Murder at the Flood

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘Flippin’ shame about his phone being dead from Sunday onwards.’

  DS Jones regards her colleague encouragingly.

  ‘He could have had another mobile. They could have used public call boxes. Or they could have met up. No one was looking for Roger Alcock until Tuesday.’

  Skelgill remains stony faced. To his mind, they are sliding back into the trap that he warned of earlier. Take a bait dangled on a submerged hook and try to deduce something about the angler connected to the other end! Pah! He makes a strangled groan, a pressure valve that releases some of his frustration.

  ‘Are we investigating a fraud – that’s not even been committed – or are we investigating a suspicious death?’

  He shakes his head and pushes back his chair. Then he rises unsteadily – he actually looks like he is finding the atmosphere of the coffee shop suffocating. ‘Back in a minute.’ He heads towards the door to the car park. As he disappears his subordinates see him pull out his mobile phone.

  When Skelgill returns, any conclusion they have reached in his absence is superseded by the orders he now issues; and he seems to have cleared his head. But his first pronouncement comes as a surprise, to DS Jones in particular.

  ‘The Chief’s giving me grief about Smart’s case. There’s a briefing at four o’clock – I said you’d attend – just to keep the peace.’

  DS Jones cannot hide her alarm, a look that borders upon betrayal.

  ‘But, Guv –’

  Skelgill interjects.

  ‘It doesn’t mean you’re doing it – just play along – I’ll make sure something essential crops up on Monday morning.’

  But his manner is glib and unconvincing. He turns peremptorily to DS Leyton.

  ‘Leyton – you give Jones a lift back.’ He consults his wristwatch. ‘You’ve got an hour – you may as well get a shift on.’

  DS Leyton has sensed his colleague’s dismay – but he can do little to help.

  ‘What about you, Guv?’

  ‘While it’s still light I’ll take a wander back into town – beside the Cocker.’ He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. ‘There’s an access point to the riverside path just over the road. It passes Walkmill, as it happens.’

  Skelgill does not address by what means he shall return later to headquarters, or home – or at all.

  12. EXCHANGE – Friday late afternoon

  Skelgill strikes a somewhat forlorn figure as he tarries in Cockermouth town centre; but his regular gait would see him arrive early for his rendezvous. It is almost dark and his collar is raised against rain that seems to coalesce beneath the streetlights. At the end of Rubbybanks Road to extend his route he has crossed the footbridge over the Cocker; testament to the flood its railings are thick with debris, interwoven like untidy raffia. Now in Market Place he lingers before the old hardware store – “Established 1836” – how many inundations has it withstood? There is a smell of kerosene in the damp air; hurricane lamps glow inside. A card in the window displays a hand-drawn British Bulldog with a speech bubble, “Business as Usual”. Re-crossing the river at the slick whaleback of Cocker Bridge he finds himself pausing outside the abandoned police station, its rusting Victorian wrought iron gates chained, its blue light extinguished, its ghosts uncertain of their future. What did his predecessors do, back in the day, when the rivers were rising and the cells were full of writhing miscreants? Toss them a bailer?

  He checks his watch – two minutes – and moves on, quickening past shops and pubs and takeaway restaurants, defiant wall-mounted flood-markers now obsolete (another nice little job for someone of enterprise); half of them in darkness, others with portable arc lights that enable workmen to continue hacking at sodden masonry. His tread falters at River Nation, but he presses on; a little further, softly lamplit, is the splendid orange edifice of Wordsworth House, its Georgian lines rising majestically from devastated surroundings. Just beyond is his destination, the Derwent View Hotel, where he is fast becoming a regular, given the unsuitability for various reasons of The Lonely Cloud Café or The Black Swan Inn.

  *

  ‘Steady on, lass.’

  Lucy Dubois chuckles – she ambushes Skelgill with another ‘London thing’ – a kiss on each cheek as he rises to acknowledge her arrival. Evidently she now considers them sufficiently well acquainted to dispense with handshakes. She raises an admonishing finger.

  ‘You sound like one of the natives.’

  Skelgill rather clumsily sinks back into his seat.

  ‘I am one of the natives.’

