Murder at the Flood Page 3

  ‘Come for lunch – it’s on the house.’ She pauses for a moment, as if she has second thoughts – that she ought to qualify the motive that underlies her generosity. ‘I believe we’ve got a blank cheque to feed all the rescuers.’

  They watch as she weaves between the tables; the atmosphere in the café is subdued, its patrons haunted by sleeplessness and physical exhaustion and the solemnity of the occasion; but other eyes follow her progress.

  ‘Old flame, Guv?’

  DS Leyton is confident in his guess – and judging by Skelgill’s demeanour some smouldering ember has sparked and caught him unawares. DS Leyton affects only the most casual interest; Skelgill shrugs and purports indifference.

  ‘Rhiannon Rees. She went to Australia – best part of twenty years ago. Freemantle. Married a boat-builder.’ But he becomes pensive, evidently recalibrating his memory. ‘Leastways, above fifteen.’

  ‘She recognised you well enough, Guv.’ DS Leyton grins charitably. ‘You’ve obviously worn well.’

  Though DS Leyton’s tone is patently flippant, Skelgill’s reply is literal.

  ‘She’s done better.’

  *

  ‘What happens next, Guv?’

  Skelgill does not answer immediately. The two officers stand side by side on Cocker Bridge, streaked with silt a glistening humpback that rises out of the lagoon at the eastern end of Main Street. While Skelgill has rowed his boat along from its mooring, DS Leyton – having declined waterborne passage – has scuttled around backstreets in order to rendezvous with his superior. They have been surveying the scene in contemplative silence – by any standards it is an unimaginable sight, an incongruity exemplified by a flock of white farmyard geese that have taken up residence on a convenient red island that is in fact the roof of a submerged Post Office van. Where traffic would normally trundle, and pedestrians dawdle, an RNLI inflatable patrols back and forth, checking for signs of life.

  ‘Better track down whoever’s got this list of addresses.’

  DS Leyton makes a slight inclination of his head.

  ‘Lucky there wasn’t a pet shop, Guv. That would have been carnage – apart from the fish.’ He pauses to consider the prospect. ‘A report on the radio said a whole herd of prize Friesians have been washed away – from a field near Salkeld, I reckon it was.’

  Skelgill glances at his sergeant, and then to the other side, over the balustrade; the Cocker surges just below. He wrinkles his nose; the air is sharp with ozone.

  ‘When I was a bairn – once or twice me old Grandpa took us to watch the Derwent in flood, near where it meets the sea. Workington.’ He checks that DS Leyton knows where he is talking about. ‘You’d see all manner of stuff coming downstream – tossed in the air like they were made out of balsa wood – whole trees – gas cylinders – sheep, stiff with rigor mortis.’

  DS Leyton looks suitably disconcerted.

  Before them, the water is receding; it is probably already four feet below its peak – but it is likely to be another couple of days until the authorities allow residents and business owners back to their properties to survey the damage. First there will have to be inspections for the structural safety of buildings, shop windows that have survived may be prone to sudden collapse, and debris is piled precariously in stairwells and hallways. And now, just a few yards away an outside broadcast TV news unit arrives; three men and a young woman. They have obviously chosen the view along flooded Main Street as a backdrop. The sound guy has a mop of unruly hair and a full beard to match the wind muffler of his boom mike, while the cameraman’s head is shaven in extreme contrast. An altogether more urbane-looking young male producer is calling the shots. The female reporter begins to interview a man with RNLI insignia upon his clothing – Skelgill and DS Leyton eavesdrop on the exchange; the subject is leader of a crew drafted in from North Wales. Skelgill recognises his singsong lilt from last night.

