has not been much on the ground in this investigation, her thinking ‘out of the box’ has provided some vital leads – to complement his ‘lucky legwork’, as he might put it (with affected modesty), as he follows his nose, at times seemingly without purpose. It was a combination that opened up the whole scenario surrounding the boat Serena – an aspect that may so easily have remained undiscovered. Indeed there have been numerous
instances when they have been hampered by their inability to penetrate (or even recognise) the game of cat and mouse being played out between the participants in the case. Along such lines DS Jones is eager to complete the task in hand. She lowers her notes and glances from one to the other of her colleagues.

  ‘Now that we better understand the sequence of events – it strikes me that Rhiannon Rees and Levi Armstrong were potentially at risk from Nick Bridgwater.’ (Skelgill is nodding grimly.) ‘For the reasons we know, they were unlikely to admit that they’d visited the boat – and that they knew Roger had holed up there – but it would have been inconvenient for Nick Bridgwater had they done so. It wouldn’t have tallied with his story at all. And he couldn’t be 100% sure that they were unaware of his presence – say they’d noticed his car, for instance. I wonder if he thought Levi Armstrong was intent upon blackmailing him – when you interrupted them at the flat, Guv?’

  Skelgill makes a face of agreement.

  ‘Aye – when all Levi Armstrong wanted was the money that Rhiannon Rees had loaned to Roger Alcock.’

  DS Jones persists with her point.

  ‘But you see what I mean, Guv? Imagine if he’d succeeded in killing Albert Bass – why would Nick Bridgwater stop at two murders? By then he would have got what he wanted. Roger Alcock’s business – Roger Alcock’s insurance payouts – Roger Alcock’s wife. That’s quite a lot to lose.’

  Put this way, DS Jones’s hypothesis is persuasive; for a moment it gives them all pause for thought. Skelgill is the first to respond.

  ‘Aye – I think we can safely say the flood didn’t just give Roger Alcock the excuse to act on impulse. And happen it weren’t for the first time.’

  What Skelgill refers to is another report that has reached them this very day: details of Nick Bridgwater’s naval career. Despite promising beginnings and several minor promotions and commendations, it had ended inauspiciously – with a dishonourable discharge. An incident of a man overboard – lost at sea, presumed drowned – when Nick Bridgwater was the only other officer on watch – and no witnesses. His account of events was deemed unsatisfactory – in particular his denial of there having been some sort of simmering feud between the two men concerned – however there was little factual basis for successfully bringing more serious charges than those of negligence that led to his dismissal. Certainly his former employer might now have cause to raise a glass to the police.

  Another silence pervades. It is DS Leyton that finally chimes in.

  ‘What about Maeve Alcock, Guv? She’s found out that her lover’s a killer – and her sister’s had a fling with her husband. Where does that leave her?’

  Skelgill turns his head pointedly to DS Jones.

  ‘Let’s ask our resident psychologist.’

  DS Jones contrives a reproachful frown, aimed at Skelgill.

  ‘I guess it’s all had to come out in the wash – as I said – it’s clear Maeve Alcock wants no more to do with Nick Bridgwater – and when she learns the lengths Rhiannon Rees went to in order to preserve her feelings – and to reform Roger Alcock – I think she’ll forgive and forget. And after all – she was no angel herself – and I suppose her sister will be relieved to hear that.’

  Skelgill leads a round of sagacious nods.

  *

  ‘And... action!’

  ‘Behind me you can see being led away the man named as Nicholas Bridgwater, 30 – whom Cumbria CID have charged this morning with the murder of missing canoeist Roger Alcock, 32, and the attempted murder of Albert Bass, 74 – both alleged incidents having taken place at Maryport marina, from where we brought you exclusive live coverage earlier in the week. We understand that Mr Bridgwater is now being transported from police cells here in Penrith, to appear before magistrates, where an application will be heard for him to be remanded in custody. Supervising the departure of Mr Bridgwater you can see the chief investigating officer on this case, Detective Inspector Daniel Skelgill, and members of his team.’

  ‘Cut.’ The producer wheels away and calls over his shoulder. ‘Skates on, Luce – let’s get along there before the other channels move in.’

  Lucy Dubois, however, lingers beneath her umbrella. Another small scoop achieved – including a close-up of the bitterly contorted face of the accused man – she has reason to be satisfied. There is, however, a wistful expression upon her own countenance, as she observes the darkened police van pull away from the off-limits despatch area which she and her crew have managed to infiltrate. There remains a small coterie of detectives, some thirty yards off – they seem to be discussing among themselves – about who should attend court, perhaps? They cluster in the shelter of a flat porch roof that projects above the security door from which the farewell party emerged. After a few moments, the stocky male Detective Sergeant pulls keys from his pocket, and steps away – raising a hand in acknowledgement – then he lumbers across the parking lot, pulling up his collar against the driving rain – and climbs into his car, and departs. It seems he has drawn the short straw. Almost simultaneously a new car arrives, at speed. It slews into the space vacated by the just-departed detective. It is a flashy convertible roadster, looking somewhat out of place. A door is flung open and a skinny man wearing an expensive designer suit climbs out, his weaselly features screwed up in disapproval, that he must run the gauntlet of the rain to cross the car park. In anger he throws down a half-smoked cigarette. But he hesitates when he sees Skelgill standing with his female assistant. Curiously now, she breaks away to intercept the newcomer; Skelgill is watching, his expression disapproving. They exchange a few curt words – before the male hurries on – as he approaches DI Skelgill he shies away – and it appears that he tries to conceal a yellowing black eye. Skelgill merely stares coldly – but once the man has passed inside the building he flashes a rare broad smile at his female colleague, and saunters towards her. She falls in beside him as they walk to his car – the long brown shooting brake. It seems that for a brief moment she links arms, and he does not object, before they divide to enter either side. The young Detective Sergeant slides easily into the car and closes the door; Skelgill, hesitates for a second – and now for the first time he reveals that he is aware of the presence of the TV news crew – for he looks directly into the eyes of Lucy Dubois. His gaze is penetrating – and it brings from her a small involuntary raising of one hand – almost a gesture of adieu. She wonders if the crew have filmed this sequence – and turns to see – but they are loading the gear into the back of their van. When she turns again, the shooting brake has gone. With a certain poetic symmetry – today being Friday – the rain falls softly upon Cumbria.

  ***

  Next in the series

  ‘Murder at Dead Crags’ is scheduled for publication in January 2018. In the meantime, books 1-8 in the Inspector Skelgill series can be found in the Kindle Store. Each comprises a stand-alone mystery, and may be read out of sequence.