Murder at the Flood Page 11

  Now Skelgill feigns disinterest, folding his arms.

  ‘She just looks young – she’s 29.’

  ‘And what did you tell her?’

  ‘It never came up.’

  She grins and gives him a friendly nudge with an elbow.

  ‘Why worry – when they’re like flies round a dunny.’

  Skelgill grimaces at the analogy – but at the same time his curiosity is pricked.

  ‘They?’

  ‘Your pretty assistant.’

  Now Skelgill begins to rise – he picks up his empty glass and indicates that his purpose is to get them drinks.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  But Rhiannon Rees’s eyes glint playfully.

  ‘She was ready to deck me last night.’

  Skelgill scowls; he is plainly discomfited.

  ‘She was just doing her job.’

  Now her expression is mocking.

  ‘That look in her eyes – that was well beyond the call of duty, if you want my opinion.’

  Skelgill is firmly on the defensive.

  ‘And you’d know?’

  She grins confidently.

  ‘Female intuition – plus insider knowledge when it comes to you.’

  He glances away self-consciously.

  ‘You’re talking the best part of half of our lives ago.’

  He backs off – he clearly seeks an exit from the conversation – and Rhiannon Rees obliges – she holds up both hands, a gesture of release.

  ‘She’s a gem – don’t let her go.’

  Now Skelgill affects a certain detachment.

  ‘She’s in line for a promotion to London any day now.’

  Rhiannon Rees frowns, showing her disapproval that he has attempted to sidestep her sentiment. She shrugs dismissively, and delves into her shoulder bag. But she has a final piece of advice.

  ‘Time you stopped fishing with barbless hooks, Danny.’

  Skelgill stalks to the bar with a pained look in his eyes. When he returns with their drinks Rhiannon Rees has made herself comfortable – she has taken off a black leather jacket to reveal a pale pink stretch top with a keyhole cleavage, worn over skinny jeans and stiletto-heeled ankle boots. His wandering gaze as he sets down the glasses brings a small smile to the corners of her mouth. He rounds the table to resume his seat. For a moment he is subdued by invisible tentacles of a familiar fragrance that coil about his flared nostrils – she has evidently sprayed perfume while his back has been turned. She picks up and tastes her drink.

  ‘Well remembered.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘That’s the second time you’ve said that – you can’t keep pretending, Daniel.’

  It suddenly registers with Skelgill that she refers to the eponymous bourbon, and cola.

  ‘Some things stick in your memory.’

  ‘Can you remember why you called this meeting?’

  Now he looks alarmed.

  ‘Are you in a hurry?’

  ‘Only if I want to be.’

  She angles her body to face him, though Skelgill remains stiffly looking ahead.

  ‘It’s not exactly a meeting.’

  She presses his forearm, her hand lingers.

  ‘You can just come out with it, Danny – I’ve seen you naked. Remember?’

  Now Skelgill’s cheeks colour. Combative by nature she gives him a rough ride – though she skilfully transmits underlying warmth. She leans back and crosses her legs, the fabric of her jeans taut like a second skin. Skelgill takes a large swallow of beer and composes himself.

  ‘If we’re talking meetings – I had two with your sister before I realised who she was – until I saw you outside the estate agent’s yesterday.’ He makes a gesture – moving his hands either side of his head to indicate expansion and contraction.

  ‘Are we so alike?’ She grins rather wickedly. ‘I’ve always suspected we are half-sisters. Not a subject you can raise in polite conversation over dinner when your father’s the vicar.’

  Skelgill doesn’t know if she is joking. She mixes provocation with confession. Somewhat randomly he casts out a line of his own.

  ‘Happen you look the younger.’

  ‘Yay! You’ve still got the moves, Danny.’

  She tries to ruffle his hair but Skelgill ducks for temporary cover into his pint. He knows there is a game going on, but his thoughts seesaw clumsily betwixt work and play.

  ‘It can’t be easy for you – this business with her husband.’

  ‘Look – we’re not so close – they sent her to Millfield when she was twelve – I hardly saw her from teens onwards. She feels more like an estranged cousin to me.’

