Murder at the Flood

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘What did she want?’

  ‘Dunno, Guv – a meeting with you – she sent one of her assistants down – in case you weren’t answering your phone. I got the feeling it was to do with progress – something about why aren’t we closing it off and moving on – there’s a shedload of incidents piling up after the flood – burglaries, lootings, domestics, animal thefts –’

  ‘You got the feeling?’

  ‘Reading between the lines, Guv.’

  ‘Happen I’m investigating between the lines, Leyton.’

  Skelgill’s tone is irked, but DS Leyton has learned not take such complaints to heart.

  ‘Thing is, Guv – with regard to the Chief – have you read the update to the autopsy report?’ When Skelgill does not answer, he obliges with an excuse. ‘Maybe you didn’t get my email.’

  Skelgill harrumphs. ‘Leyton – I’ve barely got a phone signal out here.’

  ‘Righto, Guv – well – what it is – there’s a couple of interesting points – I mean – nothing exactly new, but – food for thought, like.’

  Skelgill notes it is the second time in the day that he has heard this phrase.

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well – first thing – hold on – let me just click on it.’ There is a pause while DS Leyton locates and opens the file on his desktop. ‘Concerning the time of death – these fancy new histology tests narrow down the earlier conclusion – a window three hours either side of midnight Tuesday.’

  ‘Aye.’ Skelgill does not sound especially enthused.

  ‘Then the other thing, Guv – I mean – it’s not like we ain’t thought of this – but there was no evidence – and now there is –’

  ‘Come on Leyton, me chips and beans are getting cold.’

  ‘Cor blimey, Guv – that reminds me – that’s another thing – three things there are.’

  Skelgill sighs audibly. DS Leyton realises he should be more brisk.

  ‘Roger Alcock’s stomach contents – his last meal was beans on toast – he burnt the toast – hah! – amazing what they can detect – but the state of digestion indicates he died no more than an hour after eating.’

  ‘Right.’

  This appears to be all DS Leyton is going to get by way of response. He soldiers on.

  ‘The third thing, Guv – the main thing if you ask me – the lab sent the x-rays of the head injury to some geezer down south – a forensic anthropologist that specialises in blunt force trauma – what they’re saying is – I’ll just read it to you: “The progression of the skull fracture is consistent with an injury sustained as the result of a blow from a relatively fast moving object; this is significantly more likely than the cause of injury to be the low velocity impact of the body with a static object. While the dimensions of the injury are compatible with, for example, the blunt corner of stonework or a metal structure such as scaffolding, plainly objects of a similar type could have been wielded.” Then it goes into all this technical jargon about the splintering of the bone and velocities and stuff that’s beyond me.’

  DS Leyton pauses for breath; but he realises Skelgill is not about to respond.

  ‘What do you reckon, Guv?’

  Skelgill has to gulp from a beaker of tea before he can answer; his digestion lags behind his consumption.

  ‘Like you say, Leyton – it’s not like we haven’t thought about it.’

  ‘But this seems pretty definite, Guv – surely it’s odds on someone lamped him one. Want me to see if I can get a word with the Chief before she clocks off? She can hardly argue with the experts. She might turn down the heat if she thinks we’re not sunk yet.’

  ‘You know what the experts said about the Titanic, Leyton.’

  DS Leyton can be heard treading water, a faint wheezing.

  ‘I’ll take that as a no, Guv?’

  Skelgill does not reply immediately.

  ‘What’s the score with Levi Armstrong?’

  ‘What, Guv? Oh – yeah – well – no joy, Guv. He’s not answering his flippin’ phones – I don’t know if he’s got some oppo at his garage – but I can’t raise a reply there either. Want me to put one of the local uniforms onto it?’

  Skelgill takes a moment to ponder; his features are puckered.

  ‘I’ll come back to you, Leyton.’

