Murder at the Flood Page 8

  ‘Crikey!’ The accent is received pronunciation of the British Forces variety, officer class.

  Skelgill takes a step forward.

  ‘What are you doing in here?’

  The man remains shied away – but pluckily he comes back with a question of his own.

  ‘What are you doing in here?’

  ‘Cumbria police – CID.’ That Skelgill adds a rider makes little difference – the dazzled man cannot yet see whether they are uniformed or not.

  ‘I’m the owner – the co-owner – well, at least –’

  Skelgill does not wait for him to clarify his explanation.

  ‘And your name is?’

  ‘Nick – Nick Bridgwater.’ He squints determinedly at the two detectives. ‘Look here chaps – I know about what’s happened to Roger – his wife Maeve called me about an hour ago.’

  Skelgill surreptitiously discards the paddle shaft, and then lowers the torch.

  *

  ‘Apologies that I can’t offer you a hot drink – I don’t know when they’ll get the power back on.’

  Skelgill casts about the kitchen – it is well maintained and obviously regularly cleaned. He supposes they use it as a kind staff room for their tea breaks.

  ‘A glass of water’s fine, sir.’

  ‘Guess what, Inspector? The water’s off, too, can you believe? Water, water, everywhere – nor any drop to drink.’ Nick Bridgwater shakes his head ruefully – but then he pulls open a fridge to reveal well-stocked door shelves. ‘It appears we have beers – or a variety of mixers.’

  Skelgill answers on behalf of himself and DS Jones.

  ‘We’ve just this minute had tea, thanks all the same, sir. We had an interview with Mrs Alcock at her office.’

  ‘Ah – yes – and how is she bearing up?’ Nick Bridgwater glances over to where Skelgill and DS Jones are seated at a modern pine table.

  ‘You’ve not seen her yourself, sir?’

  Nick Bridgwater shakes his head. Then rather tentatively he stalks across and pulls out a spare chair. ‘May I?’

  Skelgill makes a surprised gesture with open palms – after all, the man owns this place. He is gangly, and looks like an oversized sixth-former using a seat intended for pupils from middle school. Skelgill puts his age around the thirty mark. His hair is short and gingery and there are corresponding freckles, a weak jaw, thin lips and a snub nose and pale blue eyes that appear permanently alarmed. There is a rather forced innocence about him, something juvenile, and he certainly trails the late Roger Alcock in the poster-boy stakes. Now he drapes his hands limply between his thighs and slouches lopsidedly.

  ‘I have just driven up from Manchester – the airport? Always hellish traffic around that M60.’ He glances inquiringly at each of the detectives in turn, and then absently pulls at his collar. He wears a plain white designer-brand polo shirt, casual beige chinos, and the sort of lived-in deck shoes that are de rigueur among the boating community. ‘I was due to be away all week – managed to get on a flight from Gib – pulled a few strings with old contacts. To answer your question – Maeve called me about an hour ago to say your people had found a body that matched Roger’s description.’

  He grimaces – contriving a face of the ‘that’s an awkward situation’ type – but he does not seem to be too upset by the matter. Whether it is a kind of reserve that has been instilled in him – or if he is trying to make light of a dismal predicament – it is hard to judge. Notwithstanding, Skelgill seems a little puzzled by the explanation.

  ‘So when did you first hear about Mr Alcock being missing, sir?’

  Nick Bridgwater’s features revert to their startled default mode.

  ‘The thing is, you see, Inspector – I didn’t even know he was missing.’

  ‘Aye?’

  What Skelgill means is, “Oh?” – but it is an expression that does not sit comfortably in his lexicon. However, Nick Bridgwater is obviously sufficiently familiar with the local brogue to understand the nuance in Skelgill’s ubiquitous response.

  ‘I’d been watching events unfold via Twitter. I cut short my trip as soon as I realised the seriousness of the flood – Roger told me he’d got it in hand – but I wasn’t convinced.’ His expression suggests he harbours reservations about Roger Alcock as a reliable business partner.

  ‘What discussions did you have with him, sir?’

