Murder at the Flood Read online

  Skelgill is looking pensive and does not have an immediate rejoinder. His silence prompts Lucy Dubois to speak again.

  ‘I take it we were correct – a person called Roger Alcock is missing?’

  Skelgill regards her through narrowed eyes. He has to make up his mind if she is helping him or using him. His default position vis-à-vis journalists is one of suspicion; as for his susceptibility to feminine charms, he would not even admit the thought. Yet she seems unusually transparent on both counts – in the dark pools of her eyes swirl no clouds of sorcery. However, still he does not answer. She pouts, an affected sulk, and holds out her hands, spreading her slender fingers.

  ‘Off the record.’

  Skelgill shrugs resignedly.

  ‘His wife hasn’t seen him since Sunday. We’ve not established anything beyond that. We need to conduct some inquiries hereabouts before we can start making announcements. For all we know he could be staying with a – with a pal.’

  Lucy Dubois’ reaction is restrained, almost poker-faced – and in this she reveals that she detects Skelgill’s hesitation – correction, even, of what he almost said.

  ‘Well – I apologise on behalf of my organisation if we have sensationalised what may prove to be a non-event.’

  Skelgill does not appear too bothered.

  ‘It’s the way of the world.’

  Now Lucy Dubois leans towards him. She rocks her glass to mix its contents.

  ‘Perhaps at least – you know – the greater the publicity, the more likely that the authorities will sit up and take notice of the wider problem.’

  Skelgill frowns, but his manner is reflective.

  ‘Aye – but it shouldn’t have to take folk dying for that.’

  ‘Is that what you think?’

  Skelgill ponders for a moment. ‘Aye – happen I do.’ The notion seems to distract him, and his gaze drifts to a small leaded window; beyond the street is darkening as the overcast winter afternoon yields to an early dusk. ‘If he capsized.’

  ‘Capsized?’

  Skelgill suddenly appreciates his slip. He flings a rather despairing glance at the bar – as if he is thinking he may as well be downing a couple of pints – so loose-tongued is he being.

  ‘I never said that.’

  ‘But you did, Inspector.’

  She might just be a consummate actor, but her touch is light, her tone a little teasing. In consequence, Skelgill continues to spill the beans.

  ‘Apparently he was a Commonwealth Games canoeist – or kayaker – I don’t know which. You’ve seen the shop – River Nation – they also organise corporate jaunts. He lives about a mile up the Cocker – apparently he heard the shop was flooded and decided to take a kayak down the river.’

  ‘And he never made it?’

  Skelgill sighs and folds his arms and slumps in his seat.

  ‘That’s what I need to find out.’

  ‘Perhaps a viewer will respond to our report when it goes out on the evening bulletin.’ Lucy Dubois regales him with an expression of optimism. ‘And I can ask around – the news editor has agreed that we can do a piece with various shopkeepers tomorrow morning. It would be an extra pair of boots on the ground – we reporters have our uses, you know?’

  Skelgill has begun to gnaw at a thumbnail, but he nods to indicate a modicum of approval.

  ‘There’s no substitute for legwork, right enough. I find the more I do, the luckier I get.’

  She seems pleased by his reaction.

  ‘Mind you – I hadn’t quite appreciated that you spoke a different language up here.’

  Skelgill twitches his shoulders to signal his amusement. He sits up straight and methodically tops up his tea; he puts down the pot and drinks by grasping the cup rather than its dainty handle. He sees she is watching his movements.

  ‘Aye – happen I’m a cuddy wifter an’ all, lass.’

  A throaty chuckle escapes her lips.

  ‘I don’t suppose I’ll get any help from Google on that one.’

  ‘It means we’re both left-handers.’

  ‘Aha – I realise I shouldn’t underestimate your detective skills.’ Her features are animated, her eyes bright, reflecting the wall light behind Skelgill. She lifts her empty glass. ‘Well – as they say – birds of a feather – and it’s my round – can’t you be corrupted – even just a half-pint?’

  ‘Aye – I reckon I can be corrupted alright – so long as it’s legal corruption.’

  5. WASHED UP – Wednesday morning

  ‘You alright, Guv? You’re looking a bit peaky.’

