Murder at the Flood

by Bruce Beckham

  But fish he must – he needs to fish – to think – to feel – and hence he heads west, to the anonymity of the coast, beyond his usual patch and, truth be told – though he would not admit it – outwith his angling comfort zone; and west, where Roger Alcock went.

  He drains the last remnants from his flask, spitting back the teabags; he lets loose a growl of exasperation. Though the traffic is light he must endure a long stretch of so-called ‘roadworks’ (what? where? who?) under the supervision of average-speed cameras; Big Brother records his number plate and threatens to calculate his least misdemeanour; it is a painful crawl. But, in its way, the enforced discipline is beneficial, a therapeutic interlude, while the tea infiltrates and its restorative properties get to work. By the time he enters the outskirts of Workington he lowers his window by a couple of inches; he’s ready for a shot of fresh morning air.

  He has no fixed plan – just an initial destination, the innominate spit of land that juts out at the confluence of the River Derwent with the Irish Sea. It ought to be a good mark, providing deeper reach, and a constant flow of food to attract scavengers, if the ever-present cormorants are anything to go by. He follows signs for the railway station, thence the switchback of Viaduct and a sharp right that takes him onto Town Quay – for a first sight of the tide, in first light of day. The water is low – he should have checked the tide tables – a string of small craft like a discarded necklace lie washed up against the ancient quayside where four centuries ago great barques plied their trade in coal to Ireland. But there is cause for optimism – incoming ripples are righting the little boats moored out in the channel.

  He drives on – though it looks like a dead end he knows this way and finds a less-than obvious exit between ramshackle garages that joins the sweep of the spit road. But when he reaches the designated parking area he does not even stop – he simply slews his car around – it’s the wrong kind of fishing. Out on the breakwater he can see figures silhouetted – mostly static, one casts, another raises his rod to move his bait. Skelgill curses under his breath. What made him think another dozen blokes like him would not have the same idea on a Saturday morning, hangovers to be blown away, peace offerings of fish suppers to be coaxed from the sea?

  Sex and death. Or was it sex and debts?

  This sudden flashback causes him to swerve – or did a rabbit cross his path? Cleopatra is up on her haunches, sensing some action. Skelgill looks disgruntled – the flask has tipped over; though it is empty, it prompts him. He retraces his route – just a quarter of a mile, and pulls his car onto the verge. A strip of rough grassland borders the last reaches of the Derwent; across the little estuary is the modern port where lights wink on yellow cranes that load a freighter flagged out of Gibraltar. There is the olive green shed marked RNLI; a backdrop of Portakabins, silos and storage tanks, mountains of trimmed timber. For a moment he ponders the results of DS Leyton’s inquiries. Cleopatra assumes this stop is for her and, in the absence of any command to the contrary, when Skelgill raises the tailgate to grab his big old clanking ex-army rucksack she launches herself over the seatback – the ‘Canine Cannonball’ brushes him aside and disappears into the long grass to execute some plan. Skelgill follows a narrow worn path that leads him to a quiet inlet, a semi-circular tidal pool where some thirty small craft lie at anchor.

  He gets to work with the contents of his backpack – his trusty Kelly kettle with its comforting sooty reek, chopped kindling tied with twine, and a Sigg bottle containing pungent methylated spirits. In short order he has the water boiling, and a tin mug of tea brewing – though he does not wait for it to cool to begin dunking chocolate digestives. He squats upon a salvaged log and contemplates his surroundings. The sky is lightening – indeed there are breaks in the cloud – the 5.20am shipping forecast for the local sea area (“Irish Sea”) stated “moderate or good, occasionally poor” – a reference to visibility, a suggestion of squalls as a cold front comes barrelling through; preferable to continuous rain. Cleopatra mooches at the shoreline, periodically glancing his way, in case a stick chase is on offer – she must have some water retriever in her, and reacts to minor plops and plunks as the tide otherwise imperceptibly fills the basin.