  She remains standing, and theatrically taps the side of her nose.

  ‘Happen I’ve had a reet good deekabout, marra.’

  Now it is Skelgill’s turn to be amused – for she makes a decent fist of a Cumbrian accent. He continues in the vernacular.

  ‘So what’s the crack?’

  ‘First things first.’

  She tugs away a beret and shakes out her hair – looking, to Skelgill’s eye, no less French for the lack of the hat – and then strips off a fashionable black trench coat to reveal skinny vinyl-effect leggings that seem to merge into high-heeled leather boots; her top is also black, long-sleeved in a fine lace. For a moment Skelgill is a little overwhelmed by the metropolitan style – if not her lithe form – and feels he ought to show some appreciation.

  ‘It’s quite a wardrobe you’ve brought with you.’

  She smiles, forgiving of his unpolished northern manner.

  ‘If they tell us a week I always pack for two.’

  Skelgill gives an upward tilt of his head and watches as she slides into the seat opposite.

  ‘What about the rest of your crew?’

  ‘Oh – they have already left for Manchester – it being POETS day.’

  Skelgill is wrong-footed. That he has just passed the legendary Lakeland laureate’s birthplace prompts the obvious connection – maybe there’s a poetry festival – this TV lot are probably arty types – at least, the producer – what’s his name? – Rupert. But he sees the smile teasing the corners of Lucy Dubois’ sparkling lips and suddenly he comprehends.

  ‘Tomorrow’s Saturday.’

  At this she homes in on the drink he has procured for her. That he keeps her company with a pint of ale meets her approval.

  ‘Of course – we’re scheduled to be filming in the morning – but it’s no excuse not to celebrate Friday. They’ll be getting hammered in some club.’ She raises her glass. ‘So why shouldn’t I?’

  Skelgill grins, a little apprehensively.

  ‘You might struggle with the club.’

  She observes him conspiratorially over the rim of the glass. However, after a careful if thirsty sip she puts it down and her demeanour becomes more solemn.

  ‘I ought to tell you what I have gleaned.’

  ‘While you can remember.’

  She smiles – and, as if he has issued a challenge, picks up her glass again and drinks, less decorously. Skelgill follows suit.

  ‘There is quite a lot to remember.’

  Skelgill wipes a sliver of foam from his upper lip. His hand dwells; he is reminded of a day or two’s unchecked growth.

  ‘I thought folk would be tight lipped – you being an offcomer.’

  ‘Oh – you’d be surprised how tongues loosen at the prospect of a walk-on part on the telly.’

  ‘Is that what you’ve been telling them?’

  ‘It could be true – our editors have agreed we can stay another week – to see if there’s a special report in the making.’

  ‘And is there?’

  ‘I had to hint that there’s a bigger story bubbling beneath the surface.’ Now her smile is coy. ‘That I have an inside track. Your little tip-off about the body was a great help in that regard.’

  Skelgill makes a face of resignation.

  ‘You scratch my back...’

  He leaves the aphorism unfinished. Catlike, Lucy Dubois claws slowly at the table on either side of her glass. Her fingers are slender, the
smooth nails varnished in a subtle metallic cerise that complements her lipstick.

  ‘It doesn’t often come to that.’

  Skelgill is staring at her hands. The engagement ring is missing. He takes a measured gulp of his pint.

  ‘Happen I don’t normally have anything to do with journalists.’

  ‘I think you’d find my colleagues would say I’m not a normal journalist.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

  Lucy Dubois raises her glass to him.

  ‘Where shall I begin?’

  ‘How about Roger Alcock?’

  Her dark eyes reflect Skelgill’s inquisitive gaze.

  ‘In a nutshell, sex and debts.’

  ‘You don’t pull your punches.’

  ‘Oh – and fantasy.’

  Skelgill narrows his eyes.

  ‘Shall we start with that?’

  She punctuates the exchange with another sip of her drink.

  ‘He was never in the Commonwealth Games.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He was aged 32, right?’ (Skelgill nods in confirmation.) ‘I asked our Sports Desk to interrogate the records – they looked back at the last four Games – he would have been 13 at the one before that. There is no Roger Alcock listed among the competitors, for the Home Nations or otherwise.’

