Murder at the Flood Read online

  Bruce Beckham

  __________

  Murder at the Flood

  A detective novel

  LUCiUS

  Text copyright 2017 Bruce Beckham

  All rights reserved. Bruce Beckham asserts his right always to be identified as the author of this work. No part may be copied or transmitted without written permission from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events and locales is entirely coincidental.

  Kindle edition first published by Lucius 2017

  Paperback edition first published by Lucius 2017

  For more details and Rights enquiries contact:

  [email protected]

  EDITOR’S NOTE

  Murder at the Flood is a stand-alone crime mystery, the ninth in the series ‘Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates’. It is set in and around the English Lake District, a National Park of 885 square miles that lies in the rugged northern county of Cumbria, in particular the vicinity of the ancient market town of Cockermouth, and the Solway coast between Workington and Maryport.

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  Murder in Adland

  Murder in School

  Murder on the Edge

  Murder on the Lake

  Murder by Magic

  Murder in the Mind

  Murder at the Wake

  Murder in the Woods

  Murder at the Flood

  Murder at Dead Crags

  (Above: Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates)

  Murder, Mystery Collection

  The Dune

  The Sexopaths

  CONTENTS

  Glossary

  Prologue

  1. Geronimo

  2. The Lonely Cloud

  3. Walkmill

  4. Town Centre

  5. Washed Up

  6. Incidents

  7. Post Mortem

  8. Maeve Alcock

  9. Derwent View Hotel

  10. Police HQ

  11. Cockermouth

  12. Exchange

  13. Solway Coast

  14. Serena

  15. Watching

  16. Police HQ

  17. The Café

  18. Walkmill

  19. Maryport

  20. Hermione

  21. Fast Forward

  22. Two Days Later

  Glossary – Cumbrian & Scots dialect

  Some of the local words used in ‘Murder at the Flood’ are as follows:

  Aboot – about

  Ah – I

  Allus – always

  Alreet – alright (greeting)

  Arl – all

  Awez – come on

  Backend – autumn

  Badly – ill

  Bin – been

  Cannae – can’t (Scots)

  Crack – news, gossip

  Cuddy wifter – left-handed

  Deek – look

  Deekabout – look around

  Deid – dead (Scots)

  Donnat – idiot, fool

  Divvent – don’t

  Efter – after

  Frae – from (also Scots)

  Ga’an – going

  Gadgee – man (bloke)

  Gattered – drunk

  Ginnel – alley

  Guid – good (Scots)

  Happen – possibly, maybe, it seems

  Hesta – have you

  Horney – policeman

  Ken – know, you know (also Scots)

  Marra – mate (friend)

  Mind – remember (Scots)

  Nicht – night (Scots)

  Nobbut – only

  Offcomer – outsider

  Oot – out (Scots)

  Ower – over

  Owt – anything

  Nae – no (Scots)

  Naw – know

  Noo – now

  Nowt – nothing

  Reet – right

  Steeyan – stone

  Stotting – raining heavily

  Tae – to (Scots)

  Tek – take

  Theesen – yourself

  Thoo – you

  Watter – water

  Wisnae – wasn’t (Scots)

  Yan – one

  Yin – man, person (Scots)

  Yon – that

  PROLOGUE

  Brokenwind. Crapstone. Penistone. Slack Bottom. Weedon. In the pantheon of embarrassing British place names, Cockermouth, Cumbria just about holds its own. And it is upon such harmless innuendo that the great British tradition of smutty seaside postcards was founded. As a TV anchor enthused at the close of one of the legendary Mrs Craddock’s cooking demonstrations, “May all your doughnuts turn out like Fanny’s” – which has variously uncomfortable interpretations depending upon which side of the pond the audience resides.

  But there is a serious point in all this. While mischief may underpin the etymology of some of the aforementioned places, Cockermouth is in fact a simple toponym; it refers to the settlement at the mouth of the River Cocker. The word ‘cocker’ is of Brythonic Celtic origin (kukrā), and means ‘crooked river’ – and indeed the Cocker jinks its way down from its source near the Honister Pass, gathering force as it slips unseen through the glacial ribbon lakes of Buttermere and Crummock Water. And while there are many similar ‘river-mouth’ toponyms – coastal towns such as Alnmouth, Eyemouth, Plymouth, Portsmouth, Tynemouth – there is uniqueness in that Cockermouth is landlocked. Indeed, in the centre of this small Cumbrian market town, the winding Cocker empties not into the sea, but into the rushing Derwent, one of the fastest spate rivers in Europe. And therein lies the danger.

  1. GERONIMO – Sunday

  Skelgill is thinking he ought to get ashore. There’s so much water coming down the Derwent that concentric bore waves are rippling into Bassenthwaite Lake. It will be dark within the hour and he’s beginning to worry about his car. The fishing has been a washout – he was optimistic in the extreme to venture out – the water is the colour of mud and he’s not had a take all afternoon. To boot, he’s soaked to the skin – but there’s nothing new in that. Cumbria’s wettest December on record saw unrelenting rain throughout the festive period spill into the New Year; this morning’s forecast warned of the latest extratropical cyclone, number seven of the season, barrelling across the Atlantic. The heavens have well and truly opened. Storm Geronimo has descended upon Lakeland.

