Murder at the Flood

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘If you’re still in town later – why don’t you pop round for your supper? I’ll rack my brains – in case there’s something about Levi you ought to know.’

  ‘What time do you close?’

  She places a palm on his shoulder. ‘I didn’t mean here – I’ll take home something spicy – now you’ve acquired the taste.’ She gives him a parting dig with her long nails.

  18. WALKMILL – Monday afternoon

  ‘We never did have a fire.’

  ‘I’m sorry, madam?’

  ‘The night Roger disappeared – he was out here, chopping – that must be when Nick texted him and he decided to go to the shop.’

  Skelgill gives a little lift of his head as a signal that he understands. Maeve Alcock has found him waiting in the tall shadow of Walkmill – just this moment contemplating a scarred stump that has served as a chopping block; there are signs of work in progress: a discarded armful of logs, scattered splinters, pale and fresh in the damp leaf litter, and on the block one log partially reduced into irregular sticks of kindling.

  ‘We were planning a cosy night beside the hearth, pizza and a movie.’

  The pathos in her voice seems to wash over Skelgill – he is submerged in scowling mode – he can find fault with most brands of outdoorsmanship – and Roger Alcock’s efforts appear to be no exception. And when, with a start, he snaps out of his reverie he begins a fresh conversation.

  ‘Thanks for coming out from work early.’

  ‘Oh – well – I suppose it’s nice to get home before dark. And they don’t really need me in the office – I’m just sorry I missed you at lunch – my sister unexpectedly invited me out – she wouldn’t normally – it’s her busiest time of day.’

  ‘Happen it’s better to have a chat away from work.’

  Skelgill’s apparently revised view does not seem to trouble Maeve Alcock. She delves in her handbag for her latchkey and invites him to follow her inside; she shows him to the kitchen and puts on the kettle when he is seated.

  ‘Do you mind if I slip into something more comfortable?’

  She makes a gesture to indicate her regulation white-collar ensemble of heels and pencil skirt and smart starched white blouse, and hair drawn back into an austere ponytail.

  ‘Be my guest.’

  His rather inappropriate words bring the hint of a smile to her strained countenance. Skelgill watches her leave the room. He is only too well aware of the charms of Rhiannon Rees, but to date he has largely overlooked her younger relation – perhaps it has something to do with her status in the investigation, her bereaved comportment on each occasion – or even just that she resides in his memory as some insignificant teenager with buck teeth and braces that was never on his radar. But as, a couple of minutes later, she re-enters he is struck by the blow – it feels like a blow – what the heck was Roger Alcock doing playing the field? Her stunning, simple beauty forces a reappraisal on Skelgill’s part – the fine blonde hair let down, smooth high cheekbones – the subtle make up perhaps restored – and a pale salmon two-piece velour hipster tracksuit that clings to her slender yet shapely figure. At 33 she has the lithe and easy movement of a girl; indeed she is possessed of a youthful innocence – in contrast to her worldly-wise sibling, a gentle diffidence where there is brash Antipodean self-confidence; she is spectral, a soft-focus version of her sister. A gentle fragrance brushes him as she takes the seat at the right angle and places mugs on the table. A little voice, however, cautions that, where Rhiannon Rees’s defence is patently attack, Maeve Alcock’s might just be submission.

  ‘So sorry to keep you, Inspector.’

  The ball in his court, Skelgill finds himself momentarily hamstrung. For all he knows Rhiannon Rees confided that their diversion was to engineer for him a ‘chance’ meeting with Headley Holmes. Holmes himself may have discussed the encounter. Indeed all manner of conversations could have taken place between Maeve Alcock and her sister, her boss – and of course her late husband’s business partner, Nick Bridgwater. Even the taciturn Levi Armstrong cannot be discounted as a cog in this putative rumour mill, given his relationship with Rhiannon Rees. Collectively they could be speculating: just what is he up to? Does he relentlessly beat about the bush because he is possessed of some special intuition? Or is he just beating because there is a bush and he has a stick?