  ‘But – it’s past six o’clock, Guv – don’t you reckon –’

  But Skelgill’s last sentence comprises both a direction and a farewell – for he ends the call and returns his attention to the remnants of the fish supper (with a small side of baked beans in an unsatisfactory polystyrene tub) spread on last week’s Westmorland Gazette upon his lap. He eats methodically, his brow furrowed, his gaze fixed, blinking occasionally. It has begun to rain again, the droplets that coat the windscreen scatter the streetlamp neon and obscure the view; in any event the interior of the car is steamed up. He eats his last piece of battered fillet tail and scrunches up the wrapper, attempting ineffectually to wipe grease from his fingers in the process. He is parked on a double-yellow line outside the town centre fish and chip shop. He lowers the driver side window and takes aim at a litter bin fixed to the wall of the chippy. But he throws with his weak arm and his aim is not true; it bounces off the rim of the bin and lands on the pavement. Skelgill curses and makes to get out – when a passing figure steps into his peripheral vision and bends to gather up the crumpled bundle and in one smooth movement drops it into the receptacle. It is a male, tallish, trim of figure, clad in black waterproofs with the hood raised. He swings a slim briefcase and keeps moving, but half turns to pre-empt the anticipated gratitude, raising a hand – Skelgill merely reciprocates, pushing a palm out of the window – but saying nothing, indeed shrinking back. The man is Headley Holmes.

  Skelgill flicks his wipers and rubs with some urgency at the inside of the windscreen – the overall improvement, however, is modest – just sufficient to see that the man continues to stride briskly onwards. Skelgill watches until he turns the next corner – and then, for want of anything better to do, sets off in pursuit. It seems unlikely that Headley Holmes identified him – surely he would have uttered a word of acknowledgement – but by the time Skelgill has manoeuvred into the side street, he is nowhere to be seen; the vista is empty. Shops and businesses have closed for the night, and most folk are indoors having their tea. Skelgill finds himself following a shadowy one-way street of cramped Victorian terraces that crowd the narrow pavements; a couple more turns bring him down towards the familiar façade of Wordsworth House. He swings right into Main Street, taking it slowly. There is a scattering of pedestrians – but none that he recognises as his quarry – perhaps Headley Holmes has a private parking spot tucked away – quite likely if he owns so many properties in the vicinity. Skelgill continues with his patrol, trundling at half the speed limit. Some of the retail premises are still floodlit, where workmen toil – but otherwise this thoroughfare, with its many first-floor flats above the shops, remains evacuated; darkness prevails. And thus an incongruity catches Skelgill’s eye – there is a light on in the apartment over River Nation – and then an even more strident alert – a tow-truck parked outside – carelessly abandoned at an angle between two skips – its flaking mud-spattered livery just legible in his headlamps as “Armstrong & Sons”.

  Delivery vehicles may approach the rear of the shop, literally ‘round the houses’ via a loading bay reached from Waterloo Street, but a narrow ginnel – a dark tunnel – provides pedestrian access from Main Street. Skelgill gives a flash of his pocket torch to check the way is clear – an alley cat slinks away – but it tells him no one has passed in the last minute or so. He takes in his stride that the security door is unlocked, and enters the cramped vestibule, grim faced. Immediately he hears male conversation in the flat above – the stair door is ajar – one voice high and strained, another low and menacing. He begins stealthily to mount the narrow flight when a sudden explosion of bellowing bedlam breaks out and a resounding thump shakes the old wooden frame o
f the building.

  Skelgill takes the stairs two at a time and reaches the landing – there is a momentary hiatus in the commotion – but he follows his nose – and bursts into the kitchen at the back of the building. The sight that confronts him is alarming, to say the least.

  Nick Bridgwater lies prone on the linoleum, his head and shoulders propped against the cabinets, arms raised protectively in front of his anguished face; blood streams from his nose and makes a great crimson splatter upon his smart white polo shirt. Over him looms the boiler-suited hulk that is Levi Armstrong, his long lank black hair in motion, his right arm raised, a grease-stained hickory-handled lump hammer in his grasp.

  ‘Oi!’

  Skelgill’s warning is primitive – but sufficient – whether Levi Armstrong were intending to strike a blow – or was merely striking a threatening pose – it is impossible to know – but he lowers the tool and spins to face Skelgill – a great snarl rending his dark countenance. In his eyes there is the look of a predatory animal that has been thwarted in the midst of its dark deed.

  Skelgill takes a step forward – he ought to speak, words of official caution – but sudden adrenaline has diverted his faculties to strictly action only. And for a second he readies himself – for Levi Armstrong comes straight at him.

