Murder at the Flood

by Bruce Beckham

  Skelgill coils his rope and tucks it back inside his jacket. He once again vaults the guardrail and checks about. All is quiet; the bench is vacant.

  19. MARYPORT – Tuesday morning

  Skelgill slowly becomes aware of the persistent barking of a dog. He understands that Cleopatra – whom he left contentedly, billeted with his extraordinarily accommodating dog-walker-neighbour – has absconded – and has tracked him like a bloodhound to Maryport. And now, while Skelgill is crawling about the boat Serena, searching for a vital clue, some unseen hand has scuttled the craft – Skelgill is under water and sinking fast! Cleopatra is frantically warning him – her normal contralto distorted to become a strangled soprano through the six feet and more of murky dock water that separates them. Skelgill jerks upright – and bangs his head on the roof of his car. The yapping begins to fade. He is surrounded by water, but it is rain that streams down the windows. Beyond, blurred, apparently oblivious and moving slowly away is the hunched figure of the old man, his spaniel – lagging upon its leash – turning its head to deliver a parting salvo – perhaps its sense of smell has not yet failed, and it detects a residual presence of Skelgill’s imagined companion.

  Skelgill vigorously rubs his crown with the palm of his hand. Then he leans to check the time on the dashboard clock. It is 7.45am and still dark; there is little impression yet of imminent dawn. He sees the dog marking a streetlamp, and it reminds him of his own predicament. He throws off the moth-eaten sleeping bag that has inadequately covered him. He elbows open the passenger door and tumbles out into the cold air and rain. He grabs his jacket and sets off, but both ankles give him jip after a night bent into the footwell. While man and dog make tracks across the unlit grassland, Skelgill hobbles in the direction of the marina offices, where lights blaze. He recognises the Scotsman’s voice over the intercom and gains admission. He strides past the open reception without a word, but jabbing with an index finger aimed at the washrooms further along the corridor. The steward nods comprehendingly, one man to another.

  When Skelgill emerges relieved and refreshed a couple of minutes later, his hair wet and raked back by finger combing, to his delight there is a steaming mug of tea on the counter – and, in the avoidance of doubt, another is cradled by Wullie Moffatt.

  ‘Nice one.’

  ‘Ye were spark oot when I passed yer car. Did ye get here too early?’

  ‘Aye – something like that.’

  Skelgill begins to slurp the tea – at a prodigious rate given it is fresh from the kettle. The steward sips more judiciously. He watches Skelgill over the rim of his mug; reticence wrestles with curiosity. After a half a minute during which Skelgill remains preoccupied, curiosity gains the upper hand.

  ‘Ye’ve nae found yer witness yet?’

  ‘How’s that?’

  Skelgill’s features remain implacable, but now in his eyes there is a glint of interest.

  ‘Yer colleague that phoned to ask about witnesses at nicht – last Tuesday – the nicht before they found yer man – deid.’

  ‘You mean Leyton – my sergeant – who was here before?’

  Wullie Moffat grimaces.

  ‘I thought his name began with ‘S’ – whit’s yourn again?’

  ‘Skelgill.’

  He shakes his head decisively.

  ‘It wisnae that.’

  ‘What about Smart?’

  Still there is doubt etched into the man’s features. He smears a hand across his oiled comb-over.

  ‘I didnae pay attention, ken?’

  ‘What did he sound like?’

  ‘I cannae mind – English.’

  ‘What – posh English – Cockney – Manchester – local?’

  ‘Ye all sound the same tae me.’ However, he ponders this point and contradicts himself. ‘It wisnae Cockney – I ken that, frae Eastenders.’

  Skelgill is trying to conceal his impatience.

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘He wis asking if I worked at nicht – I said no, we’re closed in winter. Then he asked about folks on their boats – I said the place is like a graveyard – especially this time o’year. And he says who would be around at chuckin’ oot time – is there is pub, like? I says, no – naebody in their right mind would come oot here – not even the most desperate courtin’ couple. There’s naewhere tae shelter frae the rain. Ye’d only come oot here if ye hud tae.’