  As he lifts the anchor he feels the boat shift – and it is not the wind, for the time being all is calm – the whole lake is on the move. The surface is smooth, but swelling like an uneasy sea, a muscular flexing; a reminder of Mother Nature’s gentle power. He rotates the boat and finds astern a landmark that will set him on course – that will do: a solitary light twinkling in the gloom, perhaps a window in a tower of Oakthwaite School, a diligent pupil doing his prep. But he has to keep checking over his shoulder and correcting left-handed, for the drift relentlessly carries him north of his bearing, his aim the tiny inlet of Peel Wyke. As he nears, above the pervasive sibilance that is half a billion raindrops per second falling on the water he hears the intermittent rush of tyres. It being a Sunday, these are just passenger cars; their occupants afforded a brief glimpse of the lake through the break in the shoreline trees where the road passes over the unprepossessing concrete bridge that guards the entrance to the harbour. The observant might see a wiry man in a small craft, bedraggled and bent to his oars, a dark smudge on the grey water that merges into cloud, masked by a veil of rain; it is Turneresque, monochrome, foreboding.

  Skelgill is no stranger to the ebb and flow of these post-glacial lakes, and the rivers th
at snake skinless through them – but even he is shocked by the rapid rise in level that has occurred during his afternoon’s absence. The slipway is gone, the depth gauge post is gone, the water is over the back wall and the wheels of his trailer are up to their rims. It is gloomy amidst the great oaks that tower over the little parking area, albeit they are leafless – but he knows well enough what he should do. Paradoxically the altered conditions lend him speed – for he is able to draw right up to the trailer and a couple of judicious heaves have the boat in position. He hesitates, scowls into the picture window of the bridge – it is only 3.30pm but enfolding darkness prevails –– and the flashing blue signal of an emergency vehicle skimming above strobes the clearing and lights up his anxious face.

  He turns and sploshes to his car; time to move it to the marginally higher ground of the old coaching inn along the lane. He has three-quarters of an hour to kill before an acquaintance arrives to meet him.

  *

  Skelgill is in a reflective mood as he changes into dry clothes. The Partridge has flooded before – in fact probably scores of times during its four centuries of service – and he had arrived to find the licensee squinting anxiously in the general direction of the lake from the shelter of the old timbered porch. Skelgill is well known here; he has been furnished with a stoneware mug of piping hot sweet tea and has retreated to a cosy beamed anteroom where a log fire crackles reassuringly in the grate. The lighting is low and there is nothing he would like more than to settle down in one of the comfortable fireside armchairs and watch the flames, listen to the patter of rain upon the leaded windows, and sup a pint or two of Jennings’ finest warm ale. He zips up his replacement hiking pants with a degree of circumspection – he has been obliged to go ‘commando’ as regards underwear, having cobbled together an outfit from the miscellaneous rummage in the back of his car. However, he remains standing; something tells him there will be no such luxuries.

  He bundles his damp gear and boots into a thoughtfully provided bin-liner, and then remembers his mobile phone is sealed in a waterproof pouch in his rucksack, still in the car. Toting his laundry he pads barefooted into the narrow corridor that runs the length of the ancient building, and swings immediately to his right for the main entrance. But ten minutes indoors have made him soft: one glance into the rain-lashed darkness sees him turn about and make instead for the little reception area at the far end of the corridor. The room is deserted; Skelgill leans over the desk and pulls the telephone towards him. He listens for a dialling tone and taps out a number with the index finger of his left hand.

  It is the regular duty sergeant that answers.

  ‘George.’

  ‘Skelly, lad – they’re scouring the county for you.’

  ‘Serious?’

  ‘Aye – well – our lot are looking for volunteers – your trouble is you’re top of the list, since you know what you’re doing. Plus Woody your mountain rescue team leader’s been on – and your pal who’s supposed to be meeting you – he’s called to say there’s a landslide across the A591 above Grasmere and he can’t get through. There’s walls down all ower t’shop – sheer weight of run-off.’

  Skelgill is pensive.

  ‘What did Woody say?’

  ‘It’s all hands to the pumps, lad – literally. They’re holding their breath in Carlisle. The Eden’s already above The Sands at Appleby, the Greta’s burst its banks in Keswick – and Glenridding’s just about clinging on.’ He pauses to tut ruefully. ‘Worst of all’s Cockermouth. The weather station’s recorded a foot of rain on the Honister. The Cocker’s backing up where it meets the Derwent – they’ve sounded the alarm – but I reckon it was left too late to get a proper evacuation done – it’s already coming ower the new flood defences.’

  Skelgill makes a sharp hissing sound.

  At this point the sergeant perhaps misreads Skelgill’s sentiment.

  ‘Aye, lad – brewery’s already under t’watter.’

  The venerable Jennings brewery stands on a little isthmus at the confluence of the town’s two rivers, in the shadow of Cockermouth castle. But Skelgill is steely-eyed, the grey substrate subsuming the usually predominant green flecks. It is not the local beer supply that troubles him – but certainly some mater of equal concern.