  And yet – Skelgill does not react – for in this moment of heightened awareness he detects in Levi Armstrong’s body language his true purpose – and the man barges past Skelgill – shoulder-to-shoulder, knocking him aside – and exits the kitchen to clump heavily down the stairs. Skelgill glares at the empty portal, standing frozen – until he hears the slam of the outer door.

  He turns to Nick Bridgwater – now half-sitting and smearing at the blood with the backs of his hands. Skelgill grabs a tea towel – he tosses it to the casualty and at the same time offers a hand to haul him to his feet. Nick Bridgwater groans and limps unsteadily to the sink and splashes water over his face, and wets the towel and begins dabbing at the blood that cakes his chin and throat and the backs of his hands. Gradually his coughs and splutters subside. Skelgill observes patiently.

  ‘If you want to file a report for assault – looks like you’ve got yourself a witness.’

  Nick Bridgwater extracts a clean tea towel from a drawer. He dries himself, though there is little that can be done with the darkening blood that streaks his shirt and khaki chinos. He makes a face of disapproval.

  ‘I don’t think that will be necessary – it’s just a nosebleed. I get them all the time; I have irregular hypertension.’

  ‘Could have been a lot worse – as I saw it.’

  ‘I believe that was just posturing, Inspector.’

  Skelgill looks doubtful – how well does this man know his foe? Still, he relents and casts about. There is paperwork on the kitchen table – it looks like Nick Bridgwater was rudely interrupted whilst doing some admin. Skelgill adopts his theme.

  ‘So what was he posturing about, sir?’

  Nick Bridgwater’s tone becomes guarded.

  ‘Oh – nothing of significance – it must be some legacy of Roger’s – frankly I had no idea what he was talking about.’

  ‘What exactly did he say?’

  Now Nick Bridgwater shrugs as he crosses to the table, where he briskly collates and stacks the papers as if he is tidying up to leave.

  ‘Like I say – it didn’t make sense – something about coming to some arrangement – I don’t know – I find the idiot to be incoherent – I suggest you ask him, Inspector.’

  ‘Aye – happen I shall.’

  *

  As he has anticipated, all that remains in Main Street of Levi Armstrong’s tow-tuck is a slightly less damp patch where it was parked, perhaps too some glistening spots of engine oil. Skelgill slides into the driver’s seat to see his mobile phone in its cradle, screen illuminated – he has just this second missed a call from DS Jones. He redials, and she answers promptly.

  ‘Guv – hi – how’s it going?’

  ‘Business as usual – if breaking up a fight between Nick Bridgwater and Levi Armstrong counts.’

  ‘Wow – what was it about?’

  Skelgill makes a disparaging grunt as he settles himself in the car.

  ‘Bridgwater didn’t want to tell me – and Armstrong fled the scene. He must know Leyton’s been chasing him.’

  ‘That’s interesting, Guv – it’s kind of why I was ringing you.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Oh – still in London. I think we’re supposed to be coming back in the morning.’

  ‘Why not tonight?’

  Now a note of hesitancy enters DS Jones’s voice.

  ‘Alec – sorry – DI Smart has set up a meeting tonight with a contact – we’re to go undercover – to pose as buyers.’

  Skelgill is biting the side of his mouth.

  ‘Is that safe?’

  ‘It’s in a posh restaurant, Guv. Park Lane.’

  Skelgill grimaces.

  ‘Aye – well – just watch yourself – at the first sign of trouble it’ll be every man for himself.’

  ‘Yes, Guv.’ His subordinate sounds uncomfortable. ‘Look – I should tell you this – I have to get ready – there’s a taxi booked.’

  ‘Aye.’

  It is a disapproving ‘aye’ and DS Jones hurriedly moves on.

  ‘I submitted a further request to the camera monitoring unit – it struck me that if Nick Bridgwater had used the A66 then maybe he wasn’t alone – I got them to check out registrations owned by Roger Alcock’s associates – we got a hit on Levi Armstrong.’

  Skelgill is silent – instinctively, he knows approximately what is coming.

  ‘The vehicle is a recovery truck – a distinctive Dodge, ex-RAC – it came through the cameras heading back towards Cockermouth at just after half-past midnight on Tuesday.’

  ‘What about heading out?’

  ‘There’s nothing, Guv – he must have taken another route.’