  He gazes apprehensively at Skelgill, who – distracted by the images that the man’s explanation elicits – is inadvertently staring back, aggressively. It prompts Wullie Moffat to speak again.

  ‘Did I say the right thing?’

  Skelgill snaps out of his dwam.

  ‘What? Aye – you probably did.’

  He swallows the last of his tea, slams down the mug, dispenses a nod of thanks – and departs.

  *

  ‘Sounds like you’re in a café, Guv.’

  ‘Aye.’

  DS Leyton’s words cause Skelgill to scowl at his empty plate.

  ‘Leyton – are you up to speed with Jones’s latest?’

  ‘Just been going through my emails, Guv – you mean Levi Armstrong being on the A66 on the night of Roger Alcock’s death?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Reckon he was up to no good?’

  ‘What I reckon, Leyton – is if you get a shift on I know where you’ll find him.’

  ‘How come, Guv?’

  ‘My prediction is right this minute he’s trying to work out why his tow-truck won’t start.’ (There is a nervous laugh in Skelgill’s ear; his sergeant suspects subterfuge.) ‘You know the address – it’s Rhiannon Rees’s place. Say it’s routine – that we need to account for everyone’s movements and the details we’ve got are too sketchy. Remember Levi Armstrong told you and Jones he stayed with Rhiannon Rees on the Tuesday night – so how does that fit in with him driving his truck along the A66 after midnight? Then where was he Sunday evening past? She said with her.’

  ‘Shall I interview them separately, Guv?’

  ‘No – together – make it casual – see how they react.’

  ‘Roger, Guv – struth! – I mean – wilco, Guv.’

  Skelgill raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Call me back.’

  ‘Righto, Guv – just one last thing, Guv.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Will I tell him why his tow-truck won’t start?’

  Now Skelgill gives a disparaging grunt.

  ‘If he’s any use as a mechanic he should be able to work it out.’

  He hangs up – and immediately makes a new call.

  ‘Inspector.’ Lucy Dubois’ throaty purring suggests he has roused her from sleep. Skelgill can hear that she is yawning, the handset perhaps held away for a moment; he finds himself listening intently. ‘You don’t usually phone me – it must be important.’

  ‘Happen it is.’

  ‘If I’m getting the gist of the vernacular, that means maybe.’

  ‘It can mean more than maybe.’

  ‘I’m intrigued.’

  He imagines her indulging in a feline stretch beneath her bedcovers.

  ‘Can you get your crew over to Maryport?’

  ‘Where the body was found?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Is this urgent?’

  ‘Be handy if you could get a broadcast out around teatime. Exclusive – but let the local radio know you’re going to do it.’

  There is a pause – her mind is obviously beginning to tick over. Her breathing intensifies – there is nothing like the prospect of a scoop to set the reporter’s pulse racing.

  ‘Are you there now?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Why don’t I come ahead?’

  ‘You got wheels?’

  ‘Er – no – I’ll organise a cab.’

  ‘I’ll fetch you.’

  ‘Do you know where I am?’

  Skelgill suppresses a laugh.

  ‘Unpin your curlers – I’ll be with you in twenty-two minu
tes.’

  *

  ‘Take four – and... action!’

  ‘Cumbria police have today issued an appeal for witnesses in the case of missing Cockermouth businessman and water sports enthusiast, Roger Alcock. Thirty-two-year-old Mr Alcock disappeared –’

  ‘Cut!’

  Lucy Dubois seems to jolt with fright; such is the vehemence of her producer’s command.

  ‘Buck up, Luce – put some life into it! Where’s your energy this morning? Nocturnal gymnastics catching up on you?’

  The supercilious producer sneers at his own joke – he looks to the crew for corroborative laughs – they simper unwillingly.

  ‘Give me a minute.’