  Nick Bridgwater creases his brow; his demeanour is cooperative.

  ‘To be honest with you, Inspector, it was solely on the evening of the flood – Sunday. I sent him a text and he replied.’

  Skelgill appears a little disappointed.

  ‘You don’t happen to have that message, do you, sir?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Nick Bridgwater shifts so that he can tug his mobile phone from his back pocket. He unlocks the screen and finds the page. He rotates the handset and slides it across the surface of the table for Skelgill and DS Jones to see. It is just a short thread, beginning with Nick Bridgwater’s alerting of Roger Alcock as described by his wife:

  “Just heard about floods – we are in big trouble?”

  And then Roger Alcock’s rather jaunty response:

  “Consider it sorted, mate!!!”

  Skelgill taps the screen with an index finger.

  ‘These times – you’d be what – an hour ahead?’

  ‘That’s correct, Inspector. So it would have been around five p.m. here in the UK.’

  Skelgill nods – it corresponds to what Maeve Alcock said about her husband leaving half an hour later.

  ‘What do you think he believed he could achieve, sir? By taking a kayak and setting off to the shop?’

  Nick Bridgwater looks genuinely perplexed.

  ‘I honestly can’t imagine, Inspector – I mean, it was a Sunday – we don’t open on Sundays at this time of year – any cash would have been banked on Saturday at our branch, in the night safe. As for the stock – well, that would have been done for – the moment the deluge struck. You’ve seen the state of it downstairs. He could hardly have salvaged much in a kayak.’

  Skelgill is regarding the man pensively.

  ‘And yet he said consider it sorted.’

  Nick Bridgwater – for the first time – seems a little discomfited. Now he sighs, as if he is about to speak reluctantly.

  ‘I have to tell you, Inspector, that Roger and bravado went hand in glove.’ He gazes at DS Jones – in fact paying her proper attention for the first time. She smiles encouragingly – as if she understands this remark is somehow intended for her female sensibilities. But it is Skelgill that responds. He points to the phone still lying upon the table.

  ‘I take it this was the last contact you had with Mr Alcock, sir?’ The man nods, and then Skelgill mirrors his action. ‘But what about contact with Mrs Alcock – before today, that is?’

  Nick Bridgwater leans back and crosses the ankle of one leg over the knee of the other; they notice he wears no socks. He looks earnestly at each of the detectives.

  ‘I’ve been on a friend’s boat, sailing out of Puerto Banús – you see, I’m the sailor – Roger – he was the kayaker.’ He makes a circular hand gesture to indicate that he is referring to their respective areas of expertise within the business. ‘At sea I didn’t have a great deal of charge on my mobile, or signal, come to that. I tried their home number but there was no answer. It was only when we put into port after a couple of days and caught up with the news online that I decided to return to England.’

  ‘Mrs Alcock seemed to think that her husband might have been intending to stay here in the flat – perhaps to see out the flood – guard the property, so to speak. What do you think about that, sir?’

  Nick Bridgwater’s response is lukewarm.

  ‘It’s possible, I suppose. In the futile style of King Canute.’

  Skelgill nods in grim agreement.

  ‘When you arrived – was there any indication that Mr Alcock had been here?’

  Nick Bridgwater shake
s his head slowly.

  ‘Nothing out of the ordinary, I’m afraid Inspector. And, of course, he would have come upstairs at some point on Saturday for a coffee – so it would be difficult to judge whether any signs of life related to then, or Sunday evening.’

  In fact Skelgill is already aware of half a pint of milk in the fridge – best before today – noted on his first visit. Now he seems rather exasperated with the situation.

  ‘You can appreciate, sir – we need to understand what happened – for the coroner – for the family – for yourself. At the moment all we’ve got is Mr Alcock leaving his home – and a sighting here in Main Street not long after. Then a black hole. Three days later the kayak and the body turn up on the Solway coast.’ (Nick Bridgwater nods sympathetically; Skelgill continues.) ‘So we know he made it safely down the Cocker – if anything more of a challenge; if he subsequently had an accident he must have gone back out on the river – the Derwent.’