  ‘Never seen anything like it – and I’ve worked the floods in Gloucester, Tewkesbury, Bridgend – I’ve been out in all weathers on the sea – but this was something else. People naturally rushed indoors to get away from the water – then it rose so quickly. We were rescuing them by taking a boat up the street – opening front doors if we could – and swimming in to get them. But it was so deep in places we were rescuing them from upstairs windows. It was pitch dark and there was the wind and rain. I must admit I was afraid – our inflatables were struggling – such was the force and the flow of water – and the wool kept clogging our propellers.’ He indicates the railings of the bridge, wound with a tangled web of wool and fine flood debris, straw and sticks and litter. Then he notices Skelgill and jerks a thumb in his direction. ‘Here’s a man you ought to talk to – from the local mountain rescue – he saved twice as many as anyone else in his rowing boat – it was a super-human effort.’

  The cameraman has swung around to film the railings and now pans further – Skelgill has pre-emptively turned away and is fiddling with something in his boat, leaving DS Leyton standing rather like a stuffed tailor’s dummy. The producer gives a signal and the crew as one sidle across to the pair. The reporter keeps up a running commentary – it would appear this is a live broadcast. As they home in on Skelgill, DS Leyton judiciously edges out of the shot. The reporter addresses Skelgill.

  ‘Excuse me, sir – may we have a quick word?’ (Skelgill rises and turns in surprise – as if he is unaware of the TV crew’s presence.) ‘You were one of the heroes of the night – how was it for you?’

  Now Skelgill looks conflicted; the temptation to bask in the glowing accolade must be overwhelming. Then a pained grimace gains control of his countenance.

  ‘The heroes are the folk who live here – who’ve got their lives and businesses here.’

  ‘They owe a debt of gratitude to volunteers like you.’

  ‘Aye – we’ve helped and it weren’t easy – but we can walk away.’ Rather pointedly Skelgill appraises the woman’s outfit – new-looking outdoor gear, expensive brand logos, probably never seen the side of a fell. ‘These folk have got to live with this for years to come – not just the damage – but the fear of the next flood.’

  She swoops, her journalistic antennae alert to the controversy.

  ‘Are you suggesting the Environment Agency is failing in its responsibilities?’

  ‘This is the fourth life-threatening flood in fifteen years. These folk are at their wits’ end.’

  Now she plays devil’s advocate.

  ‘But of course – people do choose to live here.’

  Skelgill might be expected to reply that four floods in fifteen years make a property rather difficult to sell – an understatement. Instead he produces a decidedly oblique retort.

  ‘Sixteen million people a year come to the Lakes.’

  However, the young woman is sharp.

  ‘So there is a national responsibility – if we all expect to visit this beautiful place when the sun is shining – we should all be putting some money in the kitty for a rainy day?’

  It is a clever use of the idiom – its graphic imagery appeals to Skelgill. A wry grin defies his mask of taciturnity.

  ‘Can’t promise the sun’ll be shining. But – aye – that’s about the length of it.’

  ‘So the Government should be doing more?’

  Skelgill is weary and the flush of adrenaline that these five minutes of fame have produced begins to wane – it is the very last drop of his reserves, and now a little voice in his head is sounding a muffled warning. But if he is in any doubt over its meaning, there is corroboration in the increasingly concerned expression of the watching DS Leyton. As a volunteer in these circumstances – effectively a member of the public – Skelgill has every right to sound off in this impromptu vox pop – but he is also a police inspector – and political opinion is strictly off limits. Someone will recognise him. Uncomfortable memories of previous dressings down in the Chief’s office spring to mind. But as he stumbles over his answer, forces beyond his control come
to his rescue. The producer evidently receives a message from the studio – for he gives the anchor a winding-up signal. She has a stock phrase for such moments, words to the effect that this subject will no doubt be aired in the days to come, and rather abruptly steps away from Skelgill as they cut him out of the shot and film a closing sequence of the flooded Main Street.

  For a second it is plain that Skelgill is disconcerted by his brusque dismissal, and rather distractedly he turns to kneel beside the boat and begins coiling a rope. Behind him, however – as soon as the crew are off air – the woman hands her microphone to the soundman and detaches herself from the little coterie. Skelgill senses her presence and gets back to his feet. She holds out a hand.

  ‘Lucy Dubois.’

