Murder at the Flood

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘I didn’t know there was one here, sir.’

  ‘There is a public leisure centre just around the corner.’ Headley Holmes waves a hand in the approximate direction. ‘But I use the private gym at the rugby club. It is for adults only.’

  ‘That’d be out by the Lamplugh roundabout on the A66?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘So you would have to pass by the entrance to – to Walkmill?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you didn’t see anything of Mrs Alcock just then?’

  Headley Holmes folds his arms – he is plainly irked by Skelgill’s probing; his tone becomes more strained.

  ‘As you may be aware, Inspector – the property is at the bottom of a long track, down beside the river – it would only be if she happened to be arriving or leaving that I would have seen her.’

  Skelgill nods amenably.

  ‘How did you get to the gym, sir?’

  It is gradually sinking in that the conversation has become something of an interrogation; Headley Holmes’s patience is wearing thin.

  ‘Look – what’s this all about? I’m sure I don’t have to answer these questions.’

  Skelgill shrugs casually, he half turns away as though he is not bothered; if anything a little offended that the man is unreasonably uncooperative.

  ‘We never can tell when a small piece of information might help us with an inquiry, sir.’

  Skelgill’s more neutral rejoinder is sufficient to produce a grudging climbdown.

  ‘Well – if you must know I jogged – I invariably jog. It’s exactly a mile – I can’t think why people drive to their gym – can you, Inspector?’

  Skelgill is now facing the window, and Headley Holmes cannot see that he is torn. Though Skelgill has his failings, one detective skill that he does possess is the ability to lull a witness (or suspect, even) into a false sense of security. This may have been honed through his decades-long dedication to angling – in which the essential quality is the impression of harmlessness. Me? Fishing? No – no – I’m just a bloke in a boat, passing the time of day. Rod – what rod? Line? Hook and worm? No idea, mate – no point asking me. In his job there are times, like now, when he walks a fine line between being seen to be going through the motions, enacting the expected protocols of investigation, and revealing his hand. He could of course ask Headley Holmes outright what he wants to know – but intuition tells him there are times when eliciting falsehood has more utility than the truth, and when equivocation is more illuminating than candour. Unexpectedly, he hears his mother’s words; that often rang in his ears as a boy twisting to extricate himself from his latest misdemeanour, “You can’t kid a kidder, our Daniel”. With this sentiment driving him, Skelgill assumes the mantle of – as he is wont to put it – “daft country copper”.

  ‘I don’t know a lot about gyms, sir – but it does rile me when folk claim they’ve climbed the likes of Skiddaw and then I find they’ve parked at Latrigg. It’s a third of the way up. That’s not conquering Skiddaw, it’s cheating the mountain.’

  This unexpected item of consensus brings a half-formed smile to Headley Holmes’s tense visage – although perhaps his amusement has its origin in Skelgill’s eccentrically anthropomorphic perspective.

  ‘Cheating oneself, I should say, Inspector.’

  Skelgill contrives a collaborative expression.

  ‘You see, sir – apart from needing to have a word with Mrs Alcock – I was hoping to get an idea of how she is.’

  Headley Holmes is still on guard – his hunched shoulders are testament to that – but nonetheless Skelgill’s tactic succeeds in winkling out an opinion.

  ‘She isn’t here at the moment – as I imagine Janice informed you – but I should say she is finding it difficult. I understand there is some procedural delay over the implementation of her husband’s funeral arrangements. Naturally – that must be unsettling – no doubt it hinders the grieving process.’

  For a second time Skelgill must fight a distraction – that there is some great human entitlement – “the grieving process” – when in his experience at life’s cruel blackjack table the unblinking dealer shows no flicker of compassion.

  ‘Aye – well, we’d all like to know what happened.’

  ‘You mean you don’t, Inspector? I thought it was a straightforward matter of drowning – that it was just his disappearance that was unexplained?’

  ‘Aye – that would be about it.’

  While Skelgill offers no further elaboration, Headley Holmes seems emboldened. He crosses to the window beside Skelgill, and now both men stare out at the rain-washed street with its hunched pedestrians who scurry about their errands.