  ‘But you’re supporting her now?’

  ‘I’m doing my sisterly duty. She helped me out when I needed a place to stay.’

  ‘And how is she?’

  Rhiannon Rees regales him with an openly sardonic smile. He has his hands resting on the table, and she reaches to pat the one nearest to her.

  ‘This is not the Danny I knew – have they put you on some kind of counselling course?’

  Skelgill glowers and takes his hand from beneath hers – he lifts his glass as an excuse and draws a deep draught. He reaches a small decision – one that underscores in part his motive for getting her here.

  ‘Rhiannon.’ He pauses – while she affectedly perks up – that she likes his use of her name, its syllables flattened by his austere Cumbrian accent. ‘The facts surrounding Roger Alcock’s death don’t stack up.’

  Now she bends closer, conspiratorially; the stretched elliptical panels of her cut out top become more revealing.

  ‘And you suspect foul play?’

  Skelgill is torn between a denial and the reality that – no matter what he thinks – he cannot categorically say no.

  ‘There’s an unexplained gap of a couple of days between his disappearance and his death.’

  ‘That sounds like Roger.’

  Skelgill is about to take another drink, but now he pauses, pint in mid air. She is so forthright that he sees no need to beat about the bush.

  ‘Is there a woman?’

  But his question raises a flicker of doubt – a momentary narrowing of her bright blue eyes. She picks up her own glass and takes a large mouthful and savours it as she mulls over her answer.

  ‘I don’t believe he was diagnosed – but if you ask me Roger was bipolar. He could do things in all innocence without thinking about the consequences.’

  However Skelgill does not want to let go of the central thread of his question.

  ‘Do you know if he was seeing someone else?’

  Rhiannon Rees rotates her glass and watches the swirling ice; she seems mesmerised.

  ‘Can’t say I do.’

  ‘What about previously?’

  Now she looks up and smiles congenially – yet again she reaches to touch him, but this time she places a palm on his thigh, just above the knee.

  ‘Anything’s possible, Danny.’

  Skelgill seems starchy and unresponsive in the face of her tactile onslaught. He glances around. Emergency plumbers and electricians mainly occupy the small hotel – but they will be drinking in the public bar, where there is a TV screening Spanish football. Just a brace of middle-aged couples fester in silence, but not within earshot. He resists any temptation to become sidetracked.

  ‘Your sister suggested they were trying for a baby – wouldn’t that have cramped Roger Alcock’s style?’

  If she is surprised to learn this she doesn’t show it. Instead she leans back and casually sucks at a sliver of ice.

  ‘I’m not sure there was much that could have cramped Roger’s style.’

  Though the response is somewhat cryptic, Skelgill accepts it at face value and nods equably. Then he notices that the barman, collecting empties, is regarding them inquiringly; Skelgill makes a circular motion above the table with his index finger pointing downwards. The man nods and retreats to fix a repeat order. No
w Skelgill rests his elbows on the wooden surface and raps his knuckles together.

  ‘Reckon Roger Alcock had any troubles?’

  Rhiannon Rees laughs spontaneously.

  ‘By the bucketload!’ She parts her hair, which has fallen across her forehead. She looks keenly at Skelgill. ‘But that wouldn’t have worried Roger – that kind of thing was all water off a duck’s back.’

  She makes an apologetic face to acknowledge the mildly unfortunate idiom; there is added emphasis in her acquired pronunciation, ‘wor-dah’. Skelgill however is preoccupied with what to say next. His words, when assembled, form a not entirely accurate rendition of the facts.

  ‘There’s been a suggestion that he might have committed suicide – or at least thrown caution to the wind.’

  ‘Not from Maeve?’ For the first time Rhiannon Rees sounds genuinely disturbed.

  Skelgill shakes his head. The fresh beverages are delivered and he delays his reply.

  ‘Just pub gossip. Probably something and nothing.’

  Rhiannon Rees is observing Skelgill closely between long lashes.