  ‘I’ll get a shift on, George.’

  The desk sergeant begins to relay instructions from superiors – but Skelgill fabricates a minor crisis and is ‘obliged’ to hang up. For a moment he broods over a faded relief map of Cumberland and Westmorland that is hung on the wall, a long-standing artefact. The combined county is feeling the full force of Geronimo, and the storm has hours to run. Until brave rescuers can be mobilised from around the north of England and Wales and the Borders, it is going to be every man jack for himself – the hardy folk of Cumbria must look after their own. And he has one of his own in mind.

  *

  The wind is beginning to pick up as Skelgill fastens his waterproof jacket over his chest waders; above the ancient tiled rooftop of The Partridge there is an ominous soughing from the pine forest that rises up the steep fellside, invisible now in the dark void. He ducks beneath the tailgate of his shooting brake and delves amongst the jumble of crates and fishing tackle and outdoor gear. He grunts and groans and finally makes a little exclamation of success – and steps away tugging free a lifejacket. It is a sign – if one were needed – that he is taking things seriously, for this indispensible on-board item lives an untroubled life in his car. He holds it up for inspection and grimaces approvingly – the fluorescent material will at least serve a purpose over his non-reflective outfit.

  There is a wide parking area in front of the inn, ample for him to complete a circle despite the boat and trailer in tow. Out of curiosity he swings the car around and stops halfway, the main beam illuminating the lane that leads back down to Peel Wyke. He makes a sharp intake of breath: the water has encroached a good hundred yards in the 45 minutes since his escape. He applies the handbrake and, leaving the engine idling, jumps out and re-enters the inn. The few hardy patrons who have managed to check in – and the heroic staff who have arrived to serve them – must be warned. If they intend to sit out the storm, then they should at least relocate their vehicles to higher ground.

  Back on the move Skelgill heads for the nearby junction with the A66 trunk road. But half a minute along the lane a small incipient fear is realised: black water blocks his way. Dubwath Beck has burst its banks and is running across the road ahead – in fact – as he watches the ripples flicker in his headlamps he realises that the water is swirling from both directions – the marsh is flooding and the lake is overflowing. Judging by a semi-submerged five-bar gate (two bars visible) he cannot risk trying to get through. Oh, for a Defender with a snorkel air intake that his comrades in the rescue will be driving. Now he has to reverse – a tricky job with a trailer at the best of times – and he loses valuable minutes in taking it slow, not risking an upending in a ditch. Almost back at the inn he makes a one-eighty turn and sets off uphill; the narrow tarmac strip is running like a river, despite the protection of the forest on his left. But when after a quarter of a mile he emerges into open country from the silent hamlet of Routenbeck he is thwarted for a second time. In a small dip rages a seething white torrent; a flash flood from Sale Fell has smashed a section of wall right across the lane. All available routes are now completely cut off. He slumps back in his seat and hits the heels of his hands upon the horn in frustration – but he compresses his lips and banks the accompanying oath – he has a feeling he’s going to need it later.

  Now another reverse is called for. This lane is even narrower than the previous, winding with no verge. The rain is hammering down and his rear wiper has seen better days. But in a fashion he manages to back into an open gateway, though he feels jolts that do not bode well for his undercarriage. As fast as he dare he drives back the way he has come. If another wall has collapsed since he passed he could find himself hemmed in. He switches on the radio – th
e signal is intermittent, but he just catches the end of the local news. Cumbria Police have declared a major incident and Gold Command has been convened at Penrith – a panel to coordinate all the emergency services. Skelgill grits his teeth. In all the parks in all the cities, you’ll find no statues of committees.

  What would the committee recommend he do? Go back to the sanctuary of The Partridge? Use his skills and training to make sure everyone is safe – insist they stay indoors until rescuers arrive? No one could blame him for stoking up the fires in case the power fails, lighting candles for a cosy ambiance, enjoying a plate of steak and ale pie and chips – oh, and a couple of pints of Jennings to wash it down – no point it spoiling when the cellar floods.

  He drives past the inn.

  Two minutes more find him returned to the scene of his first reverse. This time, however, he performs the manoeuvre before he reaches the flood, and backs his trailer into the water. He wades in to knee depth and stands to test the current. Since it is flowing from both directions it is more of an incoming tide, which suits him. He drags the boat into the water and wades deeper to fasten the painter with a clove hitch to a gatepost. Urgently now he returns to the car – and drives back towards the inn – but again he passes and continues uphill, fifty yards or so up the steep slope. A couple of owners have already taken his advice and he pulls in beyond their cars. It ought to be safe here; surely the last time Bass Lake came this far up the fell was during the Holocene glacial retreat?

  He rounds to the rear of the shooting brake and raises the tailgate. He grabs the clanking rucksack that contains his Kelly kettle and hastily adds a few more essentials: a rope; a big tubular torch; a half-eaten packet of Kendal mint cake. He straps on a smaller head torch and switches it on. He locks the car and stoops to tuck the keys into the bent tailpipe. Finally, as much as a man can wearing chest waders and a bulky lifejacket, he runs off into the night.