  Lucy Dubois hands her dummy microphone with its channel branding to the soundman (cum percussionist) and strides past the lighting rig and camera, across to the outside broadcast van that is angled with its rear end close to Maryport’s sea wall, one of its doors open to block off glory-seeking pedestrians who might try to infiltrate the shot. Beside the vehicle, arms folded, stands Skelgill. He glares uncompromisingly at the producer as Lucy Dubois approaches.

  ‘Inspector, excuse my French – but Rupert is such a tosser.’

  She hisses the words out of the side of her mouth so that she won’t be heard. Skelgill, however, grins approvingly, and it must be plain that she has said something to let off steam. She reaches into the van for a bottle of mineral water, and takes a series of delicate sips, tipping her head back like a small bird to reveal the pale unblemished skin of her throat. Skelgill watches, his lips parted, the tips of his incisors just visible. Then she ducks back between the doors and produces a mirror and hairbrush, and then applies powder and blusher.

  ‘This is getting to be a habit.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘You – watching me put on my face, Inspector.’

  Skelgill looks rather uneasily across at the news crew – but they appear not to be eavesdropping.

  ‘Perk of the job.’

  She chuckles; she seems restored.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to do this as an interview? I could attend to your make-up.’

  Skelgill makes an exaggerated scoffing sound. But then his tone becomes more serious.

  ‘It wouldn’t go down too well.’

  ‘She glances sideways at him as she reapplies lipstick.

  ‘I take it this is authorised?’

  ‘There’s degrees of authorisation. It’s complicated for a civilian to understand.’

  Lucy Dubois shrugs; she has asked the question. It is not for her to decline a gift horse. She turns to face him, now admiringly.

  ‘You’re the unreasonable man.’

  ‘Run that by me again.’

  ‘To paraphrase George Bernard Shaw – the reasonable man adapts himself to his circumstances – the unreasonable man tries to change them. Therefore all progress depends upon the unreasonable man.’

  Skelgill gazes pensively at her.

  ‘Or woman.’

  She steels herself, inhaling and pulling back her shoulders.

  ‘On which note – let’s nail this thing.’

  *

  “Cumbria police have today issued an appeal for witnesses in the case of missing Cockermouth businessman and water sports enthusiast, Roger Alcock. Thirty-two-year-old Mr Alcock disappeared nine days ago on the night of the worst flood to strike this region in living memory. His kayak and body were found in separate locations on the Cumbrian coast two-and-a-half days later. The authorities believe Mr Alcock could have become disoriented, and may have spent some time ashore before returning to the water. To this end police are appealing to fishermen, sightseers and residents of coastal settlements along the Solway to come forward, and to report any possible sightings – however vague – between the evening of the flood, Sunday, and around midnight last Tuesday – that’s a week ago tonight.”

  Lucy Dubois deftly taps the screen of her tablet to pause the sequence – for a waitress arrives with a loaded tray: teapot and accessories, and two side plates each bearing a Cumberland sausage roll. She thanks the girl and sets about dispensing the items. The flat, floured rolls bulge with their great, coiled sausages, and Lucy Dubois can only be joking when she remarks upon this phenomenon.

  ‘Just one – will that be enough for you?’

  Skelgill regards her earnestly.

  ‘I was in earlier.’

  ‘Ah. Can’t beat a proper café – it makes a pleasant change from avocado toast.’

  Skelgill already has his teeth into his roll.

  ‘Sounds like something I’d use to catch a carp.’

  Lucy Dubois laughs and holds up her feast two handed.

  ‘The crew will be drooling over these – is there anything you wanted to mention before they get back? It’s Rupert I’m mainly thinking of – sticking his oar in.’

  Skelgill inclines his head towards the frozen image.

  ‘So they’ll edit in the rest?’

  She nods.

  ‘They’re just shooting some contextual segments now – and recording sound effects – I can run through it with you once they’ve got the rough-cut.’

  ‘Main thing is nothing that obviously identifies Maryport.’

  She shakes her head reassuringly.