  Skelgill inhales and exhales a few times before he has an answer.

  ‘We don’t know he came from Maryport. He could have just been in the pub at Workington.’

  ‘I know that, Guv. It’s a coincidence, though.’

  ‘And no one else that we know?’

  ‘No – they tried vehicles registered to Maeve Alcock, Rhiannon Rees, Headley Holmes – and Serena Harenge – there was no trace.’

  Skelgill makes a rather depressed sounding humming noise.

  ‘What do you think, Guv?’

  He winds down his window a couple of inches to admit fresh air; light rain drifts through the gap and he tilts his head beneath its cooling touch.

  ‘You’ve read the autopsy update?’

  ‘I have, Guv – DS Leyton forwarded it to me – to paraphrase the boffins: a blow struck around midnight.’

  ‘The boffins have got it wrong before.’

  ‘It fits the facts, Guv.’

  ‘You know me and facts.’

  DS Jones chuckles – but then something seems to distract her – and she clears her throat rather apprehensively.

  ‘Look, Guv – if you don’t mind – I’d better shoot.’

  ‘Aye – shoot Smart for me, will you.’ A small laugh of hysteria escapes his lips. ‘Enjoy your meal.’

  DS Jones makes an exaggerated groan.

  ‘Easier said than done, Guv. Much as I adore seafood – it feels like such a waste.’

  Skelgill does not respond – he sinks into a brooding silence. Despite her need to go, DS Jones offers some polite conversation.

  ‘What about you, Guv – what are you having tonight?’

  Skelgill makes a derisory exclamation.

  ‘How does veggie burger sound?’

  *

  Skelgill parks his shooting brake at the edge of the modern housing that crowds the southern end of Elizabeth Dock, Maryport. Sometimes, plain sight is the best form of concealment. He waits for a few moments, but no shadows move beneath the mock gaslights that rin
g the wharf; the place is deserted, the rain is seeing to that. He slips on his battered angling Barbour – just a short jacket, long since lacking waterproof qualities, but he is not going far, or for long – and emerges from the car, pressing the driver’s door shut with his hip, quietly. But there is a watcher – and one that he recognises with a small start – in the nearest window an overweight Charles III has its muzzle rested on the back of a sofa; can it see him with those misty eyes? Beyond, reclining in an armchair, Skelgill also recognises his master (the same sweater, by the look of it), though his attention is fixed on the flickering screen of a supersized television. Skelgill pulls a conspiratorial face at the dog; then he pads away, quickly gaining the grassy expanse that separates Elizabeth Dock from Senhouse Dock, and making a bee line for the point where he knows the park bench to be.

  He does not stop at the seat, however, nor the guardrail, which he vaults and squats beside; he produces from his poacher’s pocket a coil of knotted climbing rope; he loops the end around the nearest upright and fastens it with a figure-of-eight knot; then he backs over the edge of the stone quayside and scrambles down, taking care with the last few feet, to land noiselessly on the main pontoon that runs the length of the dock. Now he lingers for a moment – checking his surroundings. The boats lie still, cloaked in shadow, aligned like a sleeping shoal of sea creatures; none shows any light. The rain produces a faint sibilance across the black water, a salt breeze elicits the ding-ding-ding, tap-tap-tap of rigging against a mast; the air is thick with the sharp reek of rotting seaweed.

  If there were an observer now, ringside, reclining casually upon the bench, smoking a late-night woodbine, perhaps seeking solitude, they would see a dark figure – an intruder into the marina – evidently with a clear purpose in mind. For he strides decisively out along the nearest perpendicular pontoon and springs lightly aboard a 30-foot cruiser yacht whose prow protrudes from a protective winter tarpaulin to reveal her name as Serena. There is no jangle of keys, but a series of clicks – and then the creak of hinges in need of oil; the human shape descends into the cabin. But he must leave the twin doors open, for now a shifting glow emanates from within, an aura that illuminates the light rain; then a sound – a curious scrape and clang – then silence – then a bright flash, as of a camera – then another metallic noise, more circumspect – then darkness – and then the figure reappears, just a smudge, perhaps bobbing to fasten the doors – and then more plainly jumping ashore, retracing his steps along the pontoon and swarming with spidery ease back up the wall of the quay.