  ‘Sure – Roger was reckless – brash, impulsive – but these were qualities that made him attractive to people.’ She pauses reflectively. ‘You understand that, Danny.’

  It is a statement and not a question. Skelgill’s features seem brooding, lines and shadows emphasised by the dim lighting. He does not respond directly.

  ‘What about your sister – what will she do? The house is on the market.’

  Rhiannon Rees lifts her new drink and raises it to Skelgill. He has his pint in his hand and so they tentatively clink glasses. She purses her lips; made up, they are full and inviting and he would be excused for thinking the gesture is aimed at him; but her words tell otherwise.

  ‘I’m sure Headley will give her the best possible advice.’

  Her tone is thick with irony.

  ‘You don’t like him?’

  ‘I don’t like the way he looks at me.’

  Though the remark is ambiguous Skelgill opts for a straightforward interpretation.

  ‘That would probably rule most blokes out of your good books.’

  She smiles, happy to accept the rather gauche compliment. However, her tone remains disdainful.

  ‘And his manner – whenever I drop in to see Maeve, he’s all over her like a rash.’

  ‘You couldn’t be doing with that.’

  ‘That depends on the affliction.’

  As ever she is quick, and some residual Aussie inflexion makes the retort into a small challenge, to which Skelgill rises.

  ‘I know I’m not surprised you’re knocking about with Levi Armstrong.’

  She hears the note of disapproval in his voice.

  ‘His bark’s worse than his bite, Danny.’

  Skelgill is steely eyed. To her surprise he reaches and lightly grips her by the fingers. He raises her arm and then with his other hand slides back her cuff. There is a yellowing bruise ringing her forearm just above the wrist.

  ‘Just make sure you tell me if that changes.’

  She seems unperturbed – even that he must have noticed the injury on an earlier occasion.

  ‘Don’t worry, Danny – I’m a big girl now.’ Her tone is confident – but for a second she averts her eyes, as if some thought momentarily troubles her. ‘In any event, good relations are in Levi’s interest.’

  ‘How do you work that out?’

  She contemplates her drink and takes a considered sip before replying.

  ‘When I first came back from Oz I worked behind the bar in The Black Swan – Levi was chatting to me one night and I mentioned the café was on the market. He offered to put up the money I’d need to get it off the ground.’

  ‘Did you accept?’

  ‘A gift horse, Danny – wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I might have looked in its mouth first.’

  She shrugs languidly.

  ‘I trust my judgement.’

  ‘Aye – but now you’re in hock.’

  She shakes her head decisively.

  ‘I cleared the debt straightaway. I formed a limited company and offered him ten per cent of the shares. That doesn’t give him a lot of sway – but the back up comes in handy. I don’t get messed around by my suppliers.’

  Skelgill raises a somewhat contemptuous eyebrow.

  ‘When’s the mafia wedding?’

  Rhiannon Rees chuckles.

  ‘Levi and me – we’re business partners. It’s in his interest for the café to succeed.’

  She shifts in her seat, ostensibly to make herself more comfortable. Her knees press up against Skelgill’s thigh. He drinks before addressing her again.

  ‘So you’re not shacking up?’

  Now she laughs disparagingly.

  ‘Do you need a lecture on independence?’

  This forces a small retreat on Skelgill’s part. He raises his glass – there is only an inch left; it is his third pint in little over half an hour and on an empty stomach he is beginning to feel light headed.

  ‘So where are you living – north of the Derwent I take it?’

  She drinks demurely and regards him over the rim of her glass.

  ‘I’m renting a cosy little cottage along Papcastle Road – close to the river – but thankfully it’s well above the flood – I believe there are fishing rights going begging.’

  She makes this latter point teasingly. Skelgill is torn – he could comment upon her oblique invitation – or just make conversation – but he has not even properly dealt with his underlying motive for meeting her – unless he has unwittingly assimilated all he needs to know. In the end he makes a prosaic observation.

  ‘So it’s walkable to your café – now Gote Bridge is back open.’

  Rhiannon Rees turns out her bottom lip.

