‘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.’
‘Cor blimey, Guv – sounds like you were right.’
Skelgill flashes his sergeant a disapproving glance. However he opts not to debate what he really thought – and instead he stalks back to the kayak.
‘Pity we’re not in my motor – we’ll have to leave this until we can find someone to salvage it. Every spare man and machine in the county’s on clear-up duty.’ He takes hold of a grab loop and raises the stern off the sand. ‘Give us a hand, Leyton – we’ll hide it in the dunes – make sure it doesn’t float away on the next high tide.’
DS Leyton comes forward willingly.
‘When is the next high tide, Guv?’
Skelgill glances seawards.
‘Soon enough – we’d better get our skates on.’
*
As any student of the seashore knows, high tide for many stretches of the coast is in fact a fleeting, apparently non-linear phenomenon. This is because coastal flats are just that – flat – and they represent the last few inches that the tide must rise to reach its acme. It swiftly floods in, kisses the high water mark, and promptly begins to retreat. Thus most intertidal zones spend the majority of the day exposed. As such, Skelgill and DS Leyton comfortably beat the tide, and arrive – with only a couple of minor detours and correspondingly modest interchanges of profanities (Skelgill, navigating, refusing to use any electronic assistance) – at a point to the north of Maryport’s picturesque harbour. They have been advised that direct access is via the promenade. This can be a pleasant spot in summer, when the shrubs of the low inland cliffs are in verdant leaf, and the blue sky is reflected in the glittering Solway, the smoky hills of Galloway beckoning on the horizon; and laughing trippers toss chips to circling black-headed gulls, their greedy cries mingling with the shrieks of children mudlarking below. But the winter scene that greets the two detectives is one of austerity; the available colour palette offers a narrow range between grey and beige, a day at best in duotone.
A solitary sign, held up by ornate but rusting ironwork, denotes the promenade in faded lettering. An inauspicious raised concrete walkway bordered by flaking railings provides a view of a broad foreshore. It differs in character to that they have just left in that there is more sand, slick and slimy and studded with thousands of worm casts; there are puddles, pools and meandering streams; and there are clusters of embedded rocks embellished with slimy olive bladder wrack and luminescent lime-green gutweed. If high water is a best suit, worn by the landscape for the postcard photographers, now the subject has been caught unawares, papped in a stained string vest and saggy underpants.
They park behind an ambulance and Skelgill swiftly exits the car and swarms up onto the promenade. He crosses to the railings and finds his bearings – his steely gaze homes in on a small knot of people about a hundred yards out, two-thirds of the way to the water’s edge. He vaults the uppermost bar and swarms down a slippery weed-covered stepped wall, a good ten-foot drop; he lands silently, making oversized copies of his soles in the sand. DS Leyton is abandoned to find his own less taxing route – there is a ramp 200 yards off. As Skelgill nears the group, a local uniformed constable breaks away, surly and suspicious, to intercept this unauthorised interloper – but Skelgill makes his identity known and immediately there is a change of manner. In simple Cumbrian syllables Skelgill learns that the ‘find’ was made by a dog walker – whose pet is prone to range out on the flats, but would not respond to its regular recall whistle. The others present are a pair of paramedics – male and female – and an environmental officer of the local council – Skelgill is doubtful of his function and pays him scant attention.
Even in death Skelgill can see that Roger Alcock was a handsome man – whatever time his corpse has spent in the sea does not seem to have distorted his features; prominent cheekbones, narrow straight nose and a strong jaw; longish blond hair and pale eyebrows. He looks about six feet, an athletic frame contained within a one-piece drysuit that conceals his musculature. His feet are bare – if he wore some kind of rock boots they have slipped off or were discarded. He lies on his back – of course the paramedics’ first duty was to check that their potential patient had truly expired – but smears of mud and sand on the forehead, and chest and legs of the suit, indicate that the body had come to rest face down – the way they invariably float, due to the weight of the limbs.