  The arrangement of yachts brings to Skelgill’s mind his conversation with Nick Bridgwater. He has seen photographs of the illustrious harbour at Puerto Banús; if there can be a place that is the diametrical opposite then this could be it; if plate tectonics facilitated, matter and antimatter that would collide and cancel one another off the face of the planet. Never mind the English winter with its lowering skies and biting winds; never mind the austere northern town that has long been an unemployment blackspot, where a whole street of back-to-backs could be purchased for the price of an Andalusian seafront villa; never mind the desolation, where on the Costa there are smiling, sauntering holidaying crowds, the beautiful people, bronzed and barely clad and adorned with gold. Simply, the boats tell their sorry tale; one yacht in the Spanish port would cost more than all the craft here put together. Indeed, as Skelgill surveys them beneath the grey dawn, he sees that a good quarter are derelict, abandoned hulks – a couple former fishing vessels – steelwork rusted, varnish peeled, sails mildewed.

  Then, of a sudden, his attention is spiked – as if his name has been called. And, indeed, in a fashion it has. For out on the far side of the pool lies a small, somewhat unbecoming sailing cruiser – a 25-footer – of a size that could be lived upon yet sailed single-handed. It looks in need of a good clean, its green canopy is stained, and there are signs of corrosion along the hull. But it is called Danny Boy. And it is for sale.

  *

  “Codling are taking lug – every other cast.”

  All week in absent moments the words of the local Flimby angler who discovered Roger Alcock’s kayak have been nagging at Skelgill. Thus – Plan B, that really ought to have been Plan A – he has parked opposite the unmanned rail halt and now waits for a gap in the speeding traffic to haul his rod and tackle and flat-tined potato fork (for digging for lugworm without spearing them) across the narrow coast road. A man, loosely accompanied by two sinister-looking Lurchers, ambles up the concrete ramp that leads to the footbridge; but when Skelgill issues the command to “Go, lass” Cleopatra trots ahead, unperturbed by the presence of the much larger dogs.

  As he reaches the base of the steep iron staircase he is surprised to see that the man and his canine entourage (Cleopatra now incorporated) are already on the other side of the rail tracks – in fact the fellow has had time to strike up a cigarette. They can only have crossed the line. Then he realises sleepers are laid between the rails to form a kind of boardwalk. The hand of the authorities – yielding to the inevitable rebellious anarchy of human nature – with nobody watching, why would anyone climb the bridge? A sign affixed to a brick pillar of the bridge states: “Stop. Look. Listen. Beware of trains.” And then he spies, in bizarre contradiction, a second smaller notice, the figure of a striding man inside a slashed red prohibition circle: “Passengers must not pass this point or cross the line.” This one has been targeted with an airgun – pellet marks cluster around the human silhouette.

  Of course, the fisherman was waiting for him and DS Leyton on the bridge – so naturally they mounted the steps to meet him and then descended on the other side. Now Skelgill takes the shortcut. Passage at ground level brings another revelation – also overlooked last time – a weathered pine fingerpost designated, “England Coast Path”. To his left, southwards, “Workington 4¼ miles”; to his right, northwards, “Maryport 2 miles”.

  For a dedicated outdoorsman, Skelgill harbours an irrational disregard for footpaths. This logic becomes even more perverse on account of his role as volunteer in the mountain rescue services – for if only walkers would stick to the paths he would have a lot more time fishing. But therein lies the paradox: footpaths equal folk. For Skelgill read loner. Of course, he would not dispute the benefits to society of fresh air and exercise – just not in his back ya
rd (a hardly sustainable stance for a denizen of Britain’s most popular National Park). To compound matters, in recent years there has been a fashion for the invention and promotion of long-distance trails – as folk seek to fill their retirement, but lack the imagination to pioneer original routes.

  With these thoughts and others massing like clouds in his mind, threatening thunder – some kind of brainstorm occurs – and Skelgill reacts in typically unpredictable fashion. He calls in his dog – she comes trotting from the foreshore, ears pricked and plainly pleased with herself for retrieving a threadbare tennis ball from the high water mark. Sadly for her – for the moment at least – she is double-crossed. When a chase might be expected, she finds herself unexpectedly tethered to the signpost. Skelgill is trudging back over the railway line with his fishing gear. But Cleopatra has only a couple of minutes to wait – her master reappears, unencumbered by angling equipment, just a small rucksack on his shoulder, and a strange light in his eye. He unfastens his charge, and lets loose the ball, left-handed. It sails into the sky, in the direction of Maryport.

