Murder In School (12 page)

Skelgill begins to scrutinise the fare on
offer.  He recognises snake-like duck heads, lolling in drunken heaps,
skinned and stained a shiny orange – but that’s where familiarity begins
and ends.  Many of the counters seem to be advertising dishes of
unappetising limp vegetables and displaying large unrecognisable fruits. 
As he weaves among slurping patrons, the glossy, soupy contents of their dishes
are as much a mystery to him as he must be to their momentarily upturned gaze. 
Heads down, they’re packing the stuff in, a pair of chopsticks in one hand and
a spoon in the other. 

Incapable of ordering, he reaches the exit. 
Here there’s a separate stall, a mobile one on wheels.  A friendly elderly
Chinese woman squatting on a low plastic footstool engages him.  His
natural reaction is to reject her exhortations, but in the nick of time her
wares catch his eye and on this impulse he buys a tube of
Pringles
and a
bottle of
Coke
.

Thus provisioned, he regains the sidewalk
and hails a taxi.

‘Sounds like you’re in an airport, Guv.’

‘Nah – Euston.’

‘Funny that – I could have sworn
that announcer just said Kuala Lumpur.’

‘Clapham Junction, I think it was.’

A hint of suspicion lingers in DS
Leyton’s voice. ‘Must be going deaf in my old age, Guv.’

Skelgill would ordinarily have a somewhat
vulgar retort for this suggestion, but now he quickly moves the conversation
on.  ‘So what’s the story on Hodgson?’

‘Guv – the final lab report’s not
ready yet.  I called Herdwick about an hour ago.  He says cause of
death was definitely the shotgun wound – instantaneous – and as
predicted a shedload of alcohol in the bloodstream – about four times the
legal driving limit.  The only prints on the gun were his – but it
was his job to clean and oil them after use, so no surprise there, really.’

Now Skelgill hurriedly tries to muffle
the microphone with his jacket as a flight to Hanoi is called.

‘Sorry, Guv – didn’t quite catch
that.  Your voice is a bit distant.’

‘I was saying
what else?
’

‘Well – I went round to his gaff,
yesterday afternoon – right state it was.  A crate of empties
– mainly vodka.  No sign of her indoors – word on the street
is she slung her hook years back on account of his drinking.’

‘Seems like there’s a theme developing
there.’

‘Too right, Guv.  He was banned from
the local about six weeks ago for threatening the staff – girl refused
him a drink when he’d had a few too many.  Bit of a Billy no-mates by all
accounts.  Then the newsagent told me he’d run up a fat tab for the
Racing
Post
– so I asked at the bookies and the old dear there said he was a
chronic loser, but couldn’t keep away.’

‘Chasing his losses?’

‘That’s it, Guv.  And I reckon it
goes further – there was a stack of final demands in the flat –
couple of CCJs, by the look of the envelopes – and hardly any electricals
– no telly or fridge even.’

‘Could the place have been turned over?’

‘No signs of a forced entry.  More
likely he pawned the gear.’

‘Anything connected to the school? 
Letters or documents?’

‘Not as I could see, Guv.  But it
was hard to tell with all the mess and bottles and old newspapers.’

‘So we’ve got an antisocial alcoholic
with gambling debts.’

‘On the face of it, Guv, no real surprise
he’s gone and topped himself.’

Skelgill is silent.

‘Guv – you still there?’

Skelgill rises to his feet, staring into
the distance, his mobile held by his side.  Then he seems to remember the
conversation.  ‘Leyton, I’ve got to go – I’ll see you tomorrow
– keep up the good work.  Follow your nose.’

He ends the call before DS Leyton can
reply or protest, or even make the Londoner’s observation that surely a train
departing for Clapham Junction would mean Skelgill was at Victoria?  Skelgill
then leaves his bag and jacket on his seat, and strides towards the control
point of the departure gate within which he has been ensconced for some thirty
minutes or so.  Beyond the security belts and x-ray machines, about a
hundred and fifty yards into the seething mall, the high-heeled DS Jones is
making uncertain progress through the milling crowds, glancing anxiously at overhead
departure screens as she comes.

*

‘Have you been drinking, Miss Jones?’

‘Just a couple, Guv – I had to go
with the flow.’