  Nick Bridgwater jerks a thumb in the direction of the kitchen window.

  ‘There is a fire escape of sorts, Inspector. If you climb out there’s a flat roof that takes you to a retractable ladder – it drops down above the back entrance. Maybe Roger decided to paddle around – see if he could get in that way? The water swirling between the buildings must have been pretty treacherous.’ He rubs a hand reflectively over the top of his head. ‘Not that Roger would have been deterred.’

  Skelgill raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Would you call him a risk-taker, sir?’

  ‘More so if he thought he had an audience.’

  The retort is rather glib, and Nick Bridgwater glances at DS Jones and grins sardonically; for a second time he seems to mean a female audience. Perhaps she reads his undertones – but she merely raises her eyebrows in a non-committal fashion. Skelgill, for his part appears not to be paying attention – indeed he rises and crosses to examine the window. There is a Brighton sash fastener that looks like it would shake free. However, there is no real view to the rear, for the window is on the side of the building, perpendicular to Main Street, and is crowded by gable walls and slate rooftops of neighbouring properties. He presses his forehead against the cool glass, his jaw muscles flexing as he worries tenaciously at some recalcitrant shoot that has its roots deep in his memory. But he is forced to concede defeat – it will not come free. He turns to announce that they should leave Nick Bridgwater to his task of picking through the debris.

  *

  ‘How come you know Maeve Alcock’s sister, Guv?’

  ‘What?’

  Despite that DS Jones has waited until Skelgill is three-quarters of the way down his pint before she poses this question, she realises it nevertheless prompts a small raising of hackles. The pair – at Skelgill’s behest (and without particular explanation) have retired for a post-work pick-me-up to The Black Swan. The smoke room is much busier than Skelgill’s previous visit, with a mixture of local tradesmen and peripatetic workmen slaking their thirst after a hard day’s toil amidst the damp and dust of the town. Skelgill has his same seat on the pew beneath the one-stone sea trout, the bar at an angle to his right. DS Jones occupies the place where Lucy Dubois sat; however as their designated driver she is diligent and drinks only tonic water. Skelgill swills the beer around in his glass, and checks it against a light, as if he suddenly doubts its authenticity. It buys him a couple of seconds in which to compose a rejoinder.

  ‘She was in my year at high school. The family lived up near Langwathby – old man Rees was the vicar. Welshman. He was keen on fishing – had some bank rights beside the Eden – cracking spot for grayling – long shallows where you could trot a brandling until your float was almost out of sight and still catch.’

  DS Jones might well suspect a diversionary tactic. And she cannot reasonably be expected to respond on the merits of brandlings versus other trotted baits.

  ‘But you didn’t know Maeve?’

  Skelgill is reluctant to answer – but the matter is perfectly valid in the context of their involvement in the tragic death of Roger Alcock. That the family has an indirect connection with the police unit handling the incident might not be a bad thing – certainly it ought to help mitigate the trauma. However, what DS Jones cannot know is that Skelgill himself has suffered a minor bout of discombobulation. The penny that dropped, as he put it, was the sudden realisation that in his encounters with Maeve Alcock (née Rees) he subconsciously recognised her elder sibling.

  ‘Aye – but she’d be a good four years younger.’

  While Skelgill pauses – perhaps to recalibrate his recall – he notices that DS Jones is regarding him with amusement – as if recourse to this small age gap is patently the poorest of excuses. Undaunted, he persists with his somewhat obtuse tack.

  ‘Besides – they sent her to a posh boarding school down south – all I knew was there was a kid sister – had some special talent for gymnastics.’

  DS Jones nods.

  ‘Perhaps that’s how she met Roger Alcock?’