  ‘Well – if you want my opinion – it was the act of a selfish man – irresponsible. Imagine if they’d had children – it’s bad enough what he’s done to Maeve.’

  Skelgill’s voice carries a relaxed timbre.

  ‘You didn’t see eye-to-eye with him, I take it, sir?’

  Headley Holmes gives a little start – perhaps he realises he has overstepped the mark, that it is not his place to voice a grievance – or that to do so might convey the wrong impression. He begins to backtrack.

  ‘I had very little to do with him, Inspector. But from what I encountered of his behaviour, indirectly – I could not say he treated his wife with the greatest of respect.’

  Skelgill inhales to reply – but then he hesitates; it is a rather clumsy attempt at diplomacy.

  ‘I understand your own wife is an invalid, sir?’

  Headley Holmes responds with a sharp look – but his suspicion dissipates; after all, this must be common knowledge.

  ‘She is wheelchair-bound – it was a riding accident. That’s all.’

  The little caveat – that’s all – strikes Skelgill as curious – although he is not sure why. It is hard to discern if Headley Holmes is somehow making light of his situation – or trying to suggest there is nothing abnormal about his wife. Or something else?

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir. When did it happen?’

  ‘Oh – approaching eight years ago now. We’re quite adapted to the way of life.’

  Skelgill nods – but inwardly he reproaches himself. An ulterior motive led him to inquire of Mrs Holmes – but in doing so he has inadvertently handed the moral advantage to Headley Holmes. He wrestles to contrive an expedient rejoinder.

  ‘She must find it hard when she sees you jogging off to the gym, sir.’

  But this best effort sees Headley Holmes slip back into his shell.

  ‘I think she appreciates that I remain fit and healthy, Inspector – in body and mind. This business takes its toll.’

  Rather than the ‘business’ of Roger Alcock’s disappearance, Skelgill assumes he means his occupation. At least as one door closes another offers a chink of light.

  ‘I was hearing there’s been an inquiry for Walkmill.’

  Headley Holmes purses his lips; his small eyes locate the prospectus.

  ‘They were not serious, in my estimation. I don’t think they will be of any interest to your investigation, Inspector.’

  Skelgill’s eyebrows shift briefly upwards. While it would not be unreasonable for the police to consider all possible connections, it strikes him as odd that the man should make such a suggestion.

  ‘Do you have their details?’

  Headley Holmes shakes his head.

  ‘Janice saw them –’ He stops, as though this is reason in itself for the lapse – but then he resumes, perhaps always intending a longer explanation. ‘I rather suspect they were mystery shoppers from the Institute of Estate Agents of Great Britain. It would be typical of them to target an inexperienced member of staff with some near-impossible request.’

  ‘Sounds to me like Janice did alright. It’s not going to be easy getting Walkmill off your books. It’s a bit of a building site.’

  He glances sideways at Headley Holmes; the man’s expression is troubled.

  �
�It may be that Maeve will review her position now, Inspector.’

  ‘Aye – I thought you might tell me that.’

  *

  Back at his porthole (restored with a shirt cuff and elbow grease) Skelgill watches for the return from their lunch of Maeve Alcock and Rhiannon Rees. The light rain still falls and creates a blurred picture; his thoughts drift, and when an elfin face appears close to the window it takes a second for him to process the expectant countenance – and by the time he does it is gone, an apparition that has hijacked his daydream to plant a kiss and run away – for there is a faint imprint of full lips in lipstick on the pane. Then the café doorbell tinkles and in a blur a small neat figure enters and slides into the seat opposite him.

  And yet recovering his wits Skelgill manages to take the initiative.

  ‘Bonjour.’

  Lucy Dubois chuckles, and wags a finger in his direction; amused that he has trumped her entrance.

  ‘How do you know that!’

  Skelgill affects modesty.

  ‘It’s my job to know these things.’

  ‘So – you’d be good at mine.’

  Lucy Dubois intertwines her fingers upon the table, and bends forward, plying him with sparkling eyes and an engaging smile. Skelgill steels himself. The girl Janice was right.

  ‘You not filming?’