  ‘It will just be a montage, close-ups of seagulls and seaweed and mouldering fishing nets – plus of course the prow of the boat that you specified. Serena?’

  Now she looks at him interrogatively – her eyes sparkling most seductively, it must be said. He has not explained why it should matter that this one particular image be casually inserted; neither does he oblige yet.

  ‘What about timings?’

  Lucy Dubois grins resignedly; but she is not dispirited.

  ‘I’ve checked with the duty editor – we can go out on the five o’clock news. We’ll be down the running order – maybe ten minutes past. Local radio will give us promos from about 3pm onwards – they’re part of our illustrious media empire so there should be no problem there. Then the piece will be available for catch-up on the website once it has been broadcast.’

  Skelgill nods; he appears satisfied.

  ‘Can I hear the end again?’

  ‘Sure.’

  She reactivates the tablet and her portrait springs back into life.

  “In a late development, we understand from a source close to Cumbria Constabulary that a Mrs Maeve Alcock, 33-year-old wife of the deceased man, was taken in for questioning by detectives this afternoon – it is not clear whether the woman has been detained on suspicion of some involvement in events, or whether she is simply helping police with inquiries as a witness.”

  Now Skelgill is watching avidly – he continues to stare as the screen goes blank and then displays a series of meaningless technical data.

  ‘How is that?’

  ‘Aye – just the ticket. Thanks.’

  ‘Will it flush out your quarry, though?’

  Skelgill glowers; it is a face of foreboding.

  ‘Should set the cat among the pigeons.’

  Lucy Dubois looks mildly alarmed.

  ‘Isn’t that what you want?’

  ‘You haven’t met my boss.’

  ‘Another unreasonable man?’

  ‘Woman. Undefeated British champion.’

  *

  While Skelgill awaits the promised rough-cut of the edited news item he takes a saunter around the port. There is a modest lighthouse that marks the entrance to the outer harbour, the second ring of sea defences that contains the two old docks and the tidal channel of the River Ellen. The gates of Senhouse Dock support no bridge, so Skelgill loops around behind the marina offices to pick up the roadway that runs landside of the coastal embankment. Extensive restoration work has been completed in recent years, and the same smart guardrail and broad monoblock pavement that border the inner docks guide him smoothly to the lighthouse. He continues past, however, for the tarmac swings seawards onto a rather unbecoming promontory, from wh
ich a short concrete pier protrudes into the Solway Firth. The rain has stopped and the visibility has improved markedly; Skelgill gazes across the grey expanse to Scotland, where the distinctive humped outline of Criffel once again catches his eye, like some beached Brobdingnagian leviathan. It is a view that can hardly be changed since the Roman fleet sailed from what was perhaps the most north-westerly outpost of empire, two millennia ago. (Their craft no doubt powered by Celtic galley slaves from whom he may owe some fraction of his descent.)

  But Skelgill is no historian, and – truth be told – he is no man of the sea; though he might be competent with a pair of oars (as befits any person raised within a stone’s throw of Buttermere, and an avid fisherman to boot) the ocean is another kettle of fish. Undefined by banks, mysterious in the ways of its tides and currents; homogenous and at the same time infinitely explorable; a wilderness where chance rules the waves. If Skelgill cannot be afloat upon a well-defined mere that nestles in its mountainous amphitheatre, then he would choose the fells themselves, three thousand feet of rock rolling away beneath his boots and no disorienting swell. With a small sense of relief he turns and retraces his steps. He strolls beneath the lighthouse and approaches Senhouse Dock, passing first on his left the dredged channel that forks into the marina. An immature black-backed gull bends against the sliding heavens like an iron bar; his eye is drawn by its unnatural shape as it trims into the gusting wind; and then his eye is alerted – for as the bird swoops down it seems almost to predate a tiny man who stands to attention at the guardrail – but it is a trick of perspective. No illusion, however, is the man’s identity – Skelgill halts; he immediately recognises the gaunt figure of Headley Holmes.