  While he speculates himself, Maeve Alcock watches in anxious silence. Then he comes to the point.

  ‘We’ve not been successful in tracing your husband’s movements after the Sunday evening. I’d like to ask you – now you’ve maybe reflected on it – why did you wait until Tuesday morning to notify the police?’

  Curiously, before Skelgill is even halfway through completing the question, Maeve Alcock begins to nod; she leans closer to him, her hands clasped around her mug; it is like a rehearsed interview, and now she does not need to wait for him to finish in order to respond.

  ‘As I mentioned, Inspector – on Sunday night I assumed Roger was at the flat – I was a little worried but felt sure that was the explanation at the time.’

  Her phrase “at the time” tells Skelgill there is something more; he waits.

  ‘I woke on Monday morning with a splitting migraine – I could barely fumble my way around the house. When I found my phone to see if Roger had been in touch I discovered there was just a text from Headley – saying there was no need to come in – that Station Street was closed off for use by the emergency services. I swallowed a cocktail of pills and collapsed back into bed – where I spent most of the rest of the day.’

  Now Maeve Alcock seems to meet some inner resistance. Skelgill gives the silence twenty seconds or so before he inserts a prompt.

  ‘Look – I understand that you didn’t feel too clever – I get migraines myself – I –’

  He suddenly pauses; does he get migraines any more? Indeed when did he last make an excuse and peremptorily abandon his desk for the sanctuary of some peaceful spot where the sound of rippling water would soothe him into recuperative semi-consciousness? On reflection he can trace this spell of remission back to the assignment of DS Jones to his team – and he makes the association with her proficiency with the written word; how she homes in on its salient content where he sees only flickering rivers of white that rend both the screen and his skull. An unexpected pang of regret threatens to plunge him deeper into a brown study – until he senses Maeve Alcock is waiting, her moist pink lips fractionally parted and the faint hiss of her breathing, coming more frequently than would be normal. He wrestles to recover his place in his intended script.

  ‘What I mean is – this is your husband – he’s set out into the biggest storm in a decade – in the dark – in a kayak – it’s not like he’s popped down the pub in his Range Rover. Right enough – you couldn’t get hold of him – and you didn’t want to make a big thing of it by calling the police – but you could have contacted, say, your sister – or Mr Bridgwater – or Mr Holmes? Or some other folk that you know well.’

  Maeve Alcock is looking like a pupil sent before the Head, with no good excuse for the misdemeanour of which she is accused. Skelgill is wondering if she might cry again. But then she regains her composure and – while she lowers her eyes – there is determination in her voice.

  ‘Not if he were with another woman, Inspector.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Skelgill sits back in his chair and folds his arms. The revelation. He musters a pained look of concern – when inside everything is running a little faster and an expression of action vies to break through. He glances distractedly at the ceiling, and then switches his attention to his tea, to buy a little more time. She is watching him anxiously.

  ‘Who did you think he was with?’

  ‘Oh – I don’t know.’

  Her response finds Skelgill off guard – it is so swift and matter of fact – that rather dumbly he simply repeats her words.

  ‘You don’t know?’

  Eyes wide, she shakes her head.


  ‘That would be the whole idea, wouldn’t it, Inspector?’

  In Skelgill’s experience, the identities of actors unmasked in romantic-domestic entanglements are rarely a surprise – and rarely found far from home – but such ingenuous certainty imbues Maeve Alcock’s answer that it creates doubt in his mind. And there is the persistent hearsay that surrounds Roger Alcock – by all accounts a species of social butterfly – or at least a predatory moth that visits defenceless night-scented blooms for their nectar. Skelgill must try another tack.

  ‘But with all the publicity – and it’s been six days now since your husband’s body was found – don’t you think that person would have come forward? Maybe she would have even contacted you.’

  She regards him earnestly.