  Skelgill rather reluctantly reciprocates. He limits his introduction to a curt, “Dan”. But stripped of the tools of her trade – the prop microphone and the hi-tech crew that puts her in the spotlight – she suddenly seems vulnerable, no longer the hard-nosed reporter with the brusque, over-confident manner. She is a small, slender brunette, with a dark complexion and full rosy lips; it is a Gallic physiognomy that goes with her name. He suspects she was chosen for her looks. She must be mid-twenties, at most – it can’t be easy keeping her head above the shark-infested waters of her chosen profession.

  He sees his reflection in her shining chestnut eyes.

  ‘I thought what you said just then was really insightful.’

  Skelgill averts his gaze. But his manner, too, softens. He shrugs a little contritely.

  ‘Happen we get a lot of rubberneckers – it’s like a car crash – slow down, have a good look, congratulate themselves it’s not them – drive on. It mithers you.’

  The girl is nodding, her expression sympathetic.

  ‘We’ve been briefed to expect to stay here for the week – to report around Cumbria. I want to make sure we get your point across – so that public awareness of the tragedy doesn’t ebb away with the floodwater.’

  Skelgill looks at her – she is good with her images. But he casts a rather hopeless hand towards Main Street.

  ‘Come back in six months and they’ll still be drying out these shops. Some folk won’t be home before the autumn.’

  ‘The next storm season.’

  Skelgill regards her pensively. She gets the point. She is quiet for a moment, and it prompts him to speak.

  ‘You shan’t be short of stories hereabouts. Your problem’s where to start.’

  She nods.

  ‘That’s what I wondered.’ She becomes even more tentative – when the pushy journalist alter ego would ask him outright. ‘Given your role as a rescuer – if you hear of something we should cover – I mean for its human interest, not for its shock value – perhaps I could let you have my number?’

  Skelgill gives a little shrug of acquiescence – but then he pats his pockets in a show of futility. His rucksack is safely consigned to a store cupboard in The Lonely Cloud.

  ‘I don’t have my mobile on me.’

  She pulls a hand out of her jacket pocket; she has hold of her own device.

  ‘I could call your phone – then you could save it?’ She looks at him earnestly, and adds an imploring smile. ‘I shan’t stalk you.’

  Skelgill’s gaze falters.

  ‘Aye.’

  He recites his number and watches as she puts the call through. He notices she doesn’t delete the record before she pockets the phone. Just then the producer summons her over and she bids Skelgill au revoir. He follows her progress as she returns to the group. The producer however is looking at him. Skelgill belligerently stares him out.

  ‘You’re quite the celebrity this morning, Guv.’

  DS Leyton has unobtrusively joined his boss’s side. Skelgill turns his attention to Main Street.

  ‘I didn’t have much choice, Leyton.’ He draws the fingers of both hands through his matted hair. ‘Besides, folk need to know what’s going on – leastways, the powers that be. They can’t keep letting this happen.’

  DS Leyton purses his lips and looks broodingly to the skies.

  ‘Still, Guv – silver lining. At least no one died.’

  3. WALKMILL – Tuesday morning

  ‘I saw you on the news last night, Guv.’

  Skelgill folds his arms and leans back in his sprung office chair. He tilts his head and stares at the ceiling and exhales with exasperation.

  ‘Reckon my big mouth’s got me in hot water.’

  DS Jones, conversely, bends forward with her hands on the knees of her skinny black jeans. She frowns in his defence.

  ‘I don’t see why – you were only stating the facts.’ (Skelgill rather ungenerously harrumphs, and uses the tension in his chair to catapult himself to within reach of his mug of tea – but DS Jones continues undeterred.) ‘I thought you were quite restrained.’

  Skelgill raises an eyebrow as he drinks, as if he believes she is indulging him.

  ‘Least said, soonest mended.’ This is certainly a diplomatic adage by his standards.

  ‘I shouldn’t worry, Guv – they’ve got politicians queuing up to blame one another – and the Environment Agency – and the local councils. The Chief got in on the act – she made sure to point out that the emergency services covered themselves in glory.’

  Now Skelgill grimaces with distaste.

  ‘You wouldn’t like to know what I was covered in.’