  Skelgill’s countenance becomes stoical.

  ‘Happen it was a good angle – for marketing his corporate jaunts – and not like he were claiming to have been in the Olympics – folk would be more likely to see through that.’

  ‘I rather think the locals suspected, anyway. In fact I get the distinct impression that the person who most believed he was an international athlete was Roger Alcock himself!’

  ‘At their house – he had a sort of games room – there’s sporting posters on the wall – shelves of trophies. His wife seemed pretty convinced.’

  ‘Isn’t the wife often the last to know?’

  Skelgill shrugs.

  ‘You might be right.’

  ‘Which brings me on to my next point.’

  ‘Debts?’

  She hesitates.

  ‘Well – yes – although I was going to say sex.’

  ‘As you like it.’

  ‘It seems no female within a ten-mile radius was immune from his attentions.’

  She certainly has Skelgill’s attention.

  ‘Any names?’

  ‘Agata.’

  ‘Come again?’

  She smiles and takes a drink.

  ‘It’s Polish – she’s the latest barmaid in The Black Swan. Artur – our sound guy – he’s from Gdansk – I got him to chat to her.’

  ‘What did she tell him?’

  ‘That Roger was kobieciarz – a ladies’ man.’

  Her competence with the foreign pronunciation has Skelgill squinting suspiciously. However, his response is pragmatic.

  ‘Did she – succumb?’

  Lucy Dubois shakes her head – now he notices how her pendant earrings sparkle beneath her glossy bob.

  ‘I think she came pretty close – until she caught him brazenly conferring with another woman in the pub – the one who runs the café in Station Street – she’s called Rhiannon Rees.’

  If she is being disingenuous there is no trace of it in her tone; but still Skelgill eases back and folds his arms.

  ‘Aye – she’s his sister-in-law. She’s knocking about with a nasty piece of work called Levi Armstrong.’

  Lucy Dubois is unperturbed by Skelgill’s implied disaffirmation.

  ‘Well – little Agata must have been misguided on that particular front. However, she told Artur she’d compared notes with several of her compatriots in town – and it seems Roger’s reputation went before him. There’s talk that he had a secret love nest.’

  Skelgill now reaches for his pint and takes a thoughtful pull.

  ‘Any suggestion of a current girlfriend?’

  ‘Not other than what I said about the café owner.’

  Skelgill drums the fingers of his left hand against the side of his glass.

  ‘What about enemies?’

  ‘You mean women scorned?’ Lucy Dubois produces a Machiavellian grin, as though she is enjoying the idea.

  ‘Aye – that kind of thing.’

  ‘I get the impression he somehow just managed to stay on the right side of probity – a loveable rogue, rather than a scheming manipulator.’

  ‘And does that count for his debts, too?’

  A small crease appears between her neatly pencilled brows.

  ‘I think that depends upon the patience of the individual creditor – they appear to be many and varied.’

  Skelgill begins to nod; he leans forward with an elbow upon the table.

  ‘Believe it or not, this is one thing the daft country coppers have managed to find out for themselves.’

  She grins encouragingly.

  ‘You mentioned Levi Armstrong – the Post Office twins, Hilda and Betty Counter, witnessed something of an altercation when he and Roger crossed swords in their premises last week.’

  Skelgill’s antennae twitch once more.

  ‘From what I gathered they were no fans of Roger Alcock.’

  ‘Neither is your Levi any great favourite – and apparently he lacks Roger’s charm.’ (Skelgill supplies a corroboratory nod.) ‘But as a local he commands some lukewarm loyalty.’

  ‘What was the bust up about?’

  ‘There was considerable debate – they are both rather hard of hearing – and of course they bob about behind that thick glass screen. The settled consensus was along the lines of Levi telling Roger he was “finished” – and something about “property” – but I shouldn’t take it too literally. I suppose the main point is that there was bad blood between them.’

  Skelgill is reminded of DS Jones’s report: that Levi Armstrong had gone out of his way to deny any involvement with Roger Alcock. Regardless, it is not difficult to imagine Roger Alcock rubbing Levi Armstrong up the wrong way; they would be like chalk and cheese. Indeed, Lucy Dubois now makes this very point.