  *

  The two miles takes Skelgill under half an hour, an inauspicious section of path that confirms his prejudices. Prominent among his thoughts has been the question of whether he prefers the blot on the landscape (or is it seascape?) that is Robin Rigg wind farm to the nuclear reactor that hums unobtrusively on the coastline twenty-five miles south.

  Common sense tells him that the coast path must cross the River Ellen (which is not his intention). Thus, upon reaching the edge of the redeveloped port Skelgill follows his nose between a care home and a barnacle cluster of modern homes, to emerge on the quayside of Elizabeth Dock. This is still a working harbour; the modest local fleet comprises a couple of dozen colourful fishing boats canted against the quay, keels aground in slick brown mud that reflects the unruly sky. Many of these operators are part time, and none are readying themselves to sail on the next tide. However, Skelgill notices activity further along the quay, a converted royal blue trawler, a 45-footer, with an extended white wheelhouse and a lemon yellow roof. He realises it is a charter boat. There is a good twenty-foot drop to the deck and a guy in a fluorescent jacket is lowering rods and tackle on a small hoist. Kicking their heels beside him, waiting their turn to use the iron dock ladder, a group of four men of roughly Skelgill’s age smoke and swear in local accents; they are bleary eyed and probably hung over – if the carrier bags of beer that await stowage are anything to go by. They might be poor clones of each other, with regulation skinhead cuts, thick necks and amateur tattoos, and combat trousers twinned with fishing jackets, and clumpy boots that enhance the paramilitary effect. They glower collectively at Skelgill’s approach – but their narrowed eyes home in on his dog – and suspicion dissolves into curiosity – as if Skelgill bears the mark of some respected ’hood – and further confusion is sown by the small detail of baler twine for a leash. The men condescend to unthreatening nods (“pass at your own risk” to the casual observer) – Skelgill is tempted to enhance his credentials by striking up an angling conversation – but that would be outstaying his welcome – and he settles for an approving glance at a large Tupperware container half-filled with lugworms.

  Then his heart makes a little leap – for he notices that ahead of him a girl in an apron puts out an A-board advertising breakfasts – the harbour café is opening up – but then he is reminded of Cleopatra – he supposes he can get a takeaway – there are benches over by the sea wall – although cars are pulling up and other early morning folk stroll about. He would prefer a quieter spot. He walks to the quayside that overlooks the River Ellen – really a modest creek that cuts into broad mudbanks where wading birds and gulls huddle. His eye follows the wall seawards – there is a good deal more to the port – so he ties the dog to a bollard and emerges presently from the café bearing a string-handled bag that holds a tea with a lid and three pies (one for him, one for Cleopatra, one for him). He returns past the charter boat’s mooring – the fishers now aboard and out of sight – and crosses the dock bridge. Slipping between nondescript buildings he emerges into in a mown grassy area, reclaimed land, beyond which is Senhouse Dock – a heritage sign informs him it handled 700,000 tons of goods in 1899; now it is a tidy marina, where five perpendicular floating pontoons provide berths for leisure craft, about eighty in all.

  There is a single bench at the edge of the quay – but to Skelgill’s dismay an elderly man is hunched there – he has a small dog at his feet – as Skelgill approaches he sees it is a venerable and substantially overweight Cavalier King Charles Spaniel with mangy fur and sad eyes, disconcertingly opaque. The man bears some similarities. His grubby tracksuit bottoms do not invite close inspection, his shapeless crew-neck pullover has seen better days, and he wears on his feet carpet slippers – Skelgill guesses he has wandered across from the properties nearby, needing to exercise the dog.

  Skelgill is contemplating his next move – thinking he should find a sheltered spot in the dunes for his picnic – when the man hails him.

  ‘Alreet?’

  ‘Fine – you?’

  ‘Ah’ve bin badly.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that.’