  Skelgill does not reply – and stops in his tracks – he was not expecting to find DS Leyton already in his office. He carries two disposable cups of machine tea – and now he realises he ought to relinquish one.

  ‘Leyton.’

  ‘Cor – cheers, Guv – you needn’t have bothered.’

  The sergeant glances about, and beyond the open door into the corridor, as though he is wishing DS Jones would arrive to witness this rare occurrence. Skelgill remains taciturn, and takes his seat, and DS Leyton feels obliged to make conversation.

  ‘I heard on the news last night – that Roger geezer you went to see about.’ His intonation invites some response.

  ‘Alcock.’

  Skelgill’s reply sounds like a rebuttal – it would be in keeping with his black expression, and DS Leyton senses he has landed at the tail end of another instalment of ‘Skelgill versus the World’. However, it is Skelgill who clarifies the specific ambiguity.

  ‘Roger Alcock – that’s his name – former Commonwealth Games kayaker – co-runs the sportswear shop that was flooded.’

  DS Leyton looks suitably intrigued.

  ‘Can’t say I’ve heard of him, Guv.’ He ponders for a moment. ‘There’s folks that call the Commonwealth Games a bit of a Mickey Mouse affair – but at least we usually come first. Good reason to have your own empire, I always reckon.’

  Skelgill is listening, his features creased with scepticism.

  ‘I should have thought of that when the Chief wanted to know why I’d let some punter swan about in a canoe while there’s a full-scale emergency in progress.’

  Now DS Leyton summons up an infuriated expression on his boss’s behalf.

  ‘Well – you weren’t to know, Guv.’

  ‘Leyton – I wasn’t even on duty – but try telling the Chief that.’

  DS Leyton scowls with extravagant sympathy. Skelgill continues.

  ‘Apparently there’s a clip on social media of him paddling along Main Street like he was in a regatta.’

  ‘Maybe he saved some folk, Guv – if he knew what he was doing?’

  Skelgill is quick to reject this idea.

  ‘If you knew what you were doing, Leyton, you wouldn’t use a one-man kayak – you’re likely to end up in the drink.’

  ‘Reckon that’s what happened, Guv?’

  Skelgill folds his arms and furrows his brow.

  ‘Aye, maybe – but where’s the kayak? They’re not easy to miss.’

  At this very moment a somewhat breathless DS Jones comes skidding into the open doorway on her flat-soled pumps.

  ‘I think I can answer that, Guv.’ She flourishes a small sheaf of papers. ‘Just had these photographs enlarged and printed off – they were emailed by a fisherman about ten minutes ago.’ She inhales between her even white teeth in a cautionary manner. ‘It’s not great news.’

  There are actually just two pages – she lays them on the desk and rotates them to face Skelgill. DS Leyton stands and cranes his neck for a better look. Skelgill’s features have assumed the rather unbecoming shrewish puckering he unconsciously conjures in moments of uncertainty. The images are not particularly sharp, but their content is plain enough – the first is a full-length shot of a red kayak lying across a tideline of debris, crisp blackened kelp and frayed twine and bleached driftwood; the second is a close-up of the deck – and a white logo: River Nation. Now Skelgill is nodding. It can
only be the missing tenth kayak from the empty berth on the trailer at Walkmill.

  ‘This is the sea shore.’ Skelgill speaks without looking up.

  ‘It’s just north of Flimby, Guv – on the Solway coast?’

  DS Jones’s inflexion invites his confirmation, but Skelgill does not respond. Instead he rises and turns to the map of Cumbria on the wall behind his desk. For the benefit of his subordinates – and to demonstrate he knows precisely the location of Flimby – he steps aside and jabs a finger at the spot. DS Leyton has his arms akimbo.

  ‘How’s that possible, Guv? That’s miles away.’

  Skelgill stares at his sergeant, but does not immediately reply. Various thoughts trouble his mind – and he finds himself looking down at his left forearm – as if he can still feel the anxious grip of Maeve Alcock, her imperfect nails making an impression through the cloth of his jacket. Then the substance of DS Leyton’s question filters through.

  ‘The Derwent empties into the Irish Sea at Workington.’ He points again. ‘Flimby’s what – four miles north? The high tide flows up the Solway Firth twice a day – plus the wind’s been blowing a south-westerly for the last week.’