  ‘Researching. Isn’t that what you wanted?’

  Skelgill is conflicted. It is hardly his place to disapprove, given he has provided encouragement thus far; but it goes against the grain to venture down the unofficial thoroughfare that joins amateur sleuthing to the professional detective, its winding byways signposted to the likes of self-serving journalism and misguided vigilantism, the latter in some cases trodden by those oddballs who make their hobby out of impersonating police officers. Mystery coppers – hah! Then – most certainly beyond the pale – there is the dark realm inhabited by his real-life alter ego, twisted Mancunian DI Alec Smart; a shadowy netherworld whose vulpine denizens scavenge barely legal backhanders, in payment for information that can neither be verified nor trusted.

  Lucy Dubois plays up to his doubt. She pouts and opens her palms in a gesture of supplication.

  ‘Inspector – haven’t I come to lay all before you?’

  Skelgill makes a resigned grumbling noise in his throat.

  ‘Aye – right enough – you want a cuppa?’

  He glances towards the counter – but the stout ‘girls’ are preoccupied and he is unable to catch their eye.

  ‘Merci, non – je dois marcher.’

  She sounds convincingly Gallic. Skelgill, despite having already used up a fifth of his French lexicon, gets the drift. But she explains, just in case.

  ‘I only have a minute – I was passing when I spotted you. I was going to text. We’ve been looking into the connection between Mr Holmes and Mrs Alcock.’ At this she makes a face of apology – that sensationalism might prevail over more profound community issues, as per her original editorial commitment – but Skelgill seems unperturbed. ‘In particular, Mr Holmes. Did you know he is something of a minor property mogul?’

  Skelgill furrows his brow.

  ‘Property salesman, aye.’

  Lucy Dubois shakes her head.

  ‘We have consulted with the Land Registry at Carlisle. He controls a company, HHRE Limited – Headley Holmes Real Estate, perhaps? Through it he owns about a dozen residential properties in the centre of Cockermouth. They are all in the flood zone. It looks like he has been snapping up buy-to-let bargains from previous floods. And along with his own shop, he also has three retail premises. One of which is presently leased to River Nation. Additionally, in his own name he is the registered leaseholder for the land upon which the Alcock’s house is built.’

  ‘Walkmill?’

  ‘That’s right. Perfect for a Polish pop percussionist.’

  Skelgill raises an eyebrow.

  ‘So he was Roger Alcock’s landlord twice over?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking – although the building at Walkmill is registered to the Alcocks – and a pretty hefty mortgage. The ground lease has just over ten years to run. Usually these things are renewed at some peppercorn rent.’

  There is period of silence. Lucy Dubois watches Skelgill with interest – although if his blank expression is anything to go by, he is waiting in vain for inspiration to strike.

  ‘Food for thought?’

  Skelgill gives a little shrug of his shoulders.

  ‘I’m not sure what it explains about Roger Alcock.’

  Lucy Dubois looks like she has a suggestion. She slides her hands across the table, closer to Skelgill. Her engagement ring sparkles.

  ‘Might it not give Mr Holmes some leverage with Mrs Alcock?’

  Now Skelgill scowls.

  ‘I’m a bit slow on the uptake when it comes to these kind of things.’

  She grins patiently – she knows he is being facetious.

  ‘People work together for a sustained period – as close colleagues – they become attached. It’s only natural – if you’re thrown into adversity – you form emotional bonds, perhaps before you even know it.’

  As she speaks she looks penetratingly into Skelgill’s eyes – such that he lowers his gaze and then agitatedly checks his mug – but it is empty. He seems reluctant to agree.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Of course, it’s not always mutual.’ (Skelgill looks up sharply.) ‘Take my colleague Rupert, for instance – he’s hoping for the same effect.’ She sighs. ‘I think he had a rather spoilt upbringing. He expects to get what he wants. When he doesn’t, he tries to pull rank – it’s a sinister form of manipulation. It doesn’t work on me. But a person unappreciated, suffering from neglect – might be vulnerable.’