  The old man coughs and hawks profusely, as if to prove his point – then he indicates his pet, unmoved by the little episode.

  ‘He gets me out. Charles III he’s called. Me fourth.’

  Skelgill nods appreciatively; he wonders if he is supposed to ask the obvious question. However the old man simply gazes forlornly at him – but, on second thoughts, is it a look of longing? The bag bears the name of the café; the aroma of its contents precedes him. Thus pathos hijacks Skelgill’s legs, and he sits down on the bench.

  ‘Pie?’

  ‘Aye, why not, marra – if there’s yan ga’an.’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  Skelgill places the bag carefully between them.

  ‘I’ve only got one cuppa.’

  ‘Ah’ll just tek a sip, then.’

  Skelgill suppresses a grimace – but he has made his bed. He dips into the bag and picks out one of the paper-wrapped pies. The man accepts the parcel with a hungry look in his eyes. His own dog seems deaf to the crackles of the greaseproof wrapper; not so Cleopatra, who sits alert, her head making little jerks, trial pounces. Beads of saliva appear at her jowls. The man notices her interest.

  ‘She must be arl a’ three steeyan!’

  The man’s observation (that she weighs three stones) might be disapproving – and it causes Skelgill to rethink his intentions – maybe he should postpone eating until they have moved on? Much as he is ravenous, he extracts instead the disposable beaker of tea – he may as well get his share before he hands it over for a “sip” – for he’s not sure he’ll want it back, judging by the unrefined consumption in progress beside him. He drinks assiduously. After a period without conversation, he is first to speak.

  ‘Nice quiet spot.’

  The scene before them might almost be a watercolour, so still are the yachts and their reflections; the colours are pastel, pale cream and watery blue-grey, unlike the brightly painted fishing tubs.

  ‘There’s bin nobbut the odd gadgee here since t’backend.’

  The man refers to the lack of activity about the boats. It confirms Skelgill’s (unfounded) misgiving that most of these boating folk are fair-weather sailors, that in fact half of them never take their craft out of the marina, only pressing them into service as floating gin palaces on sunny weekends. If he bought a boat – he’d use it properly – fishing for one thing – and a place to spend the night and set out at dawn. Then something catches his eye.

  For a long moment he is frozen, staring out fixedly across the ancient harbour – so much so that his companion notices.

  ‘Hesta seen a ghost?’

  Skelgill starts – and then stands and turns and puts down the paper cup. Cleopatra’s leash trails on the ground – he fastens it with a half-hitch to the arm of the bench.

  ‘I just
need a quick word with the harbour manager – before I forget something.’ He steps away and gestures with a hand. ‘Help yourself to the tea – and mind the dog for us, will you?’

  At the south-east corner of Senhouse Dock is a bungalow-style building, the marina clubhouse and offices. Though it is mid-winter and no one is at their boat, Skelgill has noticed that a couple of lights are on inside. He strides briskly, flushing a rock pipit from its business; the bird rises and banks away against a patch of promising blue sky, calling intermittently, seep... seep... seep. Skelgill locates the entrance; there is a keypad to admit members with a code; he presses the intercom.

  ‘Aye?’

  The voice comes almost immediately; there is a note of suspicion – and Skelgill is obliged to abandon any notion of a clandestine approach (albeit it his preference in such circumstances).

  ‘DI Skelgill, Cumbria Police.’

  There is a pause, and then a click of the electronic door-release catch. He enters a corridor – ahead is a glimpse into a lounge with windows that overlook the marina – immediately on his left is another door, half open, marked “Reception”. Behind a counter sits a middle-aged man sporting a gingery hairstyle in the comb-over fashion popularised by the legendary footballer Bobby Charlton. He wears a navy-blue boiler suit; his function appears janitorial rather than that of some club official. He rises, but when Skelgill does not directly approach he sits back down. Skelgill has his warrant card at the ready, but decides there is no requirement to display it.

  ‘I’m investigating the recent death – the body that was washed up just north of here on Wednesday – a man called Roger Alcock from Cockermouth.’

  The man nods warily. Evidently Skelgill does not look like his idea of a detective inspector.