  DS Jones is looking at the map reflectively. She knows when is a good time to appeal to Skelgill’s ego.

  ‘What can we read into that, Guv – I mean about what happened to him? About timings, perhaps.’

  Skelgill’s eye is tracing the course of the Derwent from Cockermouth to Workington; it is the classic serpentine river, snaking west to the coast – as the salmon swims about ten miles, fewer as the crow flies. His breathing deepens, indicative of some vicarious journey, perhaps. Then he exhales and shakes his head.

  ‘I don’t reckon we can. That kayak could have reached Flimby in a few hours – or it could have been trapped somewhere along the Derwent and released when the water level fell. I’d like to know if it’s in a particularly visible spot – whether it would have been noticed straightaway. And if there’s any damage to the hull that might give us a clue – or if something’s got trapped on board – foliage or netting or whatever.’

  DS Jones nods and indicates the caption penned in her blue ink beneath the close-up photograph.

  ‘The fisherman lives locally, Guv – he’s offered to guide us to the place. These are his contact details.’

  *

  The A66 west from Penrith (or, at least west of the watershed of Tarn Moss) flirts continually with the River Derwent and several of its tributaries – Trout Beck, River Glenderamackin, River Greta – and both road and river systems have their termini in the former coal and steel town of Workington. The journey through silvered floodplains has Skelgill grimacing at the extent of the inundation, and DS Leyton exhausts his lexicon of Cockney superlatives. When finally they turn north in the town, intersecting the swollen Derwent for a final time, DS Leyton slews the car to a halt at the centre of the new Northside Bridge. Thus blocking the cycle lane and footpath, both officers leave the vehicle and stand together in a minute’s silence, leaning over the parapet as the deadly waters surge beneath. DS Leyton refrains from verbalising his trepidation, and Skelgill makes no self-serving comment that might pertain to angling. They return solemnly to the car and resume their journey north.

  As Skelgill indicated, the coastal hamlet of Flimby is only four miles hence, and another ten minutes sees them pulling into their agreed rendezvous opposite the tiny local rail halt, with its backdrop of sand dunes, sea and – on the horizon – Scotland. The man is waiting like a lookout on the footbridge; once identities are confirmed he leads them through the dunes and onto the foreshore. The tide is low; Skelgill immediately notices a couple of fishermen, a quarter of a mile away at the water’s edge, stick figures idling beside their beachcasters. Accordingly, he engages their guide in an angling conversation – although this seems half-hearted, and may simply be in order to establish credentials – and DS Leyton might wonder whose exactly.

  The beach is austere – it has a derelict industrial feel, like much of this coastline – and is not a place of beauty, even to Skelgill’s seasoned outdoorsman’s eye. The upper section is predominantly stony, smoothed masonry mingles with grey pebbles; Skelgill turns over a yellow ochre brick that still bears its maker’s name, Wilson. Parallel strands of dried bladder wrack mark declining high tides; amongst the debris pale straw, limpet shells, gulls’ feathers; a Bounty wrapper. The sky is overcast, and the January gloom is echoed in the melancholy cry of a curlew beating past, while their sinister quest is accompanied by the anxious piping of oystercatchers, constantly threatening a crescendo. Skelgill gazes north-westwards, across the Solway, to the distinct profile of Criffel, a moderate Scottish greywacke lump he has never yet climbed – and it is DS Leyton, collar up as a shield against the wind at their backs, that first spies the kayak.

  ‘There she blows, Guv.’

  Skelgill turns but looks too far ahead – and is then surprised to see the red kayak only a dozen yards away. DS Leyton is walking on his left and the fisherman on his right. He stops them in their tracks with arms outspread. Now he addresses the latter and – somewhat to DS Leyton’s surprise – in peremptory fashion gives the man his marching orders – leaving it to his sergeant to praise him for his efforts. Skelgill remains standing, staring in the general direction of the small craft. That he had not noticed it on approach is not entirely inexplicable – it has settled behind a concrete outflow pipe guarded by irregular megaliths – but certainly anyone trudging along the high water mark would eventually stumble upon it. However, that does not necessarily mean they would report their find. His eyes scan away from the kayak, in a deliberate arc across the upper tidal zone, his head making little nods. DS Leyton, thickset, is hunched tortoise-like into his jacket.