  ‘The vox pop has it that Roger was considered something of a Flash Harry.’ She seems to sigh as if in sympathy. ‘He had run up lines of credit with various pubs and restaurants and local suppliers – and it must rather irk when someone who owes you money is cruising about in an expensive car and splashing the cash.’

  Now Skelgill recalls his eavesdropping in Main Street, “Him and his Fancy Ways”. He nods in agreement.

  ‘The Counters had their knives out for him, right enough.’

  ‘The Post Office is a seething maelstrom of gossip – the challenge is to pick the jetsam from the flotsam.’

  Skelgill suddenly realises that Lucy Dubois is grinning at him – she sees he is perplexed. Her maritime metaphor may be apposite, but he wrestles with its validity: the suggestion that jetsam being of value, flotsam not. Certainly jetsam has some forceful intent behind it. He decides against contesting the notion.

  ‘Seems like you have done – picked it out.’

  ‘Oh – I’ve saved the best bit until last.’

  Skelgill senses she is happy to tease him – but he plays along.

  ‘Go on.’

  She casts an eye upon their respective glasses – they each have about a third left.

  ‘Do you think I could have another G&T?’

  Skelgill looks a little surprised. Then he rises, leaving his unfinished drink on the table.

  ‘Aye – why not? Like you say, it’s Friday.’

  Lucy Dubois smiles sweetly. She watches him walk to the bar, her head cocked on one side. Seeing that he is chatting to the barman, she pulls the purse draped on the back of her chair onto her knee. She delves inside and then pops something into her mouth, as one would a breath-freshening mint. She glances again at Skelgill and then with an efficient movement reaches briefly over his glass. She fastens the purse and takes a gulp of her own drink. She is cradling it reflectively as Skelgill
returns with their refills.

  ‘So – the best bit?’

  There is a deliberate twinkle in her eye.

  ‘It’s back to sex.’

  Skelgill picks up his unfinished beer – it is a straight glass, his preference to a ‘handle’, and as is the way with foamy real ale a series of descending tide marks charts his progress. Out of habit he swirls the remaining liquid to dissolve the lower rings.

  ‘Why am I not surprised?’

  ‘You still might be.’ Now she pauses for dramatic effect. ‘The jungle drums suggest that Roger Alcock’s wife has been having an affair with her boss, the estate agent Headley Holmes.’

  Skelgill’s grey-green eyes are steely.

  ‘Aye – happen I might.’ He downs the last of his pint in one, and slides the new full glass into place. ‘But, then again, folk would probably say I’m not a normal copper.’

  13. SOLWAY COAST – Saturday morning

  Cold turkey drives Skelgill. It has shaken him from fitful sleep and flushed him, clammy from his bed, to set him on the road before dawn. Now he hunches over the steering wheel, red-rimmed eyes narrowed against oncoming headlamps. He swigs periodically from the open neck of a thermos flask; though a strained tiredness pervades, and a sibilant tinnitus plagues him, to an accompaniment of discordant extraneous elements – the intermittent dash of sleet across the windscreen; the pained graunch of the wipers (he must replace the blades); the rasping snore of his slumbering passenger – Cleopatra, mongrel Bullboxer; and from the steel flatbed of the shooting brake the persistent rattle of his worming fork and rarely used beachcasting gear.

  Yet it is upon the latter that he pins his hopes. A week up to his eyebrows in water and no fishing has taken its toll. Not to mention a week of limited, if any, real progress. So, to angling – of a diplomatic variety. For if Skelgill is often found wanting when interpersonal tact is called for, he suffers no such blind spot concerning his community. Thus he is acutely aware – while the lakes and rivers of Cumbria are returning to their pre-flood levels, while murky waters are clearing of silt, and rapids becoming fishable slacks once more – that to return to his regular haunts would be to perpetrate an indignity; while farmers and hoteliers and local craftspeople, indeed the thousands of ordinary folk whose everyday lives and homes will be waterlogged for weeks and months to come, while they toil for their mere existence, he cannot possibly fish for pleasure in their midst.