  DS Jones sucks in a breath between her teeth.

  ‘It looked pretty terrifying, Guv. There’s some amazing footage posted on social media. I can’t believe people had the presence of mind to film their homes flooding – and then continue while they were being rescued.’

  Skelgill’s expression becomes clouded and he gazes past DS Jones and out at the lowering skies beyond the window. Overcast conditions have returned as the next Atlantic depression blankets the British Isles. It is not forecast to be anything like as damaging as Geronimo – and has not even merited a name – but the fells cannot absorb another drop of water; whatever falls will run directly into the still swollen rivers of Cumbria. Of course, there are flood warnings, but of the affronting bolting-of-the-stable-door variety.

  DS Jones watches her superior with a look of concern – she sees shadows of the trauma that he would never for a moment admit to suffering. As gloom threatens to descend she is uncertain of how to proceed – but relief arrives in the bustling form of DS Leyton, cheerfully phlegmatic as usual. He brandishes a notepad and assumes his regular seat opposite Skelgill’s desk.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, Guv – just getting an update on developments.’ He acknowledges DS Jones with a friendly nod. ‘And how’s Florence Nightingale this morning?’

  DS Jones responds with a diffident shrug. Skelgill, of course, has not thought to ask her what she might have been doing during the emergency – assuming she was on annual leave until today. In fact she spent Sunday night and much of Monday volunteering in a flood refuge set up in the local leisure centre, preparing warm milk for babies and hot soup for old ladies; and inventing mini-gymnastics competitions to keep small children occupied. Skelgill regards her suspiciously. DS Leyton grins supportively; he raps the pad with his knuckles.

  ‘They’re saying there’s 6,500 homes flooded across the region – where the heck do you put all those people? Six months or more, they reckon.’

  There is a small silence as they ponder this – it is the equivalent of a town the size of Penrith. Just how do you house so many families in a way that enables them to continue with their daily lives – their jobs, their schools – and maintain the fabric of their communities? It has been suggested that the government ought to commandeer second homes – the numbers just about correspond – but this in turn would devastate the Cumbrian tourist trade.

  Now DS Leyton adds a rider.

  ‘One bright spot, Guv. Those flippin’ cows only went and turned up alive. Furthest made it to the outskirts of Carlisle. They found it eating the grass on a golf course. The press are
really milking the story.’

  Skelgill stares into space.

  ‘That’s the best part of twenty miles.’

  DS Leyton looks a little deflated that his boss has missed – or ignored – his joke. DS Jones makes an effort to keep the conversation going.

  ‘I heard they’ve been ferrying stranded sheep in the RNLI inflatables.’

  But Skelgill only looks mournful. He is close to many in the hill farming community. Thankfully hefted flocks have not yet been brought down in-bye for lambing; otherwise the losses could have been literally ruinous. DS Jones continues, her tone more circumspect.

  ‘The damage to property in Cockermouth looks awful, Guv. That was a terrible shame about Wordsworth House. They’d only just got all the renovation work completed after the previous flood.’

  Skelgill seems less bothered by the fate of the historic property; he had noticed its perimeter walls had been flattened by the current, and had heard that National Trust volunteers had flocked to move priceless relics upstairs; but preserving the present rather than the past had been his priority.

  ‘At least no one lives there.’

  DS Leyton nods in agreement, although DS Jones has something to add.

  ‘“A tempting playmate whom we dearly loved.”’

  Her colleagues respond with appropriately blank looks.

  ‘It’s what Wordsworth wrote about the Derwent – I guess since he grew up beside the river it meant a lot to him.’

  Skelgill’s expression is disparaging.

  ‘Happen it never flooded back then – it wouldn’t have been a cloud he saw floating by.’

  DS Jones looks impressed by Skelgill’s unexpectedly apposite retort, but before she can fashion a reply there is a knock on the door – it is a junior member of staff, one of her team of probationers. He bears a piece of paper. He glances rather apprehensively at Skelgill, who does not help by continuing to look annoyed – a sentiment that the constable assumes is directed at him.