  ‘Looks in decent nick, Guv.’

  Skelgill does not reply – his mind is still processing the scene – but then he strides forward and, on reaching the craft, gives the bow a tap with the toe of his left boot. The kayak matches the photographs, and is an identical model to those others on the trailer at Walkmill. He drops to one knee and checks inside – there are no items of gear or debris, just a couple of inches of water; he cups a hand and takes a mouthful, and then promptly spits it out.

  ‘That’s rain water.’

  DS Leyton’s features register a small degree of revulsion, but he manages to come up with a sensible rejoinder.

  ‘You’d think it would be flooded with sea water, Guv – in fact you’d think it would have sunk – tossed about out there on the sea.’

  But Skelgill is shaking his head.

  ‘There’s floats in the bow and stern. These things don’t sink, Leyton.’ Skelgill cranes his neck to see into the forward part of the cockpit. ‘It’s fitted with a Venturi bailer – if you know what you’re doing you can drain the swamp water as you go.’

  DS Leyton scratches his head in a perplexed manner.

  ‘So – what are you saying, Guv? He rowed all the way? I don’t get it.’

  Skelgill regards his subordinate with an amused grin – but DS Leyton’s naivety does beg the question – if you were an international-standard canoeist, would not a paddle down the Derwent in spate be tempting? Like the lure of virgin powder to the skier, or a newly opened skyscraper to the base jumper? But, no – it is a ridiculous idea – this is January, and it was pitch dark – it takes a certain kind of madness to go on a river in such circumstances. He shakes his head, then he reaches across and takes hold of the grab loop furthest from him. With a heave he rotates the kayak so that it is hull uppermost.

  ‘Oo-er – that don’t look too clever, Guv.’

  There is a prominent gash in the monocoque, about five inches long and triangular in shape, its most acute angle reflecting the point of impact of some sharp object.

  ‘Happen it wouldn’t help.’

  ‘What do you reckon caused it, Guv?’

  Skelgill forces successive bursts of air between compressed lips.

  ‘Your guess
is as good as mine, Leyton. As well as rocks and tree roots the flood brings all manner of submerged gear into the equation. Could have been a steel fencepost – the blade of a piece of farm equipment – a road sign, even. Slam into something like that at twenty miles an hour, and you’d know it.’

  ‘Could throw you out, Guv.’

  Skelgill is nodding. He flips the boat back over – but the forward bulkhead hides any internal damage.

  ‘Hard to tell if it’s gone right through.’

  Skelgill rises and they both stare at the kayak. Skelgill’s mind is wrestling with speculative scenarios – though mainly he fends them off – for he lacks the information to make it a worthwhile exercise. DS Leyton looks like he is relieved he doesn’t have to fit his stout form into one of these flimsy craft, let alone take it on the water. Then Skelgill’s phone rings; it is a personalised ringtone that they both recognise. The wind drowns any incoming speech that escapes the handset, so DS Leyton resorts to cocking an ear to the one-sided conversation.

  ‘Jones.’

  ‘I’m fine. What is it?’

  ‘Flimby – we’re on the foreshore – with the kayak.’

  ‘What?’

  Now there is quite a long pause while Skelgill listens. His expression becomes severe.

  ‘Ok.’

  ‘No – stay there. No – cancel that.’ Skelgill checks his wristwatch. ‘We’ll meet you at Cockermouth – say, one o’clock – the café beside the Lamplugh roundabout. You can take over from Leyton.’

  He hangs up the call and pockets his phone; all the time his eyes are fixed on the kayak – as if he is suddenly seeing it in a different light.

  ‘What is it, Guv?’

  Now Skelgill glares at DS Leyton; in his eyes there is perhaps the tiniest flicker of defeat.

  ‘A body’s been found on the beach above Maryport.’

  DS Leyton pauses for a respectful second or two.

  ‘Where’s that, Guv?’

  ‘Couple of miles north of here.’ Skelgill takes several paces away and gazes along the coastline. The little fishing port and leisure marina where the River Ellen joins the Irish Sea is hidden by the curve of the land. He speaks over his shoulder. ‘The appearance and clothing – and a distinctive tattoo – match the description of Roger Alcock provided by his wife.’