  ‘I was angling for a lift in your boat.’

  Skelgill scoffs in a way that suggests he thinks her quip is made in jest.

  ‘It’s in dry dock until the water drops.’

  She extends an index finger and runs it around the rim of his glass.

  ‘Ah – you see, I assumed driving is now out of the question.’

  Skelgill licks his lips, as if his mouth is suddenly dry.

  ‘You really want a lift?’

  She flutters her lashes theatrically.

  ‘Have you seen my heels?’

  ‘Keep your feet dry.’

  ‘I shouldn’t want to land you in trouble.’

  Skelgill drains his glass and rises with the empty in one hand. He looks questioningly at her drink – there is perhaps a third left. He picks it up and downs it and turns for the bar.

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘Trouble’s my second name, remember?’

  ‘How could I forget?’

  10. POLICE HQ – Friday morning

  ‘How’d the date go, Guv?’

  ‘What?’

  There is a note of alarm in Skelgill’s voice – but DS Leyton becomes distracted by the entrance of DS Jones; she balances one-handed a tray with three steaming mugs (while restraining a bundle of files under her other arm). He jumps up to relieve her of the more hazardous burden and lays it carefully upon the desk. Now he returns his attention to Skelgill.

  ‘Looks like she kept you up half the night, Guv – that’s the trouble with these old biddies – cor blimey, my Great Nan could talk the hind legs off a donkey.’

  Realising they are at cross-purposes, Skelgill regains something of his customary belligerence.

  ‘Believe it or not, Leyton, she came up with a useful nugget of information. More than any of you lot have managed.’

  ‘Really, Guv?’

  DS Leyton looks unfazed by the somewhat cantankerous retort, but his voice falters; DS Jones averts her gaze and organises her admin. Skelgill makes no attempt to soften the blow – if he even detects their discomfiture. It appears he is impatient to reveal his ‘nugget’. He swivels his computer monitor – on screen is a satellite image of Cock
ermouth, zoomed in to the confluence of the two rivers. He points to the properties that line the south bank of the Derwent.

  ‘The first rescue I did was here.’ He looks for corroboration at DS Leyton. ‘Annie, right?’ (DS Leyton nods.) Skelgill traces a little right angle. ‘Her cottage is downstream of the obvious point of access to the back entrance of River Nation – here.’ Now he glances too at DS Jones, to see that she is following him. ‘It was pitch dark – the wind howling – the rush of the water – the rain lashing into your eyes. I was using my head torch – watching over my right shoulder for obstacles – keeping close to the buildings so I could pull round into Bridge Street and get out of the main current. I’d given her a big flashlight but she kept dazzling me – she had hold of her dog and a brolly at the same time. But she’d shouted something – it didn’t make any sense and I had my hands full – “We’ve been overtook” – that was what she said. I must have thought she meant the wash that was breaking over the gunnels.’ Now he pauses and looks meaningfully at his colleagues. ‘But in actual fact, by fluke she caught a glimpse of Roger Alcock.’

  There is a small stunned silence before DS Leyton speaks.

  ‘Is she sure, Guv – you know what eyewitnesses can be like at the best of times?’

  Skelgill regards his sergeant reprovingly.

  ‘Leyton – before I even showed her the video clip she was able to describe the red kayak and the reflective flashes on the sleeves of his drysuit.’

  DS Leyton whistles. Skelgill adds a final detail.

  ‘He was heading downstream – flat out.’ Skelgill clicks his fingers. ‘He went past like that.’

  ‘But why, Guv?’

  ‘Sixty-four thousand dollar question, Leyton.’

  Now DS Jones clears her throat – it seems she is choosing her words carefully, not wishing to undermine Skelgill’s news.

  ‘It confirms he didn’t capsize or sustain the head injury trying to get into the store.’

  There is a pensive silence. This is true – but in one respect DS Jones states the obvious – Roger Alcock covered the ten miles to the sea before he drowned, and here is further evidence to suggest his destiny was at least in part self-determined. Skelgill turns to DS Leyton.