  ‘I doubt it – for instance if she were married, Inspector.’

  Skelgill is momentarily stymied – this is the kind of response he would expect from DS Jones – if they were discussing the case and each in turn playing devil’s advocate to test their hypotheses. That Maeve Alcock has privately resigned herself to the scenario she describes strikes him as contradictory. He places his hands palms upwards on the oak kitchen table as if he is laying out evidence.

  ‘There was a sighting of your husband heading downstream on the Derwent shortly after he was seen in the town centre. The kayak was found at Flimby and his body washed up further north at Maryport – locations that would fit predictions based on the winds and tides and experience of previous accidents. He was wearing the outfit he left in. There’s nothing to indicate that he went somewhere else.’

  His manner is bland as he presents these facts – but Maeve Alcock begins to frown; it seems she finds their purpose interrogative.

  ‘You asked me why I tarried in reporting Roger missing. I thought one, maybe two nights – and he would come back to me. When he didn’t I made a report. It wasn’t until the next day that you –’ (and now her voice wavers) ‘that you found him. My explanation is based on what I knew – or, rather, what I didn’t. And also – on what I didn’t want to believe.’ She sighs, her gaze rests upon Skelgill’s palms – dry and moderately calloused, as befits his pastimes and occupation – and he turns them over a little self-consciously. ‘But he drowned – there was no other woman – it would not have made any difference had I told you on Monday or even Sunday.’

  ‘Look – it’s obviously not impossible that your husband went somewhere. But if there were a – a female – involved – even if it weren’t on that Sunday – do you not even have an inkling?’

  ‘There’s a very pretty young assistant working in River Nation.’ Again her response comes without hesitation – but it sounds like an answer for answer’s sake. Indeed, this impression is confirmed as she continues. ‘There’s a pretty young barmaid in The Black Swan. There are pretty young girls working in the bars and cafés and shops and outdoor businesses all around town and beyond.’

  Despite her fatalistic tone an inexplicable feeling creeps upon Skelgill that she is leading him a merry dance. His voice takes on a perceptibly harder edge.

  ‘You seem to be stressing the idea that it would be someone significantly younger than your husband?’

  She half-closes one eye – there might even be a glint of irony – as if she believes he is being diplomatic in not alluding to her as the ‘older woman’.

  ‘Surely that is the way of the mid-life crisis? You want to prove to yourself that you have not lost your vitality?’

  Now it is Skelgill’s turn to frown.

  ‘Thirties seems a bit early to be having a mid-life crisis, madam.’

  Maeve Alcock suddenly reaches out – catching him unawares; for a lingering moment she presses his hand. Plainly she thinks she has trespassed upon a raw nerve.

  ‘Of course, those of strong character are never afflicted.’

  There is warmth in her smile – and Skelgill is doubly disarmed. Yet he notices her touch is cool by the standards of her hot-blooded sister. It takes him a few seconds to summon his wits – he does his best to inject a note of understanding into his voice.

  ‘But that’s not how you saw your husband.’

  It is a holding statement rather than a question; nevertheless she replies.

  ‘Inspector – I realise you didn’t know Roger – but you may have formed an opinion of him?’ (Skelgill gives a somewhat non-committal nod.) ‘He was a emotionally immature – it caused him to be self-absorbed, you see?’

  ‘It sounds like you made allowances for him.’

  ‘Isn’t that what marriage is all about?’

  ‘Maybe – if it’s a two-way street.’

  In the context of what he would like to know, this might be a clever remark – and he watches carefully for her reaction. But she declines any opportunity to admit to some weakness on her part; instead a rueful smile creases her lips.

  ‘With Roger I’m afraid there was unrelenting one-way traffic.’

  Something tells Skelgill he should shift his line of approach.

  ‘While we’ve been trying to piece together your husband’s movements it’s come out that he appears to have run up considerable debts.’

  If surprise is the overriding emotion that floods Maeve Alcock’s features, Skelgill is sure he detects a small undercurrent of anguish.