Skelgill lifts his head in seemingly
reluctant assent.  Certainly she appears a little inebriated, her hair and
clothing dishevelled by the impeccable standards of earlier in the day.

‘I was beginning to think I’d be flying
alone.  I reckon they’ll board us any minute.’

‘Sorry, Guv – my phone ran out of charge
not long after I sent you that text.’  She drops her shoulder bag onto the
seat beside his.

‘So, what kept you?’

Skelgill’s tone is probably more severe
than he intends, and for a moment DS Jones looks a little crestfallen.

He corrects himself, saying, ‘I mean
– how did you get on? You said there were
developments
.’

DS Jones slips off her jacket. 
Underneath she wears a close-fitting white blouse, with perhaps one button too
many undone.  Then she removes her strappy shoes and swaps them for a pair
of sleek ballet pumps from inside her shoulder bag, her tanned and sculpted
calves exhibited by her lithe movements.  Skelgill becomes conscious that
she’s attracting surreptitious glances from two male passengers sitting
opposite them.  He coughs rather ostentatiously, perhaps in an attempt to create
a proprietorial bubble around himself and his more photogenic female colleague.

She sits back, clearly the happier for making
herself comfortable.  ‘Top line, Guv – I think the school is looking
for funding, over and above the regular fees – and they’re eye-watering
enough, as it is.’

Now she has Skelgill’s full
attention.  He says, ‘You mean
illicit
funding?’

She puffs out her cheeks.  ‘I don’t
know – but I think it could be a kind of inside track, as you put it.’

‘How did you reach that conclusion?’

DS Jones pulls her feet up beneath her,
so she’s curled kitten-like, half facing him.  ‘It all happened after the
event, really, Guv.  When I got there, they were in a big hall, with
tables round the outside, and you could go up and speak to representatives of each
school – they had their own roller-banners and display boards and brochures. 
Thing is, there was a queue at most of them, so you were only allowed a couple
of minutes, and there was no way I could ask any tricky questions with people breathing
down my neck.  But, in the end, that worked in my favour – I
introduced myself to Goodman and asked a couple of obvious questions.’

‘Such as?’

‘What makes Oakthwaite so special.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Oh, just the pat answers, really –
they’re always high up in the exam league tables... the emphasis on sport and
outdoor experiences... that it's all boys so there’s no distractions...’

‘Ha!  That’s an advantage?’

‘Maybe, Guv.’

‘Can’t see it myself.’

‘No, Guv.’  She knows Skelgill can
fall a tad to the right of political correctness on issues concerning masculinity,
and her reply is one of accord.  She continues, ‘Anyway – it meant I
was able to introduce myself without being grilled about who I was.’

‘I told you that.’

DS Jones gives him a patient grin. 
‘Yes, Guv.  After that we all went into an auditorium for about an hour
and a half of presentations.  Goodman’s not on stage until tomorrow
– and it was starting to look like a waste of time.  I thought the
event was closing at five, but they announced a private cocktail hour through
in the lobby of the hotel – you ought to see it, Guv – it’s got
this space age feel.’

Skelgill nods.  Now he’s looking at
her a little warily.

‘As soon as I walked in to the roped-off
section Goodman came up to me with two drinks.  He was acting kind of
suave, and said something about us fellow Brits needing to look after one
another.  Then I had this brainwave.’

‘Oh.’

‘Well you know your back-up idea that I
was sent by the owner, not the editor?’

‘Aha.’

‘I told him that was why I was really
there, except I embellished a bit – that the owner was thinking about
sending his son to study in England, and had heard good reports of three
schools, one of which being Oakthwaite.’

‘So what?’

‘He suggested we went up to the bar
– you know, right up on the roof, the Sky Park – they’ve got this
infinity pool looking down from over six hundred feet – it’s like you’re
flying.’

‘You weren’t in it?’  Skelgill
sounds irate.

‘No, Guv – don’t be daft –
but I had to pretend I knew all about it – I’m a reporter that works
here, remember?’

‘So how did you manage that?’

‘Fortunately I’d Googled the place while
the speeches were going on – that’s probably why my battery gave up.’

‘What then?’