  Skelgill casts about – plainly he dislikes the direction of travel – and providence offers a detour when a satellite news report about the floods comes up on the TV screen above the bar. There is a frisson as drinkers jostle for a better position – and then cries of recognition, jokes and jibes, and bursts of laughter as the workers take the mickey out of one another. The article features a compilation of footage shot over the past few days from a variety of sources – aboard the Coastguard helicopter, clips from social media, and segments filmed by Lucy Dubois’ crew. The sound is turned low, but there are voice-recognition subtitles – these elicit further jocularity as they misinterpret local accents, and produce entertaining distortions of the name Cockermouth. There are interviews with emergency services personnel, government officials, and local people. It concludes with a piece to camera by Lucy Dubois. She stands outside Wordsworth House in Main Street amidst the extensive rockery that was most recently a garden wall. Predictably there are various lewd intentions brashly expressed – and just as sharp put-downs as each man derides the other’s chances. The captions show her to be describing the damage sustained by the precious National Trust property, but she concludes by referring to the still-missing business owner, Roger Alcock.

  Skelgill looks at DS Jones, who has been following the report keenly. She senses his attention – they exchange a glance that is both knowing, and a little surprised. What they refer to by telepathy is that news of the finding of the body has not leaked out. The standard protocol would see an official announcement after formal identification has taken place – not before tomorrow, therefore. But since a number of people have been involved in the recovery, and members of the public may have witnessed the latter, it would not be unexpected had someone contacted the local press – or for the media hounds to have sniffed out the story. But now as they ponder this, the subject becomes live – for a conversation strikes up between the landlord and a boisterous faction of regulars swaying at the bar; Skelgill’s antennae prick up at the mention of Roger Alcock’s name. He downs the last of his pint and announces to DS Jones that he shall procure a fresh round. He sidesteps a couple of crowded tables and then shoulders his way through standing drinkers to squeeze into a space at the counter, just beside the bantering group. While Skelgill is a local of sorts – he hails from Buttermere, close to the source of the River Cocker – circumstances took his secondary education to Penrith, so he is not widely known here in Cockermouth, some thirty miles west. He waits unobtrusively – in fact not even attempting to catch the landlord’s eye. The discussion plays out; Roger Alcock’s fate seems to have been decided.

  ‘Happen ’e ’ad it comin’ to ’im.’

  ‘Aye – ’e were allus showin’ off.’

  ‘Too big fer ’is boots, he were.’

  ‘Reckoned ’e were related to that airman – Alcock and Brown – them as first flew the Atlantic.’

  This produces some derisory hoots.

  ‘All cock and bull, more like!’ />
  And now raucous hilarity.

  ‘And ’e reckoned ’e were in t’ Olympic Games.’

  ‘Commonwealth.’

  ‘Aye, whatever.’

  ‘He should’ve bin called Billy Liar.’

  ‘Aye – but ’e could canoe all reet – I’ve sin ’im when I’ve bin fishing.’

  ‘Thee – fishing? What – wi’ a lamp an’ a gaff?’

  Again more laughter.

  Now the landlord, who has been holding his peace, pronounces authoritatively.

  ‘Happen he’s done a Reggie Perrin.’

  ‘Awez – thoo naws nowt aboot owt!’

  The landlord glares at the man who dares to deny him – he places a proprietorial hand on one of the pumps, as if to remind the objector just who is custodian of the precious ale.

  ‘I’m telling you – couple o’ months back – wi’ a few too many gins in ’im – he were crackin’ on how he were planning a disappearing act.’

  This explanation provokes a thoughtful silence within the greater hubbub.

  ‘What – like that Geordie bloke – him as got his missus to claim his life insurance?’

  ‘Aye – Canoe Man, they called ’im in the papers.’

  ‘He were caught.’

  ‘He weren’t you know – int’ first place the dumb coppers fell for it hook, line and sinker. He only gave hisself up ’cause he couldn’t stay in Panama – else he’d ’ave got away wi’ it, scot-free.’

  There is another pensive hiatus. Skelgill, who appears to be perusing the various spirit offerings displayed on the back bar, is conscious that someone has entered the pub and joined the group. They shuffle to make room, the nearest man backing against him, and there are a couple of grunted greetings of “Alreet?” Then one of the incumbents chooses to enlighten the new arrival on the subject of their debate.