  ‘What kind of debts?’

  Skelgill shrugs – as if this is no big deal.

  ‘Overdue instalments on your cars – building work you’ve had done on the house – various routine bills, mobiles, internet.’

  Maeve Alcock is looking entirely perplexed.

  ‘But Roger channelled this kind of expenditure through the business.’ She raises her hands to indicate the space around them. ‘Since this was as much his place of work as the shop. Anyone in the same position would be mad not to – it’s cost efficient and perfectly legal. Roger said the accountants made sure everything was above board.’

  Skelgill continues to appear only vaguely interested.

  ‘Were you aware of any issues with your domestic finances?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘Roger always handled that kind of thing – even before we were married. He insisted he needed to control the bigger picture – my salary is only modest – I deal with the grocery bills and I have a savings account for our holidays – and I haven’t had to ask Roger for money to pay for my own needs – clothes, hairdressing, nails, shoes, handbags – you know?’

  Now she plies him with such a helpless look that he can only think she is teasing him with her little list of essentials – her overall melancholy notwithstanding. However, he declines to be sidetracked.

  ‘And he gave no indication that his financial position was causing him concern?’

  ‘Roger would see it as a slight upon his manhood to burden me. Besides, he didn’t carry his troubles around with him. If a problem came along and bit him, he dealt with it – but if it were sealed in an envelope it may as well have not existed.’

  ‘What about the retail business – what was your involvement in that?’

  ‘Very little – I think Nick preferred that Roger kept me at arm’s length – since he didn’t have a spouse on his side to even up the numbers. It was something they had settled on way back, when they founded the company. Just the two Directors, equal partners and no casting vote.’

  Skelgill’s eyes narrow perceptibly.

  ‘I wondered if you helped with the property side – given your job – and someone mentioned to one of my officers that they thought they’d seen you going into the back entrance of the shop with Mr Holmes – to the flat presumably.’

  If this disclosure comes as a shock Maeve Alcock does not show it – but what she can’t know is that it is pure invention on Skelgill’s part.

  ‘When was this, Inspector?’

  ‘In the last couple of months, I believe, madam.’

  She appears genuinely bemused.

  ‘Remember, Inspector – you asked me when I was last in the flat
– I’m certain it was over a year ago – to drop off some spare cushions after we had new ones delivered here.’

  Skelgill regales her with a blank expression – as if he has forgotten but does not doubt her explanation. She continues.

  ‘Of course – as you may know – Headley is the landlord – of the apartment as well as the commercial floor below – he has several properties in Cockermouth. It’s not unlikely that he was called in to check a fault or approve a repair. He doesn’t employ a factor, you see?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Perhaps it was Janice that was with him? She’s about my height and her hair is not entirely dissimilar.’

  Skelgill nods slowly.

  ‘Quite likely that’s the explanation, madam.’

  Something now seems to strike Maeve Alcock – and it is plain that her thoughts are distracted – her gaze falls upon her hands, folded calmly upon the table, her left hand with the sparkling solitaire diamond uppermost. As Skelgill looks on he sees her grip tighten – but now his motions show he is readying himself to depart. A rather urgent check of his watch suggests there is some pressing appointment. And he pulls out his mobile phone – to be genuinely alarmed when he sees the missed calls that are banking up while it remains in silent mode. He makes his excuses – and promises to keep her informed. Maeve Alcock offers no objections to his rather abrupt departure – yet when she sees him through the front door she seems reluctant to end their encounter – and as he steps away she leans after him.

  ‘Roger – he did drown, Inspector?’

  She seems relieved when Skelgill confirms with a decisive nod.

  *

  ‘Leyton – you’ve been calling me.’

  ‘Oh – yeah – right, Guv – what it was – the Chief was trying to find you – er –’

  From his sergeant’s vacillation Skelgill immediately gets the gist; trouble is brewing.