Skelgill bends on one knee and unfastens the drysuit at the neck – he lowers the zip sufficiently to reveal beneath just a nylon base layer and no wetsuit. This decision, as he intimated to Maeve Alcock, could have been a significant factor in her husband’s survival. More alarming, however, is that the lifejacket – which ought to inflate upon immersion in water – has not done so. Skelgill pulls the red toggle – the manual override – but to no avail. He feels for the location of the CO2 cylinder and rips open the Velcro hems to access it. At a small risk to his personal safety he unscrews it – eyes narrowed, lips compressed – but again nothing happens; the cylinder is empty. He pauses to consider the possibilities. Did Roger Alcock, when he donned his gear – perhaps hurriedly in the darkness of the boatshed at Walkmill – grab down from a hook a life vest that had not been serviced – its cylinder previously fired and not replaced – or maybe its gas having leaked away over the winter months?
Skelgill rises. For a moment he regards the body – and then casts a wary glance towards the advancing tide. In most cases of an unexplained death it would be appropriate for a forensic officer and a photographer to record the appropriate data. But in thirty minutes – perhaps fewer, the creeping waters can deceive – the tide will arrive to erase any such evidence, possibly even take the body with it; and in any event this is hardly a crime scene. He gives the order for the paramedics to do their work. He strides away, meeting a stymied DS Leyton, his unsuitable winkle-pickers sliding about the rock pools.
‘Is it him, Guv?’
‘Aye.’
‘Drowned?’
‘I reckon so.’
‘Well – at least that’s one mystery solved.’
Skelgill does not answer.
6. INCIDENTS – Wednesday afternoon
‘She said she’d rather meet us at work, Guv – she was there when I rang her mobile.’
‘And where is there?’
‘It’s an estate agent’s office – Headley Holmes.’
Skelgill frowns; irrationally his concern seems to be directed at the frothy cappuccino thoughtfully provided by DS Jones. But it is Maeve Alcock’s request that causes him consternation. His tactic of calling in DS Jones was in anticipation of a second uncomfortable interview at the home of the now almost certainly widowed young woman – but if she has remained at work?
‘That’s in Station Street. I passed it yesterday.’
DS Jones nods in confirmation.
‘Maybe she didn’t want to be on her own, Guv?’
Skelgill regards his assistant pensively.
‘How much did you tell her?’
‘As much as we know.’ DS Jones is perplexed by his disquiet – when she has merely done what he would normally have expected of her. ‘That a body has been found that closely matches the description of her husband.’
Pensively, Skelgill stirs his coffee with a little finger.
‘What did she say?’
‘Nothing at first. Then she said, naturally she’d feared the worst. I’d say she was quite in control of herself.’
‘Happen it’d still come as a shock.’
Skelgill’s uncharacteristic concern causes DS Jones to play the devil’s advocate.
‘It’s not as though it’s been
a sudden event, Guv. She’s had nearly four days to think about it.’
Skelgill makes a doubting face; but he is unsure of just what troubles him – after all, their forthcoming visit is little more than a glorified courtesy call.
*
‘An autopsy?’ Maeve Alcock’s voice is close to cracking. ‘But surely he drowned?’
Skelgill leans back in his seat and folds his arms. He has delegated the interview to his sergeant, and now waits for her rejoinder. They are seated in a small, brightly lit back room; via French windows it gives on to a west-facing yard that might be pleasant in summer. Two plain sofas face one another over a coffee table. Tea and digestive biscuits have been provided, although so far only Skelgill has partaken. Opposite the detectives sit two persons. The first is Maeve Alcock – and she presents to Skelgill a curious paradox in comparison to his previous encounter. There is the same underlying torment – a conflation of anxiety and dread – but there is none of the outward dishevelment; indeed she is immaculately dressed and coiffured, and even her nails have been fully repaired and repainted. The office is warm – he can smell her perfume – and she wears only a crisply pressed short-sleeved white blouse that strains across her bosom and hints at the finer contours of her underwear and body beneath; and a short black skirt that – now she is seated – reveals her lithe lower limbs to be clad in what Skelgill has inadvertently noticed are silky hold-ups. He puts down her appearance to her customer-facing role – indeed as they had entered she rose from behind one of two symmetrically placed workstations front-of-house. The second desk accommodated a man – in his early forties, Skelgill had guessed – slim, of above average height and neatly groomed with short dark hair, and nondescript features distinguished only by small beady brown eyes; wearing a charcoal pinstripe suit and tie, although without a jacket, and highly polished black brogues. He, too, had risen – and indeed in a rather protective fashion strode forward to intercept Skelgill and DS Jones – seemingly knowing their identity (but of course they were visible through the extensive glass shopfront, only partially obscured by displays of property particulars). He had introduced himself as Headley Holmes – owner of the business that carries his name – and had ushered them through to their present location. He had then called out to a young assistant for refreshments – evidently he intended to sit in on the interview – returning to the sofa to lay a comforting palm upon his colleague’s shoulder, before taking the seat he now occupies beside her. Skelgill is watching the man’s reaction as his sergeant replies to Maeve Alcock’s miserable question.
‘It is a legal requirement, I’m afraid – madam.’ Here DS Jones clearly adjusts her words – using “madam” when she might have been about to say “Mrs Alcock” – a considerate gesture, although perhaps too blatant, for her sentence misses a beat. ‘Any death that is considered unexpected or unexplained – or in circumstances where a doctor is unable to certify the cause – almost certainly the coroner will order an autopsy. It is a law that protects us all.’
Maeve Alcock does not answer – she glances with obvious distress at her employer – and Headley Holmes responds by reaching to clasp the hands that she wrings upon her lap. Skelgill notices a gold wedding band on the man’s ring finger; his manner is that of a respectfully silent mourner at a funeral, one that chooses to convey kinaesthetically his condolences.
Maeve Alcock stares at his grip – since her features are already pained it is difficult to tell if she finds the attention disconcerting, if her boss is overstepping the boundaries of familiarity.
‘Will I have to identify the body?’
DS Jones looks sidelong at Skelgill – but he remains taciturn.
‘We would appreciate your help in that regard, madam. Although we believe – given the details you have provided – and the circumstantial evidence – that it is just a formality.’
Maeve Alcock nods, her eyes still lowered.
‘Could I – could I do it before the – before the autopsy?’
DS Jones responds briskly, her tone reassuring.
‘We could probably arrange it for first thing tomorrow morning.’
Headley Holmes takes away his hand and shifts in his seat so he can better face Maeve Alcock.
‘I’ll give you a lift – Janice can manage on her own for a couple of hours.’ He turns to look at DS Jones and then Skelgill. A rueful grin reveals the tips of a row of long upper teeth. ‘As you can imagine, officers, Cockermouth is not exactly a property hotspot right now.’
DS Jones frowns sympathetically, although Skelgill makes no such effort. There is something about Headley Holmes’s conduct that irritates him – perhaps his proprietorial attitude towards Maeve Alcock – an antipathy compounded by the fact that she does not appear to object to such ministrations.
*
‘She didn’t seem too bad, Guv.’
‘Come again?’
Skelgill, hands in pockets, is cursorily scanning the properties advertised in the window of Headley Holmes. They have paused on the pavement outside, in lieu of Skelgill providing some indication as to what should be their next quest.
‘Maeve Alcock – she’s obviously upset, like you thought, Guv – but hardly hysterical.’
Skelgill continues to peruse the particulars.
‘They’ve not gone back to their desks. That junior’s still on duty.’
DS Jones turns and – quite artfully – affects to focus on a property, as if Skelgill has called it to her attention. Between the neatly suspended cards is a view into the office; the situation is as he describes, there is no sign of either the estate agent or his senior employee. And then, DS Jones gives a small start of surprise.
‘Guv, look – this one – a column to the left, just below halfway – isn’t that the Alcock house?’
Casually Skelgill follows her coordinates. “Stunning 8-bedroomed riverside period conversion.” Sure enough, Walkmill is on the market. He scowls in self-reproach – how come he never noticed? But then he reminds himself that he arrived and left via the footpath beside the river. If there had been a ‘for sale’ board it would have been on display in the lane, at the top of the steep driveway. He swings around, with the indifference of a window-shopper who has seen enough; it seems he does not wish to draw attention to DS Jones’s discovery.
‘Come on.’
But his next move is baulked. Just six feet away – making a beeline line from The Lonely Cloud Café – is Rhiannon Rees. Skelgill’s features are shocked with sudden fascination – something more than superficial recognition. Of course, her attire is in keeping with her style – today a sheer outfit of lime green top and black mesh pants that can only be intended to display the coordinated underwear below – and this striking ensemble plainly diverts DS Jones. But Skelgill has eyes only for the face. Underlying her fretful expression is a fortitude that solders some loose connection in his subconscious. For her part, she is almost upon them when she registers Skelgill’s presence and exclaims in recognition.
‘Danny.’
In the single word and its timbre there is much to intrigue DS Jones – and it is compounded as this stranger reaches out to place a hand on her superior’s upper arm. But Skelgill remains gripped by whatever realisation is visited upon him. It is a moment before he speaks, his tone slightly awed.
‘The penny drops.’
Rhiannon Rees forces a smile – and then she gives a purposeful jerk of her head towards the door of the estate agency. Skelgill nods – she detaches herself and disappears inside.
Skelgill looks to DS Jones to find her regarding him with barely contained alarm. But she musters a tone of matter-of-factness.
‘Who was that, Guv?’
Skelgill does not answer immediately, and there is an opaque cast in his eyes – though it can only be the lowering sky finding a common touchpoint. Almost imperceptibly he shakes his head.
‘Maeve Alcock’s sister.’
*
As Skelgill and DS Jones walk down Station St
reet towards its junction with Main Street, they do not see that Headley Holmes is watching them. When they are out of sight he emerges and checks his window from the spot where they stood. He seems to shudder; it may be the cold – he is still in shirtsleeves; then he sidles back inside.
Just around the corner there is little sense of life beginning to return to normal. The tarmac and pavements are streaked brown with silt, and debris is still wrapped around trees and lampposts and litter bins. Drowned vehicles have been towed away and replaced by an uneven line of skips, scarred and rusting, like old barges marooned by an ebb tide; and business owners assisted by council workers and sundry volunteers toil like fiddler crabs, bringing out armfuls of destroyed stock and fixtures as the first step on the long road to reopening. Once reduced to empty shells, premises will need to be pressure washed and stripped of their plaster, and then dried out – a process that will take months, even if all the required machinery and manpower can be mustered. This central area is still taped off, and patrolled by a couple of local constables – for many of the shops lie smashed open and at the mercy of scavengers – and of course not all of their proprietors are available to mount a guard or reinstate security measures.
They identify themselves to one of the officers, and proceed to River Nation. Skelgill hoists himself into the window display, scattering broken glass with his boots, and rather heroically assumes a brace position in order that he may haul DS Jones up beside him – but he is trumped when she simply tries the door and finds it unlocked. The bell on the inside tinkles loudly – a mechanical device that has confounded the flood. Skelgill is puzzling over whether he checked the door himself yesterday when there comes a clunk from above. Someone is in the flat.
Now his expression sends a warning to DS Jones, and silently she falls in behind him as he picks his way through into the back shop. Her expression turns to alarm when they enter the shadowy stockroom and Skelgill reaches down a kayak paddle from a rack and begins to take it apart. He discards the blades and keeps the aluminium shaft, which he weighs like a club and rests against his left shoulder. As they creep forward, the creak of footsteps tells them the person is descending the stairs beyond the security door. Skelgill stops a couple of yards short. He pulls a small torch from a breast pocket of his jacket and switches it on. He focuses the powerful beam on the door but then presses the lens against his midriff. The door now opens – not especially cautiously – and the spare figure of a tallish man is silhouetted in the frame. Skelgill directs the beam into his face; he recoils, throwing up his hands defensively.
Murder at the Flood (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 9) Page 7