  Skelgill is gnawing broodingly at a thumbnail. Just behind him is the entrance – and he is vaguely aware that the bell tinkles – but more salient is the reaction of Lucy Dubois – she withdraws her hands and sits up straight. A moment later he feels his hair suddenly ruffled – there are long nails – they don’t exactly scratch but they make their presence felt. He half turns to see Rhiannon Rees walking away towards the counter – peeling off a jacket to reveal her trademark sleeveless bodice and tight leather trousers – she glances back over her bare shoulder with a knowing grin.

  ‘I think that’s my cue.’

  Skelgill frowns.

  ‘You don’t need to rush.’

  ‘I do – I have an appointment, remember?’

  And she is rising, pushing back her chair. Then she bends quite close.

  ‘À bientôt.’

  ‘Aye – all the best, lass.’

  No sooner has the bell sounded again – to mark the rather abrupt departure of Lucy Dubois – than Rhiannon Rees fills her place – bearing two fancy-looking lattes in tall glasses that she can only have misappropriated from another patron’s order. She regales Skelgill with a generous smile and her brilliant blue eyes gleam admiringly. He could be excused for experiencing a sense of déjà vu.

  ‘So it was really me that you wanted out of the way, Danny!’

  Her residual Aussie inflection makes this at once a statement and a question.

  ‘What?’ Then Skelgill realises she is referring to his tête-à-tête with the TV journalist. ‘She was walking past – she saw me.’ He plays for time. He draws the coffee intended for him closer, and gives a small bow of the head in appreciation. ‘They keep trying to pick my brains for news stories.’

  ‘They?’ Still there is the amused smile. Skelgill squirms – he knows what she is getting at. He leans back, throws up his hands, and affects exasperation.

  ‘Look – I’m spinning plates here.’

  ‘Do all detectives work like this?’

  Skelgill makes a face of determination.

  ‘I plough my own furrow.’

  Rhiannon Rees reclines against her seat and slides the fingers of both hands up from the back of her neck into her long blonde hair, so that the beaded
cornrows spill over her forearms in a clattering golden cascade. The action causes her close-fitting stretch top to tighten over her shapely torso. Her smile is languid; Skelgill guesses she has had a couple of drinks.

  ‘How did I do?’

  ‘Eh?’ For a second he is unsure of her meaning. ‘Aye – spot on – they thought I was looking for your sister.’

  ‘Did you find out what you wanted to know?’

  ‘It’s early days.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Skelgill now looks pensive.

  ‘I haven’t worked it out yet.’

  She chuckles, and shakes her head.

  ‘Is Headley under suspicion?’

  He makes a dismissive scoffing sound.

  ‘Everyone’s under suspicion.’ It comes over as a flippant retort, an evasive generalisation, and Rhiannon Rees regards him patiently. But he has a follow up point, wholly specific. ‘In fact my sergeant’s been trying to contact your Mr Armstrong.’

  Though she maintains her casual composure it is plain she rails against the implication.

  ‘He’s not my Mr Armstrong.’

  ‘So you won’t know where he was yesterday evening?’

  A flicker of doubt seems to trouble the blue eyes.

  ‘I might do.’ It is hard to tell if she is being coy or if there is a tiny grain of evasiveness. ‘He came for Sunday dinner.’

  ‘Cosy.’

  Now she seems amused that Skelgill may be jealous.

  ‘It was a business meeting.’ She smiles again – but she is teasing him now. ‘In fact we ate surplus bean-burgers – which reminds me – it looks like you won our bet.’

  She refers to the empty plate that Skelgill has pushed aside. He seems reluctant to be distracted by such a blatant diversion, but then he relents, and folds his arms and sighs.

  ‘If two sittings counts.’

  ‘I can make an exception.’

  As Skelgill grins sheepishly there comes from the direction of the servery a cry of exasperation; perhaps Rhiannon Rees’s absence during the lunch hour is beginning to take its toll.

  ‘I’m getting black looks – I ought to put on my apron and do some work.’

  She rises and in a catlike fashion she flexes her spine, pressing her fingers into the small of her arched back, and again causing the material of her top to tighten across her chest. She watches Skelgill’s gaze through half-closed lids.