‘We went to the Sky Bar – with
Goodman being a resident at the hotel it was no problem to get in.  I
guess we had a couple of cocktails...’

‘You guess?’

‘I thought it best to act interested, Guv
– I wouldn’t normally drink on duty, or during daytime.’

‘I should think not.’

‘So he was asking me about the guy I
represented – nothing really difficult – I think he was getting a
bit tipsy.  I basically made out my employer was a media mogul –
billionaire type – and that seemed to satisfy him.  Then he was
quick to explain how there was a lot of demand to join the school, and there’s
only so many places each year and a tough entrance exam.  He said his job
was to select the boys that would most benefit from the school, and vice
versa.’

‘
Vice versa
– that’s what he
said?’

‘Verbatim, Guv.  Of course, he could
have meant what personal qualities and varied backgrounds they’d bring to the
community – he’d touched on that earlier – but I don’t think it’s
what he was getting at.’

‘Was he explicit?’

At this question DS Jones momentarily
flinches, but she quickly regains her composure and says, ‘He said they had
such a thing as a ‘VIP Application’ – for parents whose sons were
considered more likely to qualify for one of their places at Oxbridge.’

‘
Their
places?’

‘Yeah, Guv – like it’s a done deal
– like travel agents have so many seats on a flight, so many rooms at a
hotel.  That's how he made it sound.’

‘That can’t be right, surely?’

‘I don’t know, Guv – who really
knows about this kind of thing?’

Skelgill is thoughtful for a moment. 
He shakes his head ruefully.  ‘Well no one from my comp got in, that’s for
sure.  I reckon the best we did was a couple into St Andrews, and I
thought that was a football ground until recently.’

DS Jones grins and, as if taking the
opportunity of this moment of brevity, she draws a breath and says, ‘So he
suggested we went to his room and he could help me fill out a preliminary
application.  He said it ought to get me a promotion, at least.’

Thus Skelgill’s recovering ambivalence is
short-lived.  He frowns and stares at the carpeted floor of the departure
lounge.  Earlier, when his taxi had passed beneath the twinkling towers of
the two-and-a-half-thousand room behemoth, he’d gazed upwards at the Sky Park, seemingly
suspended like an illuminated version of the Starship Enterprise, wondering if
she were somewhere inside the great edifice and – if so – what she
was doing.

‘I didn’t go, Guv.’  Her tone is one
of stating the obvious.

‘What?  Why not?’

‘Well... I thought there might not be an
application form.’

‘Oh.’  Skelgill seems to be grinding
his teeth.

‘So I said I was going to powder my nose
and never went back to the bar.  I’d already mentioned I was flying to
London tonight for an assignment, so I just told the girl on the reception to
pass on a message that I’d been called away and would be back later if I could
make it.  I don’t think he would have been short for company, anyway,
Guv.’

Skelgill now appears like he’s trying to
look unconcerned.  He says, ‘Maybe you should have given it a try –
you might have got something concrete that could be useful as evidence.’

DS Jones shrugs as though she thinks
probably not.  But she humours him with, ‘I was thinking about you, Guv
– I’d been looking forward to us having a Chinese or something – it
would have been good to see a bit of the city.  How did you get on?’

Now it’s Skelgill’s turn to lift his
shoulders.  He says, ‘I went to the school your aunt put us onto.  As
I half expected, they’d never heard of him – didn’t recognise the
mugshot.’

‘So he’s a fraud?  What does that
mean, Guv?’

‘Dunno.  Not yet – no
idea.  Maybe he just thought it was a crafty little white lie to put on
his CV.  They’re obviously keen on recruitment out here.  Would have
made him sound more valuable to the school if they thought he had the right
contacts.’

‘But, Guv – why wouldn’t they send
him instead of the Head?’

‘Maybe the Head pulled rank on this
occasion – wanted the trip and the trimmings for himself.’

DS Jones raises her eyebrows.  Her
recent experience might seem to corroborate this hypothesis.  ‘What did
you do then, Guv?’

Skelgill makes an effort to sound
casual.  ‘Just had a bit of a wander, really.  Nothing much. 
Came back here and got a burger.’

‘When in Rome, Guv!’

‘You know me, Jones – catholic when